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.