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.