'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.
Friday, 29 May 2009
Thursday, 28 May 2009
The Slovakian Princess
Let me tell you a story about a man called Montgomery and his Slovakian princess. It's a long story that doesn't really centre around either of them, but a story nonetheless. After yet another Tesco sarnie we make our way to the bus stop. We three, dear reader, are going to the zoo. There was a midget on the bus. That's irrelevant. The zoo was very cheap so we didn't know what to expect, but we paid the money and entered, the excitement oozing out of us. Doug found a big illustrated map of the park and gave us a rundown of all the animals we were about to see. Unnecessary really as it had pictures of the animals and I knew what they all were. Doug did not. Our mood was deflated relatively early on, the first animal on display being a goat. We have them at home. The next pen was for a bear. The bear was not there. The next pen was for a karakal, a relative of the lynx. A nocturnal creature. We were there in the daytime. The karakal was not.
We saw that beer was being sold for about a quid so we thought alcohol may make this disappointing experience a little more palatable. Walshe ordered 3 Kafola's. He was handed three dark drinks with copious head. "That looks like a dark ale". Monty braved the first swig. Cola. Not coke, but an awful, sweet, syrup-based hybrid. Kafola is cola. But never fear, Walshe got a chicken kebab.
The zoo was actually amazing. The next animals were the big cats. We got leopards, white tigers, lions and a massive jaguar. Walshe got up close and personal with the jag, with only a thin layer of glass between them. He also claimed he could 'have' the jaguar, ignoring all the physical attributes that make it a killer and relying on him punching it once for the victory. We then watched the gibbons for about 25 minutes. They're amazing gymnasts and cheeky bastards to boot. One went into a dark hole and came out with some grapes. He called the others over and they perched on a high beam and tucked in. The chimps weren't in.
Have you ever seen giraffes fight? YouTube it. Imagine an Armitage brawl and you're pretty much there. The pot-bellied pig is a fascinating creature. The young are up there with the cutest animals ever, but the parents are minging. That is some cruel puberty. The zoo also housed a zone called DinoLand. Oh yes. Big gates, complete with a rip-off from the Jurassic Park soundtrack, and the skull of a Tricerotaps greet you. There were some pretty shit models at first, but the deeper you go the bigger and better they got. And there was a 3D movie. It made you jump, and when the baby Diplodocus found its mum at the end, you're fighting back the tears.
There was an agile marmoset, a racoon dog (?), a pygmy hippo, an ibex, loads of monkeys, meerkats, prairie dogs, capybaras, a monitor lizard, an evil-looking Burmese python. Doug got his finger nibbled, deliberatley, by a monkey that looked like a punk. Doug paid to play on a digger for 3 minutes. On the way out we woke up the bear. Suddenly the cruelty of captivity hit us a bit, such a sublime, statuesque creature living in such a small pen, playing with a tyre. Didn't mean to put a dampener on the day, we had a blast, but it deserved better than that.
Doug went to the gym, leaving myself and Rich to enjoy some local lager. We get some drinks from Tesco and then have a few with some Aussie guys outside. On the patio. Francis, Benson and Monty. That's gonna cause some issues. For the purposes of this blog, any reference to 'Monty' means the Australian Monty. OK? Alright. We decide a big night out is on the cards, literally, as we play Ring of Fire. Suddenly the heavens open and we dash inside, leaving the chairs (that we'd taken from inside) to get soaked. Another Aussie, Sam, joins us and now it looks like we got ourselves a crew. They have a horrible game that whenever you say the word 'MINE' you have to drop down and gimme 10. Press-ups. Do 10 press-ups. Boy do you say that a lot...
After drinks at the hostel and a few at some bars we set out to find SubClub, a former bunker under the castle, now a rather cool club. Luckily we meet a very stoned local who knows where it is and he leads the seven of us to it. We walk down several tunnels until we get to the main room, a dancefloor and a bar. Beers are about a quid each. Yes please, seven. We 'get on it', downing beers and doing copious press-ups. Monty manages to pull a little cutie. The devil disappears for half an hour. On his return we discover that he has fornicated outside the club with his 'Slovakian Princess'. What a lovely image. Oh, and she's 17. They played Arctic Monkeys. Walshe went spare.
We have a rip-roaring game of squash the next day, with me losing every game and sweating most of the booze out within the first 12 minutes. We stink. But mostly Walshe, if I'm honest. Back at the hostel and the Aussie chaps are getting on it again. We, with little persuasion, join them and get stuck in to another round of Ring of Fire. Some Canadian ladies (one has a tattoed tit and fanny*) and some American's also join us and get absolutley munted. We take it inside and meet some lads from Oxford and some teachers from Chester. After much banter, fusbal and sangria spillage, the 19 of us hit the town. Crew. We bump into a stag party - the stag is dressed as a smurf - and follow them to a club called Chanel. The stag does not get in, so his mates leave him outside.
The drinks were expensive and the banter was stale so the original 6 (me, Rich, Walshe, Francis, Ben and Monty) 'go to the toilet' and leave. After a brief wander we realise that nowhere is open so we return to Chanel, telling the others some bullshit about getting some food. After a further half hour I get very bored, so me, Francis and Monty leave. On our wander we come across an underground, all-Slovak place selling pints for 75p. Cheers. After a pint or 2 a drunk bald gent joins us. He is fluent in gobbledegook. He takes a shine to me, removes his tshirt and gives it to me. It doesn't smell that bad so I accept. After 3 minutes he decides he likes Monty better and gives him the tshirt instead. Then he falls asleep. As do all the other punters, except an ageing cellist and his monotone wife. We later find out that it was a Nazi bar, the bald gent being part of a clan. We were darned lucky. I still have his tshirt.
I queue for a kebab fro 20 minutes, order, then wait another 10 minutes, then re-order, then get served. The guy hated English. I get back and Walshe is hammered. A brief sesh on Facebook and its time for bed. But Walshe isn't tired. He annoys me and Rich for about half an hour and then climbs in my bed, the top bunk. With a combined weight of about 70 stone you can hear the pine straining. Eventually he sees the error of his ways and gets down. And steals Rich's duvet. The guy is a wanker.
*She did not show us her fanny.
We saw that beer was being sold for about a quid so we thought alcohol may make this disappointing experience a little more palatable. Walshe ordered 3 Kafola's. He was handed three dark drinks with copious head. "That looks like a dark ale". Monty braved the first swig. Cola. Not coke, but an awful, sweet, syrup-based hybrid. Kafola is cola. But never fear, Walshe got a chicken kebab.
The zoo was actually amazing. The next animals were the big cats. We got leopards, white tigers, lions and a massive jaguar. Walshe got up close and personal with the jag, with only a thin layer of glass between them. He also claimed he could 'have' the jaguar, ignoring all the physical attributes that make it a killer and relying on him punching it once for the victory. We then watched the gibbons for about 25 minutes. They're amazing gymnasts and cheeky bastards to boot. One went into a dark hole and came out with some grapes. He called the others over and they perched on a high beam and tucked in. The chimps weren't in.
Have you ever seen giraffes fight? YouTube it. Imagine an Armitage brawl and you're pretty much there. The pot-bellied pig is a fascinating creature. The young are up there with the cutest animals ever, but the parents are minging. That is some cruel puberty. The zoo also housed a zone called DinoLand. Oh yes. Big gates, complete with a rip-off from the Jurassic Park soundtrack, and the skull of a Tricerotaps greet you. There were some pretty shit models at first, but the deeper you go the bigger and better they got. And there was a 3D movie. It made you jump, and when the baby Diplodocus found its mum at the end, you're fighting back the tears.
There was an agile marmoset, a racoon dog (?), a pygmy hippo, an ibex, loads of monkeys, meerkats, prairie dogs, capybaras, a monitor lizard, an evil-looking Burmese python. Doug got his finger nibbled, deliberatley, by a monkey that looked like a punk. Doug paid to play on a digger for 3 minutes. On the way out we woke up the bear. Suddenly the cruelty of captivity hit us a bit, such a sublime, statuesque creature living in such a small pen, playing with a tyre. Didn't mean to put a dampener on the day, we had a blast, but it deserved better than that.
Doug went to the gym, leaving myself and Rich to enjoy some local lager. We get some drinks from Tesco and then have a few with some Aussie guys outside. On the patio. Francis, Benson and Monty. That's gonna cause some issues. For the purposes of this blog, any reference to 'Monty' means the Australian Monty. OK? Alright. We decide a big night out is on the cards, literally, as we play Ring of Fire. Suddenly the heavens open and we dash inside, leaving the chairs (that we'd taken from inside) to get soaked. Another Aussie, Sam, joins us and now it looks like we got ourselves a crew. They have a horrible game that whenever you say the word 'MINE' you have to drop down and gimme 10. Press-ups. Do 10 press-ups. Boy do you say that a lot...
After drinks at the hostel and a few at some bars we set out to find SubClub, a former bunker under the castle, now a rather cool club. Luckily we meet a very stoned local who knows where it is and he leads the seven of us to it. We walk down several tunnels until we get to the main room, a dancefloor and a bar. Beers are about a quid each. Yes please, seven. We 'get on it', downing beers and doing copious press-ups. Monty manages to pull a little cutie. The devil disappears for half an hour. On his return we discover that he has fornicated outside the club with his 'Slovakian Princess'. What a lovely image. Oh, and she's 17. They played Arctic Monkeys. Walshe went spare.
We have a rip-roaring game of squash the next day, with me losing every game and sweating most of the booze out within the first 12 minutes. We stink. But mostly Walshe, if I'm honest. Back at the hostel and the Aussie chaps are getting on it again. We, with little persuasion, join them and get stuck in to another round of Ring of Fire. Some Canadian ladies (one has a tattoed tit and fanny*) and some American's also join us and get absolutley munted. We take it inside and meet some lads from Oxford and some teachers from Chester. After much banter, fusbal and sangria spillage, the 19 of us hit the town. Crew. We bump into a stag party - the stag is dressed as a smurf - and follow them to a club called Chanel. The stag does not get in, so his mates leave him outside.
The drinks were expensive and the banter was stale so the original 6 (me, Rich, Walshe, Francis, Ben and Monty) 'go to the toilet' and leave. After a brief wander we realise that nowhere is open so we return to Chanel, telling the others some bullshit about getting some food. After a further half hour I get very bored, so me, Francis and Monty leave. On our wander we come across an underground, all-Slovak place selling pints for 75p. Cheers. After a pint or 2 a drunk bald gent joins us. He is fluent in gobbledegook. He takes a shine to me, removes his tshirt and gives it to me. It doesn't smell that bad so I accept. After 3 minutes he decides he likes Monty better and gives him the tshirt instead. Then he falls asleep. As do all the other punters, except an ageing cellist and his monotone wife. We later find out that it was a Nazi bar, the bald gent being part of a clan. We were darned lucky. I still have his tshirt.
I queue for a kebab fro 20 minutes, order, then wait another 10 minutes, then re-order, then get served. The guy hated English. I get back and Walshe is hammered. A brief sesh on Facebook and its time for bed. But Walshe isn't tired. He annoys me and Rich for about half an hour and then climbs in my bed, the top bunk. With a combined weight of about 70 stone you can hear the pine straining. Eventually he sees the error of his ways and gets down. And steals Rich's duvet. The guy is a wanker.
*She did not show us her fanny.
Freddy Got Fingered
Our last two days in Prague are literally not worth a mention. But it is a travel blog, so I'm kind of obligated. After saying a macho farewell to Bob and Anthony, we four (the large Canadian joined us) got a chinese and then went to see Star Trek. And bloody loved it. We played a bit of poker - Mont the victor - and Walshe and Canadian (who we just called 'dude' or 'man') had loads of beer. Unwise, me thinks. At 11pm we got peckish and grabbed a pizza. 'Twas literally 40 inches. One more beer, then bed.
After the worst night's sleep of my entire life - I only nodded off when Canadian left at 8am - we decided to see a bit more of the city. We saw the Royal Castle (obligatory photo with guards), palace and cathedral, walked about 7 miles and had a phenomenal milkshake. At 3 quid a pop it bloody had to be. We toasted our last night with a celebratory pizza ;) and a lovely drop of Budvar and then got into bed, ready for our 6.30 wake up call....
Bratislava - in Slovakia - was to be our next destination, and we arrived with no trouble having slept for the majority of the journey. The map in the Rough Guide - that me and Monty both got for Christmas - is possibly the worst map since the one Kitty Jay took when she went for an evening stroll on the Cornish moors. No streets were named properly and the bus station wasn't even on the fucking thing. After a valiant effort from Walshe - asking all and sundry where we had to go - we were completely lost. So we jumped in a cab who took us round the corner. Cheers.
The hostel was named Patio Hostel. There was indeed a patio out back, so I can't take the piss. After getting the key to our room from the be-dreaded crusty at reception we dump our gear, shower and head out. There's a Tesco - home from home - so we enjoy a sandwich with bread drier than a nun's dark places and then head to the square. Bratislava is renowned for its amusing statues, which pop up round corners and behind benches and out of manholes. Limited entertainment if I'm honest, so we grabbed a cold one in yet another beautiful square and watched the world - in the form of tanned girls in strap tops - go by.
We'd been lead to believe that Tesco in Bratislava stocked 12% lager at minimal expense, so we investigated. Bob and Anthony, you were wrong lads. We bought the stuff, which was minging, and while drinking decided to thouroughly inspect the label. Turns out it was 4%. The 12% is simply the name of the beer, much like Carling in England. Or Fosters. In England. Anyway it was a 3 pint bottle for 90p so we can't whinge. More poker was played, beer was drunk and we headed out. Monday's in Bratislava are crap. We went back to the hostel and decided a movie would cap off the evening nicely. Monty and Walshe had, for some unbeknown reason, set their hearts on watching Freddy Got Fingered. I'm not even going to justify this boil-on-the-devil's-arse of a film with a review. Actually, minus 5 stars. It stinks.
We changed rooms the next day to cheaper ones - classy - and then headed towards a park for a sunbathe. I cannot stress how nice the weather was. We were sneered at by a pair of gays - I don't fancy you either lads - and then sat down for some tanning. Well, I was in the shade. I get sweaty. And my nose goes red. We then had a walk to the castle, which took ages, and found it smothered in scaffolding. Almost everywhere we've visited has been under construction. The views from the top were amazing though, as it sits on top of a hill, a fortress like a beacon of power and prosperity. And a few diggers. And builders with their shirts off.
After a long walk there's nothing like a nice, cold Fanta - orange - and a sit down. So we did that. Next stop, Tesco. We just really fancied a fry-up. Walshe cooked up some gorgeous sausages and eggs and bunged 'em into a bap and a baguette. Our own little slice of England. A nap followed, with Doug relentlessly saying "five minutes" when asked to get up so we could do something. An hour and 25 minutes later he got up. After last night's cinematic disaster we wanted to watch a credible film with good performances and a strong plot, fronted by an actor who could do a good London accent. So we chose Green Street. Good for a laugh, but surely even Charlie Hunnam himself didn't think he sounded cockney - "Ah, you're 'aving a bubble". Twat. The evening was saved when Walshe got chatting to a slender, delicate South African called Lauren. She looked a bit like my friend Anna. If you don't know her, sorry. Monty and I played Fusbal. She read my blog - loved it, so... - and then went to bed. Alone.
That was a boring blog. I apologise. The next one's going to be better. There's more sex, more drink and a load more giraffes...
After the worst night's sleep of my entire life - I only nodded off when Canadian left at 8am - we decided to see a bit more of the city. We saw the Royal Castle (obligatory photo with guards), palace and cathedral, walked about 7 miles and had a phenomenal milkshake. At 3 quid a pop it bloody had to be. We toasted our last night with a celebratory pizza ;) and a lovely drop of Budvar and then got into bed, ready for our 6.30 wake up call....
Bratislava - in Slovakia - was to be our next destination, and we arrived with no trouble having slept for the majority of the journey. The map in the Rough Guide - that me and Monty both got for Christmas - is possibly the worst map since the one Kitty Jay took when she went for an evening stroll on the Cornish moors. No streets were named properly and the bus station wasn't even on the fucking thing. After a valiant effort from Walshe - asking all and sundry where we had to go - we were completely lost. So we jumped in a cab who took us round the corner. Cheers.
The hostel was named Patio Hostel. There was indeed a patio out back, so I can't take the piss. After getting the key to our room from the be-dreaded crusty at reception we dump our gear, shower and head out. There's a Tesco - home from home - so we enjoy a sandwich with bread drier than a nun's dark places and then head to the square. Bratislava is renowned for its amusing statues, which pop up round corners and behind benches and out of manholes. Limited entertainment if I'm honest, so we grabbed a cold one in yet another beautiful square and watched the world - in the form of tanned girls in strap tops - go by.
We'd been lead to believe that Tesco in Bratislava stocked 12% lager at minimal expense, so we investigated. Bob and Anthony, you were wrong lads. We bought the stuff, which was minging, and while drinking decided to thouroughly inspect the label. Turns out it was 4%. The 12% is simply the name of the beer, much like Carling in England. Or Fosters. In England. Anyway it was a 3 pint bottle for 90p so we can't whinge. More poker was played, beer was drunk and we headed out. Monday's in Bratislava are crap. We went back to the hostel and decided a movie would cap off the evening nicely. Monty and Walshe had, for some unbeknown reason, set their hearts on watching Freddy Got Fingered. I'm not even going to justify this boil-on-the-devil's-arse of a film with a review. Actually, minus 5 stars. It stinks.
We changed rooms the next day to cheaper ones - classy - and then headed towards a park for a sunbathe. I cannot stress how nice the weather was. We were sneered at by a pair of gays - I don't fancy you either lads - and then sat down for some tanning. Well, I was in the shade. I get sweaty. And my nose goes red. We then had a walk to the castle, which took ages, and found it smothered in scaffolding. Almost everywhere we've visited has been under construction. The views from the top were amazing though, as it sits on top of a hill, a fortress like a beacon of power and prosperity. And a few diggers. And builders with their shirts off.
After a long walk there's nothing like a nice, cold Fanta - orange - and a sit down. So we did that. Next stop, Tesco. We just really fancied a fry-up. Walshe cooked up some gorgeous sausages and eggs and bunged 'em into a bap and a baguette. Our own little slice of England. A nap followed, with Doug relentlessly saying "five minutes" when asked to get up so we could do something. An hour and 25 minutes later he got up. After last night's cinematic disaster we wanted to watch a credible film with good performances and a strong plot, fronted by an actor who could do a good London accent. So we chose Green Street. Good for a laugh, but surely even Charlie Hunnam himself didn't think he sounded cockney - "Ah, you're 'aving a bubble". Twat. The evening was saved when Walshe got chatting to a slender, delicate South African called Lauren. She looked a bit like my friend Anna. If you don't know her, sorry. Monty and I played Fusbal. She read my blog - loved it, so... - and then went to bed. Alone.
That was a boring blog. I apologise. The next one's going to be better. There's more sex, more drink and a load more giraffes...
Thursday, 21 May 2009
"Mum, I Paid For Sex"
Prague is renowned for its fantastic and exciting astrological clock, that chimes and displays a grandiose display every hour. I, for one, had been to Prague before - man of the world - so was eager to gauge the reaction of my fellow travel companions. With baited breath we, and some Chinese and some Americans and some Germans, stood before this work of all-ticking, all-chiming art with 15 minutes to spare. The suspense could be cut with a really small, blunt spoon. That's how much suspense was going on in Prague. Eventually the time came for the big she-bang. BONG! The bells are ringing. ZIP! The little doors above the clock are opening. SHIT! This is a shit display!!! Little figures, made ages ago, rotate inside the doors. For a bit. The whole crowd, stiff-necked and disappointed, let out a communal "Aaah". Bless 'em. The locals must love it.
Prague's main square is sensational, full of cafes and bars and very reminiscet of the previous 5 capitals we've been to. But slightly more pricey. After a generous wander through the be-cobbled, mysterious streets, we decided that 1 quid for a pint back at the hostel seemed like a nice idea. No sign of Donald, but some Yank called Jeremy was more than happy to rack up some premium lagers for the three of us. We spotted a pair of pretty, wet-behind-the-ears gents, ruddy-faced and a beer in hand. Walshe swaggered over, introduced us and we joined them for beverages. They attended Cheltenham College. Leave it out.
As the evening went on we decided we loved them. Anthony and James were their names, but James opted for the public school nickname of 'Bob'. Anthony and Bob eulogised about various countries - most of which we were set to attend - with Bob making regular trips outside to receive phonecalls. On one return from outside he coyly informed us that he'd just told his mother and sister that he had paid for sex with a Czech prostitute. And that Anthony had also. Bob's mother and Anthony's mother were firm friends, so Anthony was a trifle peeved.
After drinking games and the exchange of tales of sexual adventure, we decided to rock out with our cocks out. Well, go out. Penises remained well within the confines of our boxer shorts. And jeans. For the Harbury Boys anyway... We had heard fable of a club on an island called Kamikaze. The chat was that you paid about 13 squids and then could drink all your ever-increasing stomach could induce. It was true as eggs is eggs.
It was a cool club, full of youth and verve and spunk and energy and alcohol. The barman was trained in the art of mixing and pouring quickly and loosely. At times your double Jack was potent, at other times it was a mere cola. After a shiteload of boogie and banter, Monty and I were ready for bed, leaving Walska with our two new friends. After copious attempts at coitus, we lost them and Doug joined us. We got a Macdonalds. Doug walked back and Mont and I grabbed a train - makes us sound lucid - back to the hostel. When we arrived, Doug had just finished a beer. 'Twas bedtime.
The morning brought some interesting chat with Anthony and Bob, predominantly on the subject of them both getting laid last night. Bob was kindly invited back to an girls abode where they enjoyed the kind of intimacy a young traveller can only dream of. He waited until she fell asleep and then scarpered back to the hostel. Anthony - the quieter of the two - did things up an alley that I do not care to expand upon. NB I have resisted the temptation to indulge in a 'back alley' inuendo.
The next day stank of a Krakow Sunday repeat. We awoke late and got a pizza in the arse-end of Prague. Doug, upon whom the choice of culinary destination sat with, insisted it was an OK area by gesturing to any stretch of grass or cluster of trees and saying "See, that's nice". A beer was had. Doug went to a gym. Another few beers were had. Deja vu...
We returned to the hostel and, upon seeing Donald, decided to get a few rounds in. A very hungover public school duo ambled by but were persuaded by yours (collectively) truly to join us for a pint. So, Walshe, Monty, Gerald, Anthony and Bob began again. And a Canadian dude, who saw us watching a Mike Tyson documentary and got interested. We drank, bantered and debated. I was under the illusion that I possessed a shitload of boxing knowledge. Thanks to those lazy Saturdays on the Fitzgerald sofa, half-listenining to nuggets of sporting trivia that so easily spill from my father's mouth, I got away with it.
The six of us hit town and came upon a very large bar. It was cavernous and seemed the ideal place to lose each other. We danced with locals - mainly chaps - and Bob displayed his well toned ("skag-ripped") stomach to anything with a ponytail and a pulse. Mont and I waned admirably early and left the other four to really enjoy themselves - "there's the bowling alley, there's the hostel" - in the form of chatting up the cleaning staff. It actually culminated in them spraying the devious foursome with hoses and Walshe spitting on their arm. They deserved it.
They left the bar, having had no luck pulling a handful of 40-year-old Czech cleaners, and made their way to the red light district. Unbelieveably, Doug managed to lose about 45 quid in the red light district. He came away with nothing, except the image of one reluctant breast and a bag of leaves. I reckon he just dropped the money down a drain.
Prague's main square is sensational, full of cafes and bars and very reminiscet of the previous 5 capitals we've been to. But slightly more pricey. After a generous wander through the be-cobbled, mysterious streets, we decided that 1 quid for a pint back at the hostel seemed like a nice idea. No sign of Donald, but some Yank called Jeremy was more than happy to rack up some premium lagers for the three of us. We spotted a pair of pretty, wet-behind-the-ears gents, ruddy-faced and a beer in hand. Walshe swaggered over, introduced us and we joined them for beverages. They attended Cheltenham College. Leave it out.
As the evening went on we decided we loved them. Anthony and James were their names, but James opted for the public school nickname of 'Bob'. Anthony and Bob eulogised about various countries - most of which we were set to attend - with Bob making regular trips outside to receive phonecalls. On one return from outside he coyly informed us that he'd just told his mother and sister that he had paid for sex with a Czech prostitute. And that Anthony had also. Bob's mother and Anthony's mother were firm friends, so Anthony was a trifle peeved.
After drinking games and the exchange of tales of sexual adventure, we decided to rock out with our cocks out. Well, go out. Penises remained well within the confines of our boxer shorts. And jeans. For the Harbury Boys anyway... We had heard fable of a club on an island called Kamikaze. The chat was that you paid about 13 squids and then could drink all your ever-increasing stomach could induce. It was true as eggs is eggs.
It was a cool club, full of youth and verve and spunk and energy and alcohol. The barman was trained in the art of mixing and pouring quickly and loosely. At times your double Jack was potent, at other times it was a mere cola. After a shiteload of boogie and banter, Monty and I were ready for bed, leaving Walska with our two new friends. After copious attempts at coitus, we lost them and Doug joined us. We got a Macdonalds. Doug walked back and Mont and I grabbed a train - makes us sound lucid - back to the hostel. When we arrived, Doug had just finished a beer. 'Twas bedtime.
The morning brought some interesting chat with Anthony and Bob, predominantly on the subject of them both getting laid last night. Bob was kindly invited back to an girls abode where they enjoyed the kind of intimacy a young traveller can only dream of. He waited until she fell asleep and then scarpered back to the hostel. Anthony - the quieter of the two - did things up an alley that I do not care to expand upon. NB I have resisted the temptation to indulge in a 'back alley' inuendo.
The next day stank of a Krakow Sunday repeat. We awoke late and got a pizza in the arse-end of Prague. Doug, upon whom the choice of culinary destination sat with, insisted it was an OK area by gesturing to any stretch of grass or cluster of trees and saying "See, that's nice". A beer was had. Doug went to a gym. Another few beers were had. Deja vu...
We returned to the hostel and, upon seeing Donald, decided to get a few rounds in. A very hungover public school duo ambled by but were persuaded by yours (collectively) truly to join us for a pint. So, Walshe, Monty, Gerald, Anthony and Bob began again. And a Canadian dude, who saw us watching a Mike Tyson documentary and got interested. We drank, bantered and debated. I was under the illusion that I possessed a shitload of boxing knowledge. Thanks to those lazy Saturdays on the Fitzgerald sofa, half-listenining to nuggets of sporting trivia that so easily spill from my father's mouth, I got away with it.
The six of us hit town and came upon a very large bar. It was cavernous and seemed the ideal place to lose each other. We danced with locals - mainly chaps - and Bob displayed his well toned ("skag-ripped") stomach to anything with a ponytail and a pulse. Mont and I waned admirably early and left the other four to really enjoy themselves - "there's the bowling alley, there's the hostel" - in the form of chatting up the cleaning staff. It actually culminated in them spraying the devious foursome with hoses and Walshe spitting on their arm. They deserved it.
They left the bar, having had no luck pulling a handful of 40-year-old Czech cleaners, and made their way to the red light district. Unbelieveably, Doug managed to lose about 45 quid in the red light district. He came away with nothing, except the image of one reluctant breast and a bag of leaves. I reckon he just dropped the money down a drain.
Sweet Dreams Donald...
Hi. The inevitable has finally happened; Gerald has relinquished the keyboard for a few precious moments and allowed me, Monty, to do a bit. I shall endeavour to recreate his own inimitable style. For instance, the previous sentences took me three minutes to write. Good, eh?
So, blog. This one is about Prague. 'Sweet Dreams Donald' is something stupid and weirdly inappropriate Doug said within 30 seconds of meeting a grown man. For what it's worth, and contrary to what he may insist upon you in the future, i'm fairly sure Donald didn't really get Doug. Ok, so we left Krakow (at last, although that seems needlessly negative given we had a ruddy good time - it's just that I will forever associate that city with the bad thing, the card, the nosebleed and the bent and ridiculous glasses...) PARANTHESES. () and got on a bus bound for Prague.
Within half an hour we were gabbled at in Polish by a lovely man with a nice blue shirt. The gist was, 'get off my bus, and get on that one.' Ah. This hadn't been mentioned by the sour-faced wench in the Eurolines office but sod it. We got on another bus, a slightly more upmarket version of the previous one, and eventually set off in the direction of the Czech Republic. Home of Jan Koller, YEAAARRRR! Jack reliably informs me that Koller measures in at 202 centremetres, a whole 3 centremetres taller than Mike, a far lesser man than Koller, despite the Law School place. Jesus, give that a rest Mike, we get it. TANGENT. I like Mike. :)
Terrible writing, vague and meandering. The bus took 10 hours, which is really long. Like school, or work, but 2 hours longer, and with more snoring from Walska Dong (don't ask, don't tell). We got to Prague in the dead of night, with my broken clockface spinning out of control like an over-excited jitterbug. Gerald and Walshe had a McDonald's, for fu...
The hostel took forever to find. A couple of metro changes and accusatory glares from plain-clothes ticket inspectors (I'd read about it in the book, the teapot and the monkey shat it) and somehow we arrived at the Clown and Bard. Which is a hostel. And not a Shakespearean themed circus show. We checked in (a process overseen by Donald and a salivating, gushing Walska) and staggered up the 8 flights of stairs to 'the BIG dormitory' which was absolutey massive. Like a big ship. There are a few sights when walking into a room that make one blanche, but I challenge you, dear reader, to conjour in your mind a more startling image than 2 burly and vivacious Australian youths being straddled by 2 Swedish *ahem* girls on a self-made love nest in the middle of the floor, alongside a helpful supply of vodka bottles and laptops (excellent WiFi in the ship room). Cheeky scamps didn't even say 'hullo'. Rude.
We skirted around them and stood lamely in the middle of the room, we had no idea where to sleep, or whether the done thing was to sling your bag into a corner and get right involved. Or leave. Thankfully, our rescuer came in the shape of a will-o'-the-whisp Scottish girl called Jess. Jess was pretty drunk and wanted to go for more drinks. She looked affected, like a PoW survivor. Because of the orgy. We were knackered but she was a'ok, so we went back down the 8 flights of stairs to the bar, where Donald let us drink until 5am, despite being pawed and groped by a love-struck Walska. After some fairly bland chat ('I been here, O wow!, I done this, Did you!? I saw something, No!) Donald cracked out the guitar, lad. *Disclaimer* Donald is actually a cool guy, but Doug's infatuation with him made me not like him. *End of Disclaimer* Anyway, there we were, a rotten great stereotype, playing guitar in a hostel whilst 'travelling', the shame.
We went to bed. Jess had my hoodie on. Nah. I got it back, so no worries.
I can't be sure whether i'll be allowed to do this again. If not, it's been alright. Doug is learning Korean next to me, from a South African. I hope that this stirs the same emotions in you as it does in me.
So, blog. This one is about Prague. 'Sweet Dreams Donald' is something stupid and weirdly inappropriate Doug said within 30 seconds of meeting a grown man. For what it's worth, and contrary to what he may insist upon you in the future, i'm fairly sure Donald didn't really get Doug. Ok, so we left Krakow (at last, although that seems needlessly negative given we had a ruddy good time - it's just that I will forever associate that city with the bad thing, the card, the nosebleed and the bent and ridiculous glasses...) PARANTHESES. () and got on a bus bound for Prague.
Within half an hour we were gabbled at in Polish by a lovely man with a nice blue shirt. The gist was, 'get off my bus, and get on that one.' Ah. This hadn't been mentioned by the sour-faced wench in the Eurolines office but sod it. We got on another bus, a slightly more upmarket version of the previous one, and eventually set off in the direction of the Czech Republic. Home of Jan Koller, YEAAARRRR! Jack reliably informs me that Koller measures in at 202 centremetres, a whole 3 centremetres taller than Mike, a far lesser man than Koller, despite the Law School place. Jesus, give that a rest Mike, we get it. TANGENT. I like Mike. :)
Terrible writing, vague and meandering. The bus took 10 hours, which is really long. Like school, or work, but 2 hours longer, and with more snoring from Walska Dong (don't ask, don't tell). We got to Prague in the dead of night, with my broken clockface spinning out of control like an over-excited jitterbug. Gerald and Walshe had a McDonald's, for fu...
The hostel took forever to find. A couple of metro changes and accusatory glares from plain-clothes ticket inspectors (I'd read about it in the book, the teapot and the monkey shat it) and somehow we arrived at the Clown and Bard. Which is a hostel. And not a Shakespearean themed circus show. We checked in (a process overseen by Donald and a salivating, gushing Walska) and staggered up the 8 flights of stairs to 'the BIG dormitory' which was absolutey massive. Like a big ship. There are a few sights when walking into a room that make one blanche, but I challenge you, dear reader, to conjour in your mind a more startling image than 2 burly and vivacious Australian youths being straddled by 2 Swedish *ahem* girls on a self-made love nest in the middle of the floor, alongside a helpful supply of vodka bottles and laptops (excellent WiFi in the ship room). Cheeky scamps didn't even say 'hullo'. Rude.
We skirted around them and stood lamely in the middle of the room, we had no idea where to sleep, or whether the done thing was to sling your bag into a corner and get right involved. Or leave. Thankfully, our rescuer came in the shape of a will-o'-the-whisp Scottish girl called Jess. Jess was pretty drunk and wanted to go for more drinks. She looked affected, like a PoW survivor. Because of the orgy. We were knackered but she was a'ok, so we went back down the 8 flights of stairs to the bar, where Donald let us drink until 5am, despite being pawed and groped by a love-struck Walska. After some fairly bland chat ('I been here, O wow!, I done this, Did you!? I saw something, No!) Donald cracked out the guitar, lad. *Disclaimer* Donald is actually a cool guy, but Doug's infatuation with him made me not like him. *End of Disclaimer* Anyway, there we were, a rotten great stereotype, playing guitar in a hostel whilst 'travelling', the shame.
We went to bed. Jess had my hoodie on. Nah. I got it back, so no worries.
I can't be sure whether i'll be allowed to do this again. If not, it's been alright. Doug is learning Korean next to me, from a South African. I hope that this stirs the same emotions in you as it does in me.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
A Sobering Few Days At The Death Camp And The Salt Mine
The day after our double-header was somewhat of a non-event. Mike and I wrote the blog - the most rambunctious one to date - and we ate some nuggets and chips. We saw the castle on our wander and then all got struck by the hangover that we totally deserved. All in bed for a few hours - me paranoid about wetting the bed - and then back out for the play-offs. Mike had a naive beer, we all had Fanta. Back to the hostel for 2 films ('Intermission' and 'Monster's Ball') then beddy-byes.
The next day Mike left. Bye.
We also sorted loads out. Coach to Prague, hostels, day trips, all sorted mate. With another few days left in Krakow we decided to have a little wander and chill out. We saw the Dragon's Den and the castle again, then grabbed a Fanta on a docked boat/restaurant. Got our cook on - bolognaise - and Walshe went for a run. Got lost, sure. Monty and I watched the play-offs again then met Doug for a bit of poker and another film. 'The Long Kiss Goodnight'. Blaaady hilarious, and Aga watched it too. Bed.
Up at 9.30 for the trip to Auschwitz-Birkenau. Big day. At last we had done something of huge value on our trip. I'd been to a concentration camp before with the school, but it was nothing compared to the magnitude of this one. Spread across two camps - Auschwitz and Birkenau - we saw where the POW's slept, worked and died, as well as learned a hell of a lot about the history that I was unaware of previously. The second camp, Birkenau, was built because Auschwitz had got too full, and was predominantly used as a place of execution. The Nazi's destroyed the gas chambers before they were driven out, but their remains are preserved as a constant reminder. It is both haunting and compelling in equal measure.
We got back on the coach and left Doug chatting to a 60 year old American gentleman for the whole journey. Rich watched Garth Marenghi's Darkplace on his iPod and I looked out of the window for an hour and a half. Back by 7 and a spot of grub and we were ready to go and watch another football game. Doug stayed in the hostel with some Canadian girls. After the football Rich went to bed and Doug and I went out for a few drinks with the girls - Emily, Jen and Sarah. They played rugby and basketball. Fit. Sarah was off her face and needed constant propping up. For fu...
After a quiet few we watched YouTube for a bit and hit the hay, ready for a big day at the Salt Mines. This was probably the best thing we'd seen all trip. After a short mini-bus ride, a Cornetto and some persuading from Doug, we stumped up the 10 pounds entrance fee to the mines. Our tour guide was an amusing mix of Graham Allcock and Borat and was the only member of our 25-strong tour group to be given a hard hat. Cheers.
We descended 54 flights of stairs, which took ages. 'Twas worth it. We were taken through various caves of different sizes and shapes, all made purely from natural salt. You could lick the wall. There were some pretty bad waxworks and a few stuffed horses, representative of the type of work that was performed over the hundreds of years the mine had been in operation. The next bit was amazing: the chapel. These mines are home to the largest underground chapel in the world, carved completely from salt. Even the chandeliers are made of large salt crystals, lighting up the numerous carvings and the magnificent alter. It was constructed by three men over the course of 65 years, all working alone in shifts. Mental.
There is also a main hall which is enormous, home to a stage, bar and restaurant, all deep underground and made from salt. Concerts, weddings and other functions take place down here. It's awesome. We also indulged in the deepest beer we have ever consumed, 100 metres underground.
Back at the hostel we got our lash on with the hostel ladies again, this time with a few of their Polish friends. One of the guys was taking photos constantly so we called him Paparazzi. We also called him Napolean Dynamite. Because he looked like him. Eventually the guys left because the hostel girls kept talking to us in English, and we stayed up until 6am. That was Krakow. We managed to eek out some culture eventually dear readers. Next stop, Prague...
The next day Mike left. Bye.
We also sorted loads out. Coach to Prague, hostels, day trips, all sorted mate. With another few days left in Krakow we decided to have a little wander and chill out. We saw the Dragon's Den and the castle again, then grabbed a Fanta on a docked boat/restaurant. Got our cook on - bolognaise - and Walshe went for a run. Got lost, sure. Monty and I watched the play-offs again then met Doug for a bit of poker and another film. 'The Long Kiss Goodnight'. Blaaady hilarious, and Aga watched it too. Bed.
Up at 9.30 for the trip to Auschwitz-Birkenau. Big day. At last we had done something of huge value on our trip. I'd been to a concentration camp before with the school, but it was nothing compared to the magnitude of this one. Spread across two camps - Auschwitz and Birkenau - we saw where the POW's slept, worked and died, as well as learned a hell of a lot about the history that I was unaware of previously. The second camp, Birkenau, was built because Auschwitz had got too full, and was predominantly used as a place of execution. The Nazi's destroyed the gas chambers before they were driven out, but their remains are preserved as a constant reminder. It is both haunting and compelling in equal measure.
We got back on the coach and left Doug chatting to a 60 year old American gentleman for the whole journey. Rich watched Garth Marenghi's Darkplace on his iPod and I looked out of the window for an hour and a half. Back by 7 and a spot of grub and we were ready to go and watch another football game. Doug stayed in the hostel with some Canadian girls. After the football Rich went to bed and Doug and I went out for a few drinks with the girls - Emily, Jen and Sarah. They played rugby and basketball. Fit. Sarah was off her face and needed constant propping up. For fu...
After a quiet few we watched YouTube for a bit and hit the hay, ready for a big day at the Salt Mines. This was probably the best thing we'd seen all trip. After a short mini-bus ride, a Cornetto and some persuading from Doug, we stumped up the 10 pounds entrance fee to the mines. Our tour guide was an amusing mix of Graham Allcock and Borat and was the only member of our 25-strong tour group to be given a hard hat. Cheers.
We descended 54 flights of stairs, which took ages. 'Twas worth it. We were taken through various caves of different sizes and shapes, all made purely from natural salt. You could lick the wall. There were some pretty bad waxworks and a few stuffed horses, representative of the type of work that was performed over the hundreds of years the mine had been in operation. The next bit was amazing: the chapel. These mines are home to the largest underground chapel in the world, carved completely from salt. Even the chandeliers are made of large salt crystals, lighting up the numerous carvings and the magnificent alter. It was constructed by three men over the course of 65 years, all working alone in shifts. Mental.
There is also a main hall which is enormous, home to a stage, bar and restaurant, all deep underground and made from salt. Concerts, weddings and other functions take place down here. It's awesome. We also indulged in the deepest beer we have ever consumed, 100 metres underground.
Back at the hostel we got our lash on with the hostel ladies again, this time with a few of their Polish friends. One of the guys was taking photos constantly so we called him Paparazzi. We also called him Napolean Dynamite. Because he looked like him. Eventually the guys left because the hostel girls kept talking to us in English, and we stayed up until 6am. That was Krakow. We managed to eek out some culture eventually dear readers. Next stop, Prague...
Blood Has Been Shed On These Streets
After a cold shower and some tea with no milk - the only milk in the fridge smelled like Blafus - we checked out and made our way to the train station. Luckily, Armitage has a built in GPS system so we got there without too much trouble. We got on the next available train to Krakow and took up lodgings in a carriage with a fit lady and a man. The man left shortly afterwards, because of us I'd wager, and the lady did not. It turned out that it was a 5 hour train, despite the fact that we were under the impression it was to be a quick'un. Nevermind. We played word games, read books, listened to iPods. This isn't interesting, sorry.
We grabbed a Mexican at Krakow train station, along with a Desperados with a Fanta chaser, and then made our way to the hostel. Hocus Pocus Hostel. The staff were intriguingly attractive and the hostel itself was pretty sweet. Naturally we headed out, discovering a much more commercial city centre than we'd been to before, and found ourselves yet another square full of bars and cafes. A few amazing local lagers later and we decided to find a club - our first since Latvia...
The emblazoned monicker 'RDZA' astride a small doorway could not conjure even the vaguest idea of the establishment that lurked below. We descended some steps into a cellar with several rooms, all lit astonishingly appropriately, home to tables and a dance floor. We grabbed some drinks and then explored every nook and cranny of this excellent club. Monty pulled a fabulous individual - sultry and brunette and all that jazz - and then we met some Scottish lads. Oh, those lads.
A stag-do, of course, pushing forty and pretty pissed. For some reason they thought the absolute world of us and spent hours sharing stories of crime and misdemeanor and how much the loved their wives and kids, despite all the adultery. I befriended one chap, bald as a coot with eyes that could cut glass. If Begbie had a slightly more unhinged brother then I think I became his friend in Krakow. Meanwhile, Monty and Armitage were getting to know the stag of the group, intent on giving them jobs in Glasgow if ever they needed them. I also met a cockney chappy who played left-back for AFC Wimbledon. After a brief chat he was scared away by the jealous presence of my Scotch mentor. Doug was too busy having a 'chicken scratch scrum' and womanising to make friends with these dangerous men.
We eventually shook them off and got back to the hostel, staying up till all hours chatting with the hostel ladies. Doug whispered to me to "fuck off" - meaning that he was going to make a move - so I left him with the brunette, Aga at reception. Within 5 minutes he had given up and made his way to bed. I stayed up til 6am chatting to Aga instead.
The next day was a shocker. We awoke drunk and aching to see Man Utd play again. Straight to the Irish bar and a few Desperados later - and yet another victory for United - we were ready for a stroll. Monty and I spotted a walking beer up ahead, about 5 foot 4 inches tall and handing out flyers. After a quick photo he asked Monty for his shoes - Monty declined - and then went on his way. We sat in the square and grabbed a few more local ales, deciding that a few phone calls to our loved ones would go down a treat. I rang Flora (Canadian we met in Latvia) and Staff, Walshe called Nannfeldt, Mike Linforth and Benny. Credit.
We found a lovely, peaceful cafe down a side street and decided to fuck with the ambience. After a few slammers with an amazing barmaid we noticed Monty wasn't with us. He'd been in the loo for a while so we decided to investigate. We were presented with an horrifying image, reminiscent of Tim Roth in the back of that car in Reservoir Dogs. Blood. His blood. Blood. Crimson, copper-tasting blood all over the floor and basin. And Monty's face and hands and hair. He'd had the mother of all nosebleeds, and it just wasn't stopping. After a full 20 minutes of panic and mopping, it eventually stopped. It was also time to leave the cafe.
A Polish guy took us to a bar and we ordered some booze. We didn't have any money so Mike had to nip to a cash point. Me and Walshe were asleep when Mike returned so we thought we should call it a night. It was half 11ish. We ended up staying up untill half 12 with Ela, the blonde hostel lady and then got our fuzzy, stupid, inebriated heads down. Sorry Mum. Sorry Dad.
We grabbed a Mexican at Krakow train station, along with a Desperados with a Fanta chaser, and then made our way to the hostel. Hocus Pocus Hostel. The staff were intriguingly attractive and the hostel itself was pretty sweet. Naturally we headed out, discovering a much more commercial city centre than we'd been to before, and found ourselves yet another square full of bars and cafes. A few amazing local lagers later and we decided to find a club - our first since Latvia...
The emblazoned monicker 'RDZA' astride a small doorway could not conjure even the vaguest idea of the establishment that lurked below. We descended some steps into a cellar with several rooms, all lit astonishingly appropriately, home to tables and a dance floor. We grabbed some drinks and then explored every nook and cranny of this excellent club. Monty pulled a fabulous individual - sultry and brunette and all that jazz - and then we met some Scottish lads. Oh, those lads.
A stag-do, of course, pushing forty and pretty pissed. For some reason they thought the absolute world of us and spent hours sharing stories of crime and misdemeanor and how much the loved their wives and kids, despite all the adultery. I befriended one chap, bald as a coot with eyes that could cut glass. If Begbie had a slightly more unhinged brother then I think I became his friend in Krakow. Meanwhile, Monty and Armitage were getting to know the stag of the group, intent on giving them jobs in Glasgow if ever they needed them. I also met a cockney chappy who played left-back for AFC Wimbledon. After a brief chat he was scared away by the jealous presence of my Scotch mentor. Doug was too busy having a 'chicken scratch scrum' and womanising to make friends with these dangerous men.
We eventually shook them off and got back to the hostel, staying up till all hours chatting with the hostel ladies. Doug whispered to me to "fuck off" - meaning that he was going to make a move - so I left him with the brunette, Aga at reception. Within 5 minutes he had given up and made his way to bed. I stayed up til 6am chatting to Aga instead.
The next day was a shocker. We awoke drunk and aching to see Man Utd play again. Straight to the Irish bar and a few Desperados later - and yet another victory for United - we were ready for a stroll. Monty and I spotted a walking beer up ahead, about 5 foot 4 inches tall and handing out flyers. After a quick photo he asked Monty for his shoes - Monty declined - and then went on his way. We sat in the square and grabbed a few more local ales, deciding that a few phone calls to our loved ones would go down a treat. I rang Flora (Canadian we met in Latvia) and Staff, Walshe called Nannfeldt, Mike Linforth and Benny. Credit.
We found a lovely, peaceful cafe down a side street and decided to fuck with the ambience. After a few slammers with an amazing barmaid we noticed Monty wasn't with us. He'd been in the loo for a while so we decided to investigate. We were presented with an horrifying image, reminiscent of Tim Roth in the back of that car in Reservoir Dogs. Blood. His blood. Blood. Crimson, copper-tasting blood all over the floor and basin. And Monty's face and hands and hair. He'd had the mother of all nosebleeds, and it just wasn't stopping. After a full 20 minutes of panic and mopping, it eventually stopped. It was also time to leave the cafe.
A Polish guy took us to a bar and we ordered some booze. We didn't have any money so Mike had to nip to a cash point. Me and Walshe were asleep when Mike returned so we thought we should call it a night. It was half 11ish. We ended up staying up untill half 12 with Ela, the blonde hostel lady and then got our fuzzy, stupid, inebriated heads down. Sorry Mum. Sorry Dad.
One Perfect Night In Warsaw
After a tempestuous coach ride from Vilnius - mainly thanks to a group of loud Lithuanians on the cusp of puberty - we arrived in Warsaw at 7am, exhausted. Our hostel was called Oki Doki Hostel. Now we just had to find it...
We found it, obviously, having taken a tram more akin to an Alton Towers ride, and rocked up a few flights of stairs, yearning for some sleep. The receptionist - whom we awoke from a deep slumber - notified us that check-in was not until 3pm. That was in 8 hours. After lounging on the hostel sofa and generally making the place look untidy for a bit, the receptionist told us we could go to our rooms. Cahman! We then slept for 5 hours.
We had a wander towards Old Town, the Sun beating down and the architecture a sight to behold. We came across a festival of culture in the centre where a band was playing and some anti-racism artwork was displayed. We were having a great day. We later traversed some cobbled streets, saw the castle and happened upon the most beautiful square in the world. Loads of cafes and bars, surrounded by 5 and 6 story buildings. It stank of a Bond location. We had a beer or two and Walshe went off to buy some Levi's. Of course he did.
On arrival back at the hostel we were presented with a sign informing us that it was happy hour at the bar. Yes please, four. We ordered 2 enormous pizzas and carried on drinking until it was time to explore the city's nightlife. After getting lost, returning to the hostel and then going out again we ended up at a lovely little place called Surf Bar. It turned out to be the venue for an 18th birthday party :) we blagged the bar staff that we knew the birthday girl and were so allowed to stay and enjoy, consuming party food, free champagne and a few ill-advised tequila slammers. We made a few friends, including a chunky Polish chap who loved Skins, and had a ruddy good time.
Things, inevitably, turned sour. Walshe bought a young lady a drink and was then shunned. Bad etiquette on her part. As she sat down to consume said beverage he casually withdrew the chair, causing her to fall back and spill said beverage. The bouncer took Walshe by the ear and escorted him out. Just after this incident the chunky Polish chap decided it wise to half-inch some whiskey from behind the bar. Unfortunately this is stealing and so he was reprimanded in a back room by several bouncers. We, heroically, tried to save him but were presented with a 200 zlote (sp?) re-entrance fee - about 50 quid - which we declined. He came out shortly afterwards, wheezing slightly but ok. Then we went home to Oki Doki. Tomorrow was Krakow time...
We found it, obviously, having taken a tram more akin to an Alton Towers ride, and rocked up a few flights of stairs, yearning for some sleep. The receptionist - whom we awoke from a deep slumber - notified us that check-in was not until 3pm. That was in 8 hours. After lounging on the hostel sofa and generally making the place look untidy for a bit, the receptionist told us we could go to our rooms. Cahman! We then slept for 5 hours.
We had a wander towards Old Town, the Sun beating down and the architecture a sight to behold. We came across a festival of culture in the centre where a band was playing and some anti-racism artwork was displayed. We were having a great day. We later traversed some cobbled streets, saw the castle and happened upon the most beautiful square in the world. Loads of cafes and bars, surrounded by 5 and 6 story buildings. It stank of a Bond location. We had a beer or two and Walshe went off to buy some Levi's. Of course he did.
On arrival back at the hostel we were presented with a sign informing us that it was happy hour at the bar. Yes please, four. We ordered 2 enormous pizzas and carried on drinking until it was time to explore the city's nightlife. After getting lost, returning to the hostel and then going out again we ended up at a lovely little place called Surf Bar. It turned out to be the venue for an 18th birthday party :) we blagged the bar staff that we knew the birthday girl and were so allowed to stay and enjoy, consuming party food, free champagne and a few ill-advised tequila slammers. We made a few friends, including a chunky Polish chap who loved Skins, and had a ruddy good time.
Things, inevitably, turned sour. Walshe bought a young lady a drink and was then shunned. Bad etiquette on her part. As she sat down to consume said beverage he casually withdrew the chair, causing her to fall back and spill said beverage. The bouncer took Walshe by the ear and escorted him out. Just after this incident the chunky Polish chap decided it wise to half-inch some whiskey from behind the bar. Unfortunately this is stealing and so he was reprimanded in a back room by several bouncers. We, heroically, tried to save him but were presented with a 200 zlote (sp?) re-entrance fee - about 50 quid - which we declined. He came out shortly afterwards, wheezing slightly but ok. Then we went home to Oki Doki. Tomorrow was Krakow time...
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Fuck Off Blafus
It was pissing it down. Again. After a 4 hour bus journey we rocked up in a very damp Vilnius. Our first CouchSurfing experience - with a wacky Lithuanian called Teresa - was in store and we were trepidatious to say the least. Teresa and I had been in cahoots previously so I vaguely knew what to expect. I were wrong.
After wandering around the Old Town for no apparent reason I plucked up the balls to call her and find out where we were staying. A fruitless phone call was ended with her saying "I SMS you". Sure. *Gerald's having a sip of his tea so i'll write this bit* We decided against Teresa's advice to get several farcically complicated buses to her 'house' and instead got the most overpriced taxi since that one what Tom Cruise got in 'Collateral'. We pulled up outside a block of flats more suiting Fyodor Dostoevsky (born 1821, died 1881) than the little lost boys, and climbed into the greyest of grey grey greyness. *He's finished the longest sip of tea ever. He's back*
Hi. The coming paragraph may be the toughest, most arduous piece of writing I will ever have to endure. Nothing is exaggerated and all profanities are entirely justified. You weren't there man, you weren't there...
I rang the doorbell tentatively, palms sweating and a bit of wee leaking down my trembling thighs. The others stood behind me, for shelter from the inevitable. Shhh, I hear something scrabbling behind the door. The handle turned. As the door opened my navel was wrenched from this mortal coil by a stench so bad it permeated every happy memory and dream I ever wished to hold on to. It smelt really fucking bad. It seeped into our skin, covering us in a film of detritus, so repugnant that breathing became something of an ordeal. It was thick, and stale, and like a mass grave of rotting, mutating canines. It was a dog. Called Blafus.
He was pleased to see us, unfortunately, demonstrative by his relentlessly gushing urine and his need to jump up and sniff us. How he could smell anything other than his own hell-scent was beyond me, but he didn't half try. He wasn't alone in the apartment of course, being held back by a blonde with a face reminescent of someone who'd swallowed a magnet and then feasted on utensils. The kind of girl Ben Hughes would drive to Wolverhampton for. This was Juste, Teresa's roomie. Teresa showed us her room, where we would all be staying, and then went to tidy the flat with Juste, leaving Blafus to bully us for 20 minutes or so. Doug managed to get him all riled up and he bit everyone a bit. Eventually we confined ourselves to a small balcony - the one safe haven of the flat; fresh air and no Blafus - with a door and window, Blafus eager and unrelenting on the other side of the glass. And Doug knocked over a dildo. Who leaves a dildo out? Teresa does.
The girls were ready to go out a while later, so we headed into town. Fresh air never tasted so good. Vilnius was cool, but not quite up to the standards of previous cities. The rain didn't help either. We went to a massive rustic restaurant, with a real live tree in the middle, serving traditional cuisine - and massive beers - and filled up on meat, potato and yeast. Man U were on so we found a place to watch the game and drink until the prospect of returning to The Seventh Circle of Hell, ruled by the Dark Lord Blafus, became possible.
United won and it was time for a local bar, off the beaten track and frequented only by locals. It was dark, subterranean, full of car seats and trinkets. The barman was relaxed and the booze was dirt cheap. We got to know the girls we were to be staying with and also chatted to other locals, with Doug chopping some wood with an axe to keep the central fire burning well into the early hours. There was no bell to signify last orders. 'Twas a real late'un.
We awoke late on a carpet that smelled so bad you could tatse Blafus. One could only imagine what he had been up to while we were out, scheming and plotting and fouling and chewing. Lo and behold Walshe found his book - the cinematographer's Bible - torn and bruised and upset and wishing Doug had put it in his bag and done up the zip. No sign of Blafus so we crept out, hungover, to scavenge for food. We happened upon a wonderful place, that smelled nice, called Pizza Jazz. We were seated in a restaurant that was designed like a Boeing 747, with staff dressed as air stewards. Cool. I ordered a Large, condemned by the others, and they ordered Regular. The Regular was a Small. I win.
We swaggered, sweating, into central Vilnius and climbed a hill with a tower at it's peak. Doug did a handstand in a window arch and was chastised by a sour-faced official. Enough culture for one day, lets go to the movies. Doug and I watched 'X-Men Origins - Wolverine' and Mike and Monty watched 'I Love You, Man'. 6 out of 10 respectively, but at least we weren't breathing in Blafus.
We popped back to see the girls, with the intention of getting the fuck outta there ASAP. Juste wanted to join us at the footy so we waited. We waited some more. We fended off Blafus. We waited some more. After a good hour we were out, already missing the first half and inhaling Blafus. And it was raining cats and dogs. At least they didn't smell like Blafus.
After an hilarious game - INIESTA!!! - we stopped off for some pool in a karaoke bar and then returned once more to the cool, subterranean bar. Freak Bar was it's name. Pretty much same again, but this time with more locals and a less booze. And far less sleep. The place just does not close.
When we awoke once more we just did one. No sign of Blafus, Juste or Teresa. But boy did it stink. We simply had to leave. Didn't even leave a note. We dropped our bags off at the bus station and spent a lovely day in Vilnius and its clean, pleasant, breathable oxygen. Monty and Arms went to the genocide museum, for a laugh, while Walshe and I got fed and watered. We had a quick stroll around a cool, self-contained community of Trinity-esque people - artists, theorists, drunks - with their own Constitution, then had another pizza and did a big old quiz. Next was an epic bus ride to Warsaw...
After wandering around the Old Town for no apparent reason I plucked up the balls to call her and find out where we were staying. A fruitless phone call was ended with her saying "I SMS you". Sure. *Gerald's having a sip of his tea so i'll write this bit* We decided against Teresa's advice to get several farcically complicated buses to her 'house' and instead got the most overpriced taxi since that one what Tom Cruise got in 'Collateral'. We pulled up outside a block of flats more suiting Fyodor Dostoevsky (born 1821, died 1881) than the little lost boys, and climbed into the greyest of grey grey greyness. *He's finished the longest sip of tea ever. He's back*
Hi. The coming paragraph may be the toughest, most arduous piece of writing I will ever have to endure. Nothing is exaggerated and all profanities are entirely justified. You weren't there man, you weren't there...
I rang the doorbell tentatively, palms sweating and a bit of wee leaking down my trembling thighs. The others stood behind me, for shelter from the inevitable. Shhh, I hear something scrabbling behind the door. The handle turned. As the door opened my navel was wrenched from this mortal coil by a stench so bad it permeated every happy memory and dream I ever wished to hold on to. It smelt really fucking bad. It seeped into our skin, covering us in a film of detritus, so repugnant that breathing became something of an ordeal. It was thick, and stale, and like a mass grave of rotting, mutating canines. It was a dog. Called Blafus.
He was pleased to see us, unfortunately, demonstrative by his relentlessly gushing urine and his need to jump up and sniff us. How he could smell anything other than his own hell-scent was beyond me, but he didn't half try. He wasn't alone in the apartment of course, being held back by a blonde with a face reminescent of someone who'd swallowed a magnet and then feasted on utensils. The kind of girl Ben Hughes would drive to Wolverhampton for. This was Juste, Teresa's roomie. Teresa showed us her room, where we would all be staying, and then went to tidy the flat with Juste, leaving Blafus to bully us for 20 minutes or so. Doug managed to get him all riled up and he bit everyone a bit. Eventually we confined ourselves to a small balcony - the one safe haven of the flat; fresh air and no Blafus - with a door and window, Blafus eager and unrelenting on the other side of the glass. And Doug knocked over a dildo. Who leaves a dildo out? Teresa does.
The girls were ready to go out a while later, so we headed into town. Fresh air never tasted so good. Vilnius was cool, but not quite up to the standards of previous cities. The rain didn't help either. We went to a massive rustic restaurant, with a real live tree in the middle, serving traditional cuisine - and massive beers - and filled up on meat, potato and yeast. Man U were on so we found a place to watch the game and drink until the prospect of returning to The Seventh Circle of Hell, ruled by the Dark Lord Blafus, became possible.
United won and it was time for a local bar, off the beaten track and frequented only by locals. It was dark, subterranean, full of car seats and trinkets. The barman was relaxed and the booze was dirt cheap. We got to know the girls we were to be staying with and also chatted to other locals, with Doug chopping some wood with an axe to keep the central fire burning well into the early hours. There was no bell to signify last orders. 'Twas a real late'un.
We awoke late on a carpet that smelled so bad you could tatse Blafus. One could only imagine what he had been up to while we were out, scheming and plotting and fouling and chewing. Lo and behold Walshe found his book - the cinematographer's Bible - torn and bruised and upset and wishing Doug had put it in his bag and done up the zip. No sign of Blafus so we crept out, hungover, to scavenge for food. We happened upon a wonderful place, that smelled nice, called Pizza Jazz. We were seated in a restaurant that was designed like a Boeing 747, with staff dressed as air stewards. Cool. I ordered a Large, condemned by the others, and they ordered Regular. The Regular was a Small. I win.
We swaggered, sweating, into central Vilnius and climbed a hill with a tower at it's peak. Doug did a handstand in a window arch and was chastised by a sour-faced official. Enough culture for one day, lets go to the movies. Doug and I watched 'X-Men Origins - Wolverine' and Mike and Monty watched 'I Love You, Man'. 6 out of 10 respectively, but at least we weren't breathing in Blafus.
We popped back to see the girls, with the intention of getting the fuck outta there ASAP. Juste wanted to join us at the footy so we waited. We waited some more. We fended off Blafus. We waited some more. After a good hour we were out, already missing the first half and inhaling Blafus. And it was raining cats and dogs. At least they didn't smell like Blafus.
After an hilarious game - INIESTA!!! - we stopped off for some pool in a karaoke bar and then returned once more to the cool, subterranean bar. Freak Bar was it's name. Pretty much same again, but this time with more locals and a less booze. And far less sleep. The place just does not close.
When we awoke once more we just did one. No sign of Blafus, Juste or Teresa. But boy did it stink. We simply had to leave. Didn't even leave a note. We dropped our bags off at the bus station and spent a lovely day in Vilnius and its clean, pleasant, breathable oxygen. Monty and Arms went to the genocide museum, for a laugh, while Walshe and I got fed and watered. We had a quick stroll around a cool, self-contained community of Trinity-esque people - artists, theorists, drunks - with their own Constitution, then had another pizza and did a big old quiz. Next was an epic bus ride to Warsaw...
Monday, 11 May 2009
Don't Shine That Torch In My Face Mate, I've Just Lost A Pint Of Blood
Blood has been shed on these streets. FYI we're in Krakow, but my avid readers need to be kept up to date with days gone by. Where were we? Ah yes, Riga....
After one 'eck of a journey from Tartu we arrived in Riga and went straight to our digs, which were fantastically appointed a sumptuous stones throw from the bus station. In Riga. The joint was aptly named Old Town Backpackers Hostel, which it was. It was. It was in the Old Town and backpackers didn't half stay there. We did.
Our first experience of Latvian cuisine was a lukewarm Chicken Tonight-esque culinary monstrosity presented with Fawlty-esque brusqueness. Esque. Monty couldn't finish his dish, so we did on his behalf.
We wandered aimlessly until we fell upon a massive outside bar with lager for one Lat. About a quid. Yes please, four. And then another four. Thanks. Michael and I queued for 20 minutes for one piss. Each. Scandalous. This is by the by however, as the main bit of night was yet to come, to whit, the invention of Double Jeopardy. A game, but no fun. You don't need the deets, all you need to know is that we got fucking hammered due to it.
We watched a live band - I loudly commented on the cellist's blazer - and then met a greasy dago by the name of Stefan. He took us to possibly the best bar/club on God's green Earth and Doug met a lady who he will never get over. More to come on this topic. Her name was Gunnar. They played five sets of tonsil tennis, including a tie-break, and eventually Walshe won. I, your faithful scribe, got chucked out for nodding off and then chucked out a further 4 times after sneaking back in.
On the walk home I was walking with the grace and gambol of a fledgling venison. A baby deer. Bambi, for instance. This is illegal in Latvia, if you're British, thus was arrested. I was popped into the back of van, received a short sharp jab to the kidney and was then forced to pay a 50 Lat fine. About 50 quid (1x50). Drat. Annoyingly I was nicked right outside the hostel, where they dropped me off into the comforting arms of Walshe. Those arms. Good night by all accounts.
The next day was a shocker. I awoke to an arrogant Irishman by the name of Steve, pontificating there. This, coupled with my lack of memory from the night before, rendered a happy morning for Gerald. It got worse. We had to change hostels, Steve also, so a walk notable only by it's brevity was taken to another one. The Naughty Squirrel. Boy, what a hostel.
I spent the next 7 hours asleep in the dorm with 2 Canadian lovelies while the other three endured a bustling spell of tourism. FYI we are no better than the stag parties we tell everyone we are not. Periodically the chaps would pop in and bellow "WAKE UP GERALD". The fourteenth time, I awoke. Walshe cooked bruschettas - made, of course, with local produce -much to the envy of the other guests, and we befriended said Canadian girls. Sandra, a sassy chick of Chinese extraction who worked in the finance department at EMI Records (of course I mentioned Clean Shirt) and Laura, a teacher teaching in Norwich. Random? Oh yes.
We had a stonking night - I was sober as a judge - frequenting underground bars with iffy disc jockeys and what can only be described as a cess pit of bad talent in a red light infested grief hole. Walshe, upon dancing with an elderly minger, was KB'd with the immortal line "You stink", but not before kneading her arse (apparently it had the consistency of bad custard).
I had an early night, leaving the others to boogie in Opium Bar. Laura had drunk "more than I ever have" - about 5 - and flopped into my bed for a cuddle. And no more. 'Twas bedtime. Mike and Walshe were at a different hostel, from which Doug made a pleading phonecall for the nocturnal affections of Sandra Ng. That was her surname. She, despite mulling it over for many minutes, declined and we all fell asleep. Alone.
The next day we went for a bike ride around Riga, marshalled by a flaxen-locked cockney by the name of James. It were good. We saw the old Jewish Ghetto and the Russian bit, stopping at the best bakery since Dan Hovis and Brian Kingsmill decided to flog some loaves.
Monty and I watched Reading vs Brum with a chap called Stumpy - he weren't half short - while the others kipped. That evening we met a chap called Alfie from Portsmouth, a blond, blue eyed Scandinavian-esque gent and a beautiful Australian couple bearing the monickers of Mark and Erin. And a fat, ugly, ungrateful, know-it-all, racist Yank. Called Kristen. Not the one from Bascote who ain't no friend of Jess's. Unbelieveably, Weighty (baps, sauna) swaggered in with her slice of German sausage - Dan - and feigned ignorance of our previous tete a tete. Bitch.
We, armed to the teeth with lager and new friends, set off on a great eve of drink and dance. We returned to the place I got thrown outta and marvelled at the wonderful "Riga Does Ragga" night. The frontman, a be-dreaded African arse, abused his position with a thinly veiled ploy to touch up all and sundry. Night. Text from Doug to Sandra: "I'm cold, do you want to share a bed?" Then another, minutes later: "Doug x". Genius.
The next day was beach day. We went to the beach. Majori - A touristy boulevard with a white sandy beach and water as cold as that place in Chile that ain't half chilly. We buried Doug, his lobster-esque head the only protrusion, then had a crap meal with offish service. While waiting for the train back to Riga we got insanely cold and came up with a brilliant sitcom, involving the walking cliche Danny Dyer. Got back, had a nice farewell drink with the Canadian birds and then headed out for a few with Alfie and a fireman from Stoke called Ben. Doug had been to a gym to flex his guns and chest and then made us wait outside a sushi bar while him and Mike went in to find Gunnar. She had told him that was her place of employment. She lied. So we grabbed a Macdonalds, downed a few bevvies and got an early night. Vilnius (and Blafus) was waiting for us....
After one 'eck of a journey from Tartu we arrived in Riga and went straight to our digs, which were fantastically appointed a sumptuous stones throw from the bus station. In Riga. The joint was aptly named Old Town Backpackers Hostel, which it was. It was. It was in the Old Town and backpackers didn't half stay there. We did.
Our first experience of Latvian cuisine was a lukewarm Chicken Tonight-esque culinary monstrosity presented with Fawlty-esque brusqueness. Esque. Monty couldn't finish his dish, so we did on his behalf.
We wandered aimlessly until we fell upon a massive outside bar with lager for one Lat. About a quid. Yes please, four. And then another four. Thanks. Michael and I queued for 20 minutes for one piss. Each. Scandalous. This is by the by however, as the main bit of night was yet to come, to whit, the invention of Double Jeopardy. A game, but no fun. You don't need the deets, all you need to know is that we got fucking hammered due to it.
We watched a live band - I loudly commented on the cellist's blazer - and then met a greasy dago by the name of Stefan. He took us to possibly the best bar/club on God's green Earth and Doug met a lady who he will never get over. More to come on this topic. Her name was Gunnar. They played five sets of tonsil tennis, including a tie-break, and eventually Walshe won. I, your faithful scribe, got chucked out for nodding off and then chucked out a further 4 times after sneaking back in.
On the walk home I was walking with the grace and gambol of a fledgling venison. A baby deer. Bambi, for instance. This is illegal in Latvia, if you're British, thus was arrested. I was popped into the back of van, received a short sharp jab to the kidney and was then forced to pay a 50 Lat fine. About 50 quid (1x50). Drat. Annoyingly I was nicked right outside the hostel, where they dropped me off into the comforting arms of Walshe. Those arms. Good night by all accounts.
The next day was a shocker. I awoke to an arrogant Irishman by the name of Steve, pontificating there. This, coupled with my lack of memory from the night before, rendered a happy morning for Gerald. It got worse. We had to change hostels, Steve also, so a walk notable only by it's brevity was taken to another one. The Naughty Squirrel. Boy, what a hostel.
I spent the next 7 hours asleep in the dorm with 2 Canadian lovelies while the other three endured a bustling spell of tourism. FYI we are no better than the stag parties we tell everyone we are not. Periodically the chaps would pop in and bellow "WAKE UP GERALD". The fourteenth time, I awoke. Walshe cooked bruschettas - made, of course, with local produce -much to the envy of the other guests, and we befriended said Canadian girls. Sandra, a sassy chick of Chinese extraction who worked in the finance department at EMI Records (of course I mentioned Clean Shirt) and Laura, a teacher teaching in Norwich. Random? Oh yes.
We had a stonking night - I was sober as a judge - frequenting underground bars with iffy disc jockeys and what can only be described as a cess pit of bad talent in a red light infested grief hole. Walshe, upon dancing with an elderly minger, was KB'd with the immortal line "You stink", but not before kneading her arse (apparently it had the consistency of bad custard).
I had an early night, leaving the others to boogie in Opium Bar. Laura had drunk "more than I ever have" - about 5 - and flopped into my bed for a cuddle. And no more. 'Twas bedtime. Mike and Walshe were at a different hostel, from which Doug made a pleading phonecall for the nocturnal affections of Sandra Ng. That was her surname. She, despite mulling it over for many minutes, declined and we all fell asleep. Alone.
The next day we went for a bike ride around Riga, marshalled by a flaxen-locked cockney by the name of James. It were good. We saw the old Jewish Ghetto and the Russian bit, stopping at the best bakery since Dan Hovis and Brian Kingsmill decided to flog some loaves.
Monty and I watched Reading vs Brum with a chap called Stumpy - he weren't half short - while the others kipped. That evening we met a chap called Alfie from Portsmouth, a blond, blue eyed Scandinavian-esque gent and a beautiful Australian couple bearing the monickers of Mark and Erin. And a fat, ugly, ungrateful, know-it-all, racist Yank. Called Kristen. Not the one from Bascote who ain't no friend of Jess's. Unbelieveably, Weighty (baps, sauna) swaggered in with her slice of German sausage - Dan - and feigned ignorance of our previous tete a tete. Bitch.
We, armed to the teeth with lager and new friends, set off on a great eve of drink and dance. We returned to the place I got thrown outta and marvelled at the wonderful "Riga Does Ragga" night. The frontman, a be-dreaded African arse, abused his position with a thinly veiled ploy to touch up all and sundry. Night. Text from Doug to Sandra: "I'm cold, do you want to share a bed?" Then another, minutes later: "Doug x". Genius.
The next day was beach day. We went to the beach. Majori - A touristy boulevard with a white sandy beach and water as cold as that place in Chile that ain't half chilly. We buried Doug, his lobster-esque head the only protrusion, then had a crap meal with offish service. While waiting for the train back to Riga we got insanely cold and came up with a brilliant sitcom, involving the walking cliche Danny Dyer. Got back, had a nice farewell drink with the Canadian birds and then headed out for a few with Alfie and a fireman from Stoke called Ben. Doug had been to a gym to flex his guns and chest and then made us wait outside a sushi bar while him and Mike went in to find Gunnar. She had told him that was her place of employment. She lied. So we grabbed a Macdonalds, downed a few bevvies and got an early night. Vilnius (and Blafus) was waiting for us....
Thursday, 7 May 2009
Bitemarks and Bloodstains
The centurion was a riproaring success. One terrific vom into the cafetiere and the seeds of a good night on the Tallinn tiles (well, cobbles) were sewn. The evening consisted mainly of talking to Lithuanian lesbians in denim jumpsuits and caps (Monty), falling out with and pushing an arrogant Italian (Gerald), being headlocked by an absolute unit from Germany (Walshe) and some massive fights in the street, with each other. Mike may have a hairline fracture beneath his epic bruise...
The hangover was good only for making us order enormous and unnecessary pizzas and, in Walshe's case, a lager which he promptly downed. We walked around in silly glasses and shorts, leering at what can only be described as the most attractive nation of women on the planet. To coin a phrase, "even the mingers are fit". We all 'got on it' in the evening - well I didnt, too hungover - and ended up in the most amazing club in the world: Club Hollywood. Walshe had major bird-eye and, to be honest, who could blame him? The aforementioned stunners from the streets flocked to this gaudy but ideal watering hole in their hundreds. No-one pulled but we did see a model in her particulars getting sprayed with water whilst gyrating on the bar. Yum. We got home at 6am.
Next day was Tartu time, so we got a short-ish bus to Tartu. In Estonia. Walshe slept the whole way. We did not. On arrival it struck us that no hostel had been booked, and all that we ventured into were fully booked. Drat. Fortunately we met the best receptionist in Europe who went far beyond the call of duty and made numerous phone calls to other hostels and B&B's on our behalf. We ended up in a beautifully quaint bed and breakfast with 70's wallpaper and the worst music television channel on Earth. We played poker into the small hours and then found out that our bus to Riga was at 6.30am, rendering a disgusting 5am wake up call. Dealt. Nonetheless, we got up and walked bleary-eyed to the bus depot. Walshe got a MacDonalds. The bus wasn't too bad and we made decent time, not even stopping for passport control on arrival in Latvia. A similar theme occurred with Doug asleep for the journey's entirety, leaving the rest of us slightly peeved. Nevertheless we arrived safely at midday in the Baltic metropolis: Riga.
The hangover was good only for making us order enormous and unnecessary pizzas and, in Walshe's case, a lager which he promptly downed. We walked around in silly glasses and shorts, leering at what can only be described as the most attractive nation of women on the planet. To coin a phrase, "even the mingers are fit". We all 'got on it' in the evening - well I didnt, too hungover - and ended up in the most amazing club in the world: Club Hollywood. Walshe had major bird-eye and, to be honest, who could blame him? The aforementioned stunners from the streets flocked to this gaudy but ideal watering hole in their hundreds. No-one pulled but we did see a model in her particulars getting sprayed with water whilst gyrating on the bar. Yum. We got home at 6am.
Next day was Tartu time, so we got a short-ish bus to Tartu. In Estonia. Walshe slept the whole way. We did not. On arrival it struck us that no hostel had been booked, and all that we ventured into were fully booked. Drat. Fortunately we met the best receptionist in Europe who went far beyond the call of duty and made numerous phone calls to other hostels and B&B's on our behalf. We ended up in a beautifully quaint bed and breakfast with 70's wallpaper and the worst music television channel on Earth. We played poker into the small hours and then found out that our bus to Riga was at 6.30am, rendering a disgusting 5am wake up call. Dealt. Nonetheless, we got up and walked bleary-eyed to the bus depot. Walshe got a MacDonalds. The bus wasn't too bad and we made decent time, not even stopping for passport control on arrival in Latvia. A similar theme occurred with Doug asleep for the journey's entirety, leaving the rest of us slightly peeved. Nevertheless we arrived safely at midday in the Baltic metropolis: Riga.
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