"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.