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....
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