Between the perfect 10 and the sacred 12, there’s 11, the fools’ number. In Roosendaal, a town in the southern Dutch province of Brabant, carnival begins on the 11th of the 11th. RNW Brussels correspondent Tijn Sadée jumped at the chance to return home to the Netherlands for the end-of-year series as we near 2011.

Mopping up

It’s not quite 11 minutes past 11 on the 11th day of the 11th month, when a man carrying a saxophone case runs past in the dark. The sound of his colleagues in the ‘mopping-up’ band can be heard behind him. "I can’t carry on, I’ve got to go home," he says tipsily, tripping over his feet and landing on the ground.

Three young women, dressed as flight attendants and teetering on challenging, high-heeled boots, help him get up. They're from Common-as-muck Airlines. “Come fly with us," they tell the musician. He disappears into the night with the girls, aglow with happiness.

Ash Wednesday
Welcome to Roosendaal, the southern Dutch town which from 11 November 2010 until 9 March 2011 - Ash Wednesday - is known locally as 'Tullepetaon City’ [it doesn’t really mean anything in Dutch either].

As in almost all southern Dutch towns, the 11th of the 11th signals the start of carnival. On the night of 11 November, the new Carnival Prince is sworn in, and a jury determines which band will have the honour of supplying this year’s carnival song. Meanwhile, the biggest clowns are already trying on their new carnival outfits.

Magic number
"I'm glitter-man,” babbles a man sporting a silver suit. As far as he’s concerned, 11 is the magic number. "The crazy number - from 11/11 we go wild."

Between the perfect 10 and the sacred 12, there’s 11, the fools’ number that’s inextricably linked to carnival. The Carnival Prince’s traditional greeting to the masses, ‘Alaaf’, is a corruption of 'elf' [Dutch for 11]. The number is also two ones joined together and, thus, a symbol of unity.

Honorary farmers
"Carnival, for us, means losing yourself in joy and happiness," says Jos Grispen, an ‘honorary farmer’ from Tullepetaon City. You’re made an honorary farmer for life, he explains. They are the people who have done their best for carnival over the years, says Mr Grispen: "Some have been Prince several times, others have served on the Farmers’ Council, which deals with the carnival’s day-to-day management. Other places call it the Council of Eleven, but we need more than 11 men to organise it all."

It’s a few minutes before 11:11 pm as the final mopping-up band takes to the stage, hoping that their ditty will be chosen as the 2011 carnival song. "This year the 11-letter motto is ‘Come fly wi’ us’, explains one young man with a broad West- Brabants accent. He is sporting a cloak made of sewn-together scouring pads, and gives a hearty rendition of the Tullepetaons anthem: “With crazy caps they’re born, with drunken heads they’re buried.”

One too many
“A ‘Tullepetaon’ is a sort of guinea fowl which has had one too many,” says an honorary farmer at the back of the hall, looking satisfied with how the younger generation approaches carnival partying. “You can die happy after a few years as an honorary farmer.” A young man next to him can only dream of such a thing. “That’s what I want eventually: it’s the highest rung on the ladder, an honorary farmer.”

“Alaaf!” comes the cry from the stage. The Carnival Prince is opening the envelope containing the jury’s decision. It’s precisely 11 minutes past 11 on the 11th of the 11th month. But, as His Highness begins to announce the name of the winning band, he is already being drowned out. The din’s enough to bring the house down.

Wild every night
A few hours later, glitter-man damp with sweat leaves the building. He complains about the real carnival only beginning in March next year. “It’s a shame, but I’ve got to work, otherwise I’d be going wild every single night for the next few months.”