Gordon Blue

We enjoyed Zagreb so much the first time around that we felt Beans needed to see it. In fairness it was actually the hostel that we enjoyed so much. In fact it was the insane fellas who ran the hostel that we thought Beans needed to see. So we went. To Zagreb. Again.

'Twas a 7 hour coach trip from Split to Zagreb. Croatia is a very long country. On one of our food/piss stops we were greeted at a service station by a group of Croat elders bellowing out what can only be described as a Communist folk song. We couldn't understand the lyrics of course, but that was the vibe we got.

After eventually arriving at Fulir Hostel, in Zagreb, we were settled in by the irrepressible Dabor. Although he didn't seem quite as chirpy and mischievous as he did on our last visit. This worried us. Turned out it was because he was drunk and was at work. Understandable. Give him his due, he gave us all a free beer and cracked out the vodka for himself. After sitting on a roof terrace and being informed of the day's Gay and Anti-Gay marches we went inside. Dabor closed the common room so we could have it to ourselves, along with his band of Croatian buddies. He and an affable ginger Canadian decided to dance for us. It got slightly out of hand and resembled a wrestle more than a waltz. Dabor ended the dance by jumping onto a very fragile table covered in beer bottles. Bed time for Dabor.

His friend - and Beans's main gay-scare of the holiday - Teem recommended we go to a club called Piranha, so we went. There. It was pricey but had a great atmosphere and played some good dance stuff. I don't normally like this sort of thing. But I did. Beans threw up by the DJ booth, so we left.

We were rather hungover the next day and couldn't find a pub that was showing the rugby, having trekked to at least 3 different 'recommended' establishments. After a kip and a spot of blog writing - turned out to be the last of the trip - we joined the hostel men to watch some Ultimate Fighting. After one round the Croatian fighter decimated the Brit. We kept schtum. We three, and an Irishman with a PhD - PhD Patrick - went out for drinks with the Croatian girl we met on our last visit. Unfortunately the cool rock club was empty and it was raining.

The next day another Irishman - with the enviable position of working at the hostel - Damien, took us to the Zagreb Music and Arts Festival. The music was shite, but the weather was nice and the company was pleasant. We played with a ball for a bit then went to get some food at a 24 hour eatery. I had the cordon bleau - or 'Gordon Blue' as the menu informed me - which was truly horrific. A taste sensation similar, I'd imagine, to deep fried rubber. The chips were OK though.

Our last night's sleep in Zagreb was marred not only by the heat, but by a bed so noisy that I might as well have been playing a CD of howler monkeys using megaphones, than just rolling over because my arm had pins and needles.

Ah well. Another day, another country.

Oooh, I've Split Me Difference

Now this may come as a shock, but the last blog was not the last bit of the trip. Oh no. We travelled to 9 more cities in 3 more countries. I am, of course, sitting in my room in Warwickshire, flitting through my travel notes and trying to rekindle the magic that seemed to drip off my mental tongue while abroad. What I'm really getting at is an apology. Well, 2 apologies actually:

1) Sorry the blog was not completed while I was away, and

2) Sorry the 'benefits' of hindsight are, in fact, detrimental

The blog's quality may begin to wane in comparison. Anyhow, I'll try my best to keep the tempo up. Maybe delete what I've just written....

Myself (Gerald), Monty and Beans were now without Doug. We would have to continue this journey alone. Together. So, a 5 hour coach trip to Split it was. On arrival it was apparent that the hostel was going to be a real bugger to find. After some searching and rowing (as in 'arguing', not 'using oars as a means of forward propulsion') we found it. CroParadise. The staff were friendly, sexy and helpful and the hostel itself was excellent. There was even a 32-inch plasma in each dorm, loaded with 1500 films to choose from. Good job there isn't a lot to see in Split.

After a brief wander we found the beautiful beach. The water stayed shallow for ages and the temperature was perfect. Some lads - all of whom were more toned and tanned than us - were playing a game involving a very small ball. It was much more than merely a game of catch. It was like keepy-ups with your hands, except the main purpose seemed to be to make it difficult for your teammates so they could do spectacular diving saves. It turns out that its a 'sport' invented and played almost exclusively on the Dalmatian coast. It goes by the name of Picigin.

After a lovely day of shoulder burning we got dressed up for a night on the Split tiles - they were actually well preserved and not, in any way, split - and headed out to the town. It wasn't that busy but we got a feel for where the cool people hung out. Tired, hot and sweaty we resigned ourselves to an early-ish night.

The course of the next few days was unspectacular, so as to avoid repetition and the inevitable dissinterest that will follow, I will sum up the Split leg of the tour in succinct, amusing tit-bits.

Every morning the cleaner woke us up between 7.30 and 8am, be it with noxious spray - once she sprayed me in the face with it - or by moving the VERY heavy lockers, for NO FUCKING REASON.

The hostel lady was showing 4 girls around. On opening the door to the bathroom they were greeted by a naked Tom Hughes, flossing his gooch and grinning. That door didn't lock.

We frequented a joint called Pizzeria Karaka - 3 visits to be exact - and befriended the Latvian waitress Ayla. Casual flirting ensued, her being just old enough to know we didn't mean it and just young enough for it not to appear patronising. Beans pissed on Monty's feet in the toilet.

We achieved 93 keepy-ups in succession during our own Picigin marathon. It transpired that we were in the sea so long that we burnt our shoulders.

One day we were so bored/hungover that we watched Hot Rod and The Wrestler on our massive TV.

We watched England destroy Andorra. Beans and Monty had a pathetic argument about Newcastle, Cov, The Championship and other things they couldn't articulate or comprehend.

We went to a club called O'Hara's and had an amazing night, ending in Beans asleep in a car parking space and Monty pulling Frank de Boer.

We saw the same old guy on the beach every day. His skin was like leather and his trunks were like gossamer. We named him Slobodan Miskovic, former Chief of Police. He also holds the current record for the best tan in the Adriatic.

We organised to go for a drink with some fit Aussie Sheila's. It didn't happen. Instead we all went to bed. An American guy's bunk collapsed, causing a Sheila to scream, and him - already on crutches - to sleep on the dorm floor.

Monty lost his key - and would lose his key deposit - so he left really early on his own.

That, my friends was Split.

"Marge, Where's Your Badge?"

Dear pilgrims,

I am writing to faithfully inform you that your scribe of familiarity - Gerald - is back. So, Walskadong's last day in Dubrovnik you want? Read on...

We decided a yummy meal was deserved as a fitting farewell to a fine friend and chef. After a bit of wandering we fell upon a quaint establishment called Azur Bistro. After 10 minutes of sitting we had still not been asked what we would like to drink, let alone eat. Time was of the essence as Walshe had to piss off in a few hours, so we murmured pathetically about leaving. A further 10 minutes passed. The waitress was chatting to a table of men. Monty stood up. We were actually doing this. Finally we were acting as our Dad's would if they were on one of those football trips in Italy. Well, they'd have given it some mouth aswell, but similar. So we walked out, heads held high.

Nowhere served food. Well, not to English guys in tiny shorts anyway. After a well deserved, albeit substandard, meal we bumped into the lad that lives at the guest house. He kindly drove us into Old Town, Croatian rap blaring from his tinny speakers. Naturally, The Dong inquired as to what we were listening to - his arms up around the shoulders of van den Boom and Mont, exposing his famously malattended armpits - and decided he would purchase the CD. 'Connect'. That was the band's name. Along with the CD, he bought a gift for Susan Moss, in preparation for Mossfest 2 the day after his return to Blighty.

My bank balance was marching boldly towards 'I told you so' territory, so we grabbed a coffee to assess the sitch. And we saw the fittest girl in the world. Someone proclaimed "I'd eat her shit". Can't remember who it was...

We had a sombre, poignant farewell with Doug - "Look after 'em Tommy" - and waved him off as he rode shotgun in Ana's car. Yet another dynamic to contend with. Beans, assuming the alpha-male role, cooked and then we had some brewskies in preparation of our third night out on the bounce. One thing was certain: we were not going to Latino Club Fuego. We told the taxi man to take us to Exodus nightclub. We pulled up outside a building that we recognised from earlier in the trip. Monty looked out of the window, disbelief on his face, uttering a fully deserved "Dude, what the fuck?" - we were sat outside none other than Disco Club Restaurant Bar Club Dancing Club Fuego. Club. Oddly, it was busy. Ish. There was a fair bit of skirt and a lad we'd seen at the hostel in Zagreb. After a brief dance we all thought about Walshe. This made us sad, so we returned home for a good old kip.

The walk to the Old Town takes you past the entire beautiful coastline, offering stunning views of the cliffs and assorted islands. If you're lucky you'll also be afforded the picturesque image of a pale Geordie with his shirt off. Depends where you look. We grabbed a pizza slice from our local haunt and Beans was awarded his second slice free of charge. I think she fancied him. Huge walls surround Dubrovnik, giving the image of a huge fortress. We walked the full circumfrence of the walls, culminating in about 3 kilometres of amazing scenery and annoying Italians. One such Italian fella - we called him Luigi - was the bane of our excursion, constantly performing for his entourage and setting up amusing photograph opportunities, all sealed with a customary, cliched "Aye!" Twot.

We watched some lads playing five-a-side for a bit too long, then 2 toddlers displaying the promise of a Wednesday night at Latino Club Fuego. Funny though. Out of nowhere Beans had a pang of jealousy and began discussing the thought of staying longer. He only had 2 days left, but it was looking like he had made his mind up to extend his stay. After a few beers, phone calls were made - Boger and Livi - and his mind was made up. He would stay until the 18th!!!

After this great news we just drank a few cold ones on the balcony and indulged in some deep chat about loves long lost, emotions and family shit. We will never tell a soul what was discussed on that balcony, that night in Dubrovnik. So don't ask. Ok? Good. A bowl of Nesquik was gobbled up the next morning and Old Town was again our destination. The place was full of old, fat Yanks sporting badges with their name and coach number on them. They were being led around like sheep, listening in to banal history and scoffing ice cream into their greedy faces. Nothing against them, I was just grumpy that day. Things picked up. We went again to our pizza slice place and were given a slice of pizza each for free. Gratis. I got a water too.

I was pestered at an internet cafe by three foreign boys, constantly making me say things in their language and then chuckling. I must have called myself a vagina or something. I taught them the word 'prepubescent' . All's fair in love and war. Irish Pub Gaffe was touting its burger and chips as the best in town. That sounded like a test, so Beans and I tried it. Mont had an omelette. It was indeed the best burger in town. I hadn't had another though. The Gaelic football was on - Dublin vs Meath - and we were treated to an Irish woman saying "Aah, Jaaysus!" every 3 minutes.

We returned to a bag full of clean clothes - cheers Ana - and a telling off for using her private bathroom - sorry Ana - then hit the hay. Tomorrow we travel to Split, with Beans...

"5 Quid? Fuck Off!"

This is the sound of Cane and Able, coming at you live from Zagreb - delivering the verdict on Dubrovnik, HR.

Notes from the overnight bus:

1) Walska asked to keep his K-Swiss on, as the odour offended the excessively irritable bus driver. He had a point.

2) Montague woken up by the sounds of Walska applauding the (admittedly beautiful) view from his window. It was 4.23 am, thanks Donger.

3) Techno music played throughout the entire journey. How? Why?

Upon arrival in this lovely coastal city, we were greeted by the doting Anna, our hostess for the next few nights. She was warm and caring, although I did worry that she may have planned to eat us all as I'm still reeling from having the synopsis of 'Hostel' recounted to me by a zealous Walskadong. Knowing that Beans (or Able, by way of explanation) was due to arrive that evening, we had a little time to kill. There was an argument about some batteries (which I have no recollection of) and a spell spent in the crystal clear sea water in Calvin Kleins, FUBUs and Gez's starry boxers (how many of these does he own?)

Later that evening we went to collect Beans from the bus station. We pimped ourselves up in best peacocking fashion (which for us generally just means scarves) and wandered down one of Dubrovniks's plenitful hills to meet him, attempting to ignore the incredulous stares of burly locals. After a fashion we were reunited, hug hug, kiss kiss, pat pat. Beans had bought a sandwich, a book about dance music and not enough pants. Or socks. A bit like Paddington Bear arriving in London, but perhaps even cuter. We went to a bar. Doug cooked up some mushy local produce (copyright, DW CApril 2009) and we sat down as a foursome for the first time since wazhisface left. We taxied it down to the old town thanks to Doug's ability to converse with any person, of any age. In this instance a five year old boy was our saviour, demonstrating phone manner that would have impressed any Staybrite interviewer.

Dubrovnik on a Wednesday night ain't the hottest nightspot in the Med. Bar the later emergence of two Malaysians, it was just us. But who needs company when you have Beans and Doug sparring for alpha-male status? Gez and I watched on, somewhat impressed, somewhat bemused. To an Irish bar, rubbish. Doug refused to pay a fiver for an eXspresso, and Tom's beer smelt more like a badly cared for Ivy Lane drain than a pint of premium lager. After consulting with all manner of men, women and children it was apparent that our only viable option for something approaching a night out was the glamourously named, Latino Club Fuego. Ah, just you wait.

In Disco Club Fuego there was me, the big G, Donger and Able. There were two girls in a corner and there was a bartender. There was also a geriatric geezer outside collecting cash, and a moth buzzing somewhere nearby. When a tree falls in Cafe Club Fuego, does it make a noise? I certainly didn't hear one.

Nothing happened. Cane and Able talked shop, while Doug and Jack chatted to the two girls. Nothing happened. I genuinely mean that. Whilst other blog entries may have attempted to disguise certain incidents, this is right on the money. Nothing. So we went home. Got lost, considered sleeping rough, yada yada yada. Bed.

In the morning we ventured back out. The sun had shown up again and was beating down nicely. We wanted to show Tom what we'd been doing for the past few weeks so we went for a pizza and had a Fanta. Doug was on explosive form so had a lasagne and 4 (four) bottles of Fanta. He got a predictable bout of indigestion, countered by his customary head tilt, teeth grinding and odd swallow. Better prepared for the beach this time, we galloped into the waves, frolicking like 'Secret Seven' characters. But sadly not as wholesome. Stuff happened in the sea. Talk to Doug, he's at home now. He's also looking for a job, preferably in film, preferably in London. And a girlfriend, preferably young and signed up to Zoosk. And a six-pack, which he needs to have obtained by Benicassim.

Tom (who you're now reading) wanted to treat us to a nice meal out. How lovely. In my Best of Dubrovnik Guidebook (rrp $12.99) i'd read about a fine fish restaurant called Marco Polo(only 2 $ signs). We ordered oysters, Chocolate TeaPot didn't like them "nah horrible". The owner, grateful of our custom placed infront of us his homemade Grappa. I can only describe this as the worst thing I've had in my mouth since last summer, don't ask. Gerald muled. The rest of us politely slipped at the liquer however we were fully aware that it could melt the glass at any second.

Anxious to avoid Latino Dancing Disco Club Fuego we decided to again to consult my Best of Dubrovnik Guidebook (rrp $12.99). Revelin Club sounded good, but didn't exist. This resulted in an hour of walking, arguing and map rotating. One thing we learn was what a cat looks like when, hit by a car. The massacred tabby had perished when a Lada screeched round the corner and caught the kitty square on the bonce. Gez helpfully pointed out the late Moggy had died from internal bleeding, due to the blood haemorrhaging from the Pussy's mouth.

After this harrowing expereince we decided to head to the only place we knew, Cafe Bar Restaurant Dancing Disco Club Fuego Club. Again we managed to maintain our record of accounting for 50% of the client base. The barman was brilliant. We waxed lyrical on football hooliganism, Nationalism, hatred of Serbs and bar flairing. Needless to say Niko specialised in all four disciplines. After knocking The Clock over with a Gas Chamber, we all realised we were very, very drunk. It was also Thomas's last night. We went home and hit the hay. Safe in the knowledge that we had learned never to visit Dancing Disco Latino Cafe Club Restaurant Bar Fuego....again?

"Bulls Man?" - "Maybe".

The train journey from Budapest to Zagreb was relatively uneventful.

We arrived in Zagreb at 9ish in the evening, looking for the elusively entitled 'Fulir Hostel'. In Zagreb. Our arduous quest to find the hostel was notable for the many crowds of Croats blocking our path; the majority sporting the national flag and camouflage pantaloons. Turned out that there was a big old gig on, with the square housing a stage with the Nationalist band 'Thompson' performing. Loudly and colourfully. We were treated to a laser show and lots of smoke. And dirty looks from xenophobes.

Still hadn't found the chuffing hostel though. I was in charge - which may have been the reason for our lack of accomplishment - so I asked a lady if she knew where it was. She had a vague idea and sent us up a massive flight of steps past loads of boozing youths. It was not, it turned out, at the top of the hill we had just climbed. With our bags. Bitch. Found it about four minutes later though, so don't worry.

Fulir is wicked. Voted the best hostel in Zagreb, run by two fellas who love a vodka and a laugh. Our first beer was free so we joined them for a game of poker. Seven man game, 10 kunas each to play. Sure. It transpired that the hostel man was an intimidating poker player, constantly re-raising before the flop. He ended up with the chip majority after about 3 hands and we began to get cold feet. He, however, kept getting drunker and drunker. Eventually he blew it and Monty won. Yay.

We walked to a street choc-a-block (sp?) with bars, and went in one. For a drink. Walshe got chatting to a cute blonde who thought we were medics and her and her mate took us to a cool rock club. There was a coat rack. I found that amusing. The drinks were cheap and the music was good, as was the company. Unfortunately a gentleman fell over and headbutted me on his way down, leaving me with an undeservedly cool shiner. It's gone now. Doug manged to have himself another chicken scratch scrum with a French boxer who had lost both his mobile phone and wallet. Doug lost.

The girls took us to a student food hall the next day where we ate a hearty meal for the princely sum of 50p. It was rank like, but fucking cheap. We then decided a beer or two would take the edge off the hangover so they took us to a very cheap cafe bar. The chat got stale - Walshe asked them what their favourite colour was - and they left us to lash. After many frames of pool we found ourselves very drunk and in need of a lie down. Or a night out. Back at the hostel we chatted to some sexy French-Canadians, a bunch of Turks and an American anthropologist. And drank more. The lads ended up going out with the girls and the Yank but I stayed in with the Turks. I was in bed by about 11, and rightly so.

The lads and ladies get back and Walshe and Monty are mad keen on the girls. It is so dark that you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Or who's bed you were getting into. Or who you were kissing. After the initial mix-up, Monty went to bed and Walshe took Sophie - for that was her name - out onto the balcony. After some romantic kissing and stuff she gazed into Walskadong's eyes and uttered these immortal words...

"Doug, do you think there is still love in this world?"

He, obviously, provided the affirmative response she was looking for and they continued to pash. Eventually everyone went to bed, leaving me to make eye contact with a girl and vomit on Monty's bag. She suggested I might be better off in the bathroom, but I begged to differ. Don't worry Mum. I cleaned it up the following morning. But, sorry.

The next day we went to a lake with the girls. Well, we both went but they decided to get a different tram and not wait there for us. Last night's indiscretions maybe a little uncomfortable for them, sure. Walshe and I plunged into the icy water in our boxers. Monty pussied out. After a nap and a lot of stone skipping we returned to the hostel and had a lie down. The girls came back, apologised, and proceeded to marvel at our complex knowledge of the French vocabulary. And Monty bought a banana off the fitter one. The American gent persuaded us to have a beer with him on the balcony and then we were joined by a chronically hungover, sunburned Australian nurse. We had a dark ale in the pub and then went to bed.

Check out was at 11am but our bus to Dubrovnik did not leave untill 11.55pm. Drat. We grabbed our bus ticket, leaving our bags at the hostel, and then went to find a cinema. 'Angels and Demons'. A lot of running around and quite predictable, but way better than the first one. Walshe bought a watch. Back at the hostel we watched an hour long documentary about a bridge, which included a South Korean nerd talking in South Korean, with no subtitles. The bridge wasn't even finished at the end of the show. Thrilling.

Then we took a 9 and a half hour bus to Dubrovnik...

"I've Been Texting Serj Tankian"

Sorry for the delay, but I am travelling. I can't just write blogs all the time. Greedy. Where were we? Ah yes, Bratislava. Well, there was no bus to Slovenia. At all. But luck can be a fickle mistress. The day before we wanted to leave Bratislava Richard Montague checked his Facebook. Inbox: 1. A certain Anna Bencze had offered us three lads FREE accomodation in the centre of Budapest. In Hungary. In the unimitable style of David Coleman: "Ah thank yah". After a great pizza near the Bratislava bus station, we jumped on a bus at the station. In Bratislava. And got a bus to Budapest.

We arrived late and had little to no clue where to go or where we were. The Budapest bus station was not on the map in our ever-dependable Rough Guide to Europe. After the Bratislava debacle we were seriously questioning the quality and the professionalism of the cartographers employed by The Rogh Guide. Although we expressed this annoyance as "Fucking book".

Luckily we had Anna's address. And Walshe. He spotted some glowing golden arches in the distance and reasoned that where there be light, there be taxis. So we arrived at Macdonalds - "Gerald, Gerald *wide eyed and nodding* 20 nuggets, 20 nuggets" - and ordered 3 Big Mac meals and 12 nuggets (much to Doug's disappointment, but to the huge relief of my heart). A taxi was indeed close. The lovely gent drove us straight to Anna's door, a grandiose abode in the centre of Buda. Trivia: Budapest is split into two halves, either side of the river Danube - Buda and Pest. If you already knew that then I apologise for insulting your intelligence. If you didn't, you're welcome.

We took an elevator - or lift - (the type now obsolete in England) to the fifth floor, where we were greeted by Anna. For the uninitiated, Monty met Anna during his time in Athens, Georgia. In America. She. Is. Awesome. Turns out she's a young professional with a lovely flat and a vast array of homemade preserves and cookies. She bakes. We got settled in - same tshirt for 3 days, so took that off - and popped on 'The Prestige'. We developed an understandable bromance for Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman and then crashed out on a giant mattress on a raised, attic-esque platform above the living room (a bit like yours in Shipton Street Harrison).

Anna is a grown-up, so she went to work at 8am. We slept until 11ish and then bucked our ideas up. And watched Stomp The Yard. Then set out to explore. Buda is quite rocky so you see a lot of hills sporting assorted religious monuments and spectacular views across the river to Pest. We - reluctantly - walked up loads of stairs and took some touristy photos. Mum and Dad'll like 'em. There is a large island in the middle of the Danube river that is the only place you can rightly call Budapest. As it's in the middle of the river. Between Buda and Pest. You get the picture.

The island is home to a sports ground, swimming pools, parks, cafes and a water park. We were rewarded with a copious amount of flesh on show and quite a few old couples getting over-familiar in the whirlpools. Doug rustled up some bruschettas for din-dins and then we got a tram to meet Anna and a friend at a cool outside club called Ditch. Anna's friend was a Mexican/American/Hungarian. One of them. She chatted to Monty for an hour about the celebrities she had met on her travels, including Sergio Ramos in a Madrid nightclub and Serj Tankian of System Of A Down fame. She even showed us some piccies and texts from the Armenian superstar. Bit much, considering we hadn't asked. Anna was pretty damn drunk but insisted on cycling home. After swaying most of the way back, Doug took over. And swayed the rest of the way.

It is certainly worth mentioning that we watched an awful lot of Friends. Anna had the complete collection and Doug had not seen the last series. I'm making excuses. Piss off, it's a great show. Mildly hungover, we swaggered around Pest, trying everything on in H&M and grabbing an extortionate milkshake at Anna Cafe. Not our Anna, it's a cafe chain. Pest houses a huge indoor market, set on 3 levels, with fresh local produce on the bottom and stalls selling clothes, souvenirs and hot food on the other two. Needless to say, Monty and I bought a Puskaš shirt. Hero.

Walshe cooked up a beautiful bolognaise type of vibe for Anna, then we went out to meet her workmates for drinks (and to watch United-Barca). It rained, so we could not go to the outside bar we had planned on. Instead we took a free taxi to Oldman's Pub, a pricey but cool bar/club. We danced, drank, bird-watched.... Walshe pulled a girl called Agda. The usual. Doug's conquest - for want of a better word - invited us all back to their dorms to continue the party. Her friend had pulled a Frenchman, whom Richard had crossed wires with earlier, who also joined. One of their friends was away so I got my own bed :) the Frenchman left. Doug stayed...

After an awkward farewell involving Doug getting Agda's digits and us sharing breakfast that they stole from the market for us, we buggered off. Watched a few episodes of Friends and had a nap until Anna returned from work. She took us to a place called Pizza Boy. Guess what? We had another pizza. Well nice. The next morning we watched Enemy At The Gates and then walked to the touristy bit. It was the first bit of Budapest that wasn't that nice, so testament to the rest of it. I had a wonderful milkshake - causing envy amongst my peers - and bought a purple Ujpest football traing zip-up. Sure. Walshe took an hour and 45 minutes to book his flight home from Dubrovnik and then we watched the last episode of Friends. Tears.

Anna took us to a Mexican restaurant and we stuffed our faces. Monty and I were so desperate for a number 1 that we crossed swords. Walshe took it upon himself to open the door and expose our misdemeanor to the waiting queue. Cheers dick'ead. Our next stop was a huge pool hall/club/games arcade. We played a few frames and then headed downstairs to the basement. That's where the dancing happened. Monty head-butted a girl in the back of the head at the bar and they got chatting. Doug gave a 'thumbs down' to the DJ after a particularly poor selection, receieving and amusingly agrieved reaction. We ended up dancing on a stage until we realised we could ill afford to get drunk. We waited until Monty pulled and then we left.

Next stop, Zagreb...

Sorry About Us (This)...

'I'm a one track lover/Down a two-way lane,
Driving fast down the highway/Must have been insane,
'Cause the temperature's too high/Travelling way too fast,
And I knew our loving/Wasn't built too last'

'She's smooth, like ice/Cold to the touch and it isn't very nice,
When you're left, alone/You let me treat you badly left you hanging on the phone,
Take off/Shove your loving on the wheel,
Put your pedal to the floor/'Cause your heading for the hills,
Gotta get away/Can't take anymore, We should be making love!
Men don't leave/They just leave you at the door...the door...

Monty here (the proper one, not the Australian version). By way of recognising the week's sporting events ('boom boom boom let me here you say Eto'o...') i'm going to attempt to keep you up to speed with our recent activities using only phrases one would likely here in a sports report. Clever, eh?

The bell dinged and Walshe, 23, 200 lbs, wearing the navy hawaiian boardshorts, took an early advantage, landing a decisive blow in lumbering off to the gym. Reeling from the impact of his hefty right hand, Montague, 22, not many lbs, wearing the blood-spattered cargo shorts (not yet cleaned since the Krakow debacle) and Fitzgerald, questionable lbs, wearing a better pair of boardshorts than Walshe, applied vaseline to the wound in the form of a KFC with their Australian counterparts.

The day's early kick-off was to be held under the glades and blazing sun at the local park. Walskadong, kitted out in a 'Jordan 23' jersey and alarmingly short shorts took up residence in goal, with outfield spots filled by an Australian select II and a British select...II. Montague, expecting an easy ride, swaggered around the field with an air of arrogance unbefitting his lack of match sharpness, and was soon made to look rather foolish as Blair and Leadon conjured fluid move after fluid move and raced into an early advantage. A typically brusque equaliser from Fitzgerald only delayed the inevitable and humiliating defeat. Thankfully for the British, their misery was not compounded further, Montague's lose drive passing just over the head of an elderly couple.

With a zip and verve sadly lacking in their earlier performances, the players sped through Bratislava's maze of streets to their next hole, the alarmingly expensive 'Dubliners'. Here they navigated the obstacles of wind (stag party) and rain (again, stag party) and landed neatly a good 10 yards from the pin, a fine shot, affording them excellent visibility to a big screen showing Newcastle-Villa. Ben Blair, sporting a moustache that would make Sam Torrence proud, left his fans in raptures thanks to his daring combination of running shorts and vest; whilst Montague and Fitzgerald again failed to show the quality they are so capable of, a series of errors culminating in the ordering of a pint of lemonade for the princely sum of three English pounds. Gross spending indeed. Take heed Newcastle...

With the day's play waning and meandering in the heat of the Slovakian sun, tea was called. Whilst Walshe's choice of beans, eggs, cheese and bread may have seemed like a good decision earlier on in the day, a certain contingent of his supporters were calling for a change up to its inception - the processed cheese failing to complement the more reliable elements of the team selection. However, these fans would do well to remember Walshe's notable successes in the past, and any calling for his head after such a performance should take a long look at his previous record. You cannot question cheese's contribution to a good Walshe dish over the years (although Player of the Year?) but in this case it seemed dated and off the pace. He may have been better off selecting a relish, an understated selection, sure, but one that would have brought out the best in the other ingredients.

By way of post-match analysis this battered and bruised band of brothers took to their computer screens to watch YouTube videos and reflect on quite a day's play. Montague's selection of a montag(u)e of NFL hits was neatly countered by the Australians, who reclaimed their superiority by showing Walshe and Fitzgerald AFL hit after AFL hit. Montague, disgruntled, again fueled his critics' fire by sulking for quite some time. If he is to achieve his potential he must one day improve this attitude which could yet stifle his development into a really top-class performer. Walshe, on the other hand, showed initiative and creativity in participating in after hours celebrations with a hostel employee, although he would do well to look at the careers of Ben Johnson and Alex Rodriguez for guidance in these potentially testing times. With the umpires declaring an emphatic victory for Australia, Fitzgerald and Montague loped off to the pavillion for a rub down and a good sleep. Down but not out, these hardy campaigners have learnt that this trip represents a marathon not a sprint. They move on to Budapest, for another huge encounter, this time with UGA's five star recruit, the Hungarian hero, Anna Bencze.