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.