Taking the Pis in Brussels

But the quirky, underwhelming quality Manneken Pis is precisely the point. Our core identity as locals is that we don’t take ourselves too seriously, and we couldn’t have a more appropriate symbol than Manneken Pis. Paris has the Eiffel tower, Berlin has Brandenburg Tor – we have a puffy-cheeked toddler answering nature’s call in his birthday suit.

Manneken Pis has a sibling too, Jeanneke Pis. She is much taller than her brother, and to visit her, you have to plod through a sad-looking alleyway. The third and final member of this mischievous family is four-legged. Also caught mid-act as he lifts up one of his rear paws to spray a street post, Zinneke Pis is the newest addition to the family.

Only Manneken Pis, however, employs three people. Because he isn’t always indecent; Manneken Pis is fully clothed around 200 days a year. It is the job of three adult men – I don’t know why they’re all men – to dress and undress the little guy on those occasions.

I learned all this when I recently visited the museum devoted to the 1,160 outfits that Manneken Pis has in his wardrobe. His dressers don’t just throw anything on him either. Any organisation or individual wishing to donate an outfit has to submit an application to the city council, one that’s considered by city officials and members of the Order of the Friends of Manneken Pis. They receive around 50 applications each year.

Many of the garments on display at the small museum were stunning, intricately designed and with fabrics that looked of better quality than the nicest wool sweater I have in my closet. The contrast between the miniature but realistic outfits and the Manneken Pis replicas wearing them, their willies poking out, was exquisitely comical.

The museum also offered visitors the chance to take a stab at dressing a replica of the statue, an opportunity I could not resist. I sat down on a stool so low and small I instantly realised this was most definitely meant to be a kids’ activity. Undeterred, I began dressing the replica in front of me.

It was surprisingly exhilarating to be so close to such a famous object, even a replica. The real Manneken Pis is kept in a museum behind a glass case because he has been stolen so many times. But even the replica tourists crowd to see in central Brussels has to be admired from a considerable distance and from behind a fence. 

Up close with him, I noticed something I hadn’t ever seen before – Manneken Pis is ripped, his pecs bizarrely well-defined for what I imagine to be a two-year old. After various attempts at fitting a Velcro-laced amorphous garment around him and some help from a museum staffer, I got the job done, feeling a surprising sense of accomplishment. 

Against Belgium’s larger, institutional backdrop, Manneken Pis makes even more sense as a symbol for not just Brussels, but the nation as a whole.

It’s now been six months since we went to the polls in June. We still don’t have a federal government. Most of us have taken this in a c’est la vie kind of spirit, convinced that they – we – will surely get there in the end.As a pea-sized country made up of two squabbling peoples, one of whom is thirsting for independence, we have never been able to afford the illusions of grandeur that our German and French neighbours do. We could never get away with their imposing patriotic monuments. We know that we are held together by a fine thread and that we are tearing at the seams a little more with every election. We understand that we are a funny old nation and we will merrily laugh along with you. That’s what Manneken Pis represents to me.