Gordon Blue

We enjoyed Zagreb so much the first time around that we felt Beans needed to see it. In fairness it was actually the hostel that we enjoyed so much. In fact it was the insane fellas who ran the hostel that we thought Beans needed to see. So we went. To Zagreb. Again.

'Twas a 7 hour coach trip from Split to Zagreb. Croatia is a very long country. On one of our food/piss stops we were greeted at a service station by a group of Croat elders bellowing out what can only be described as a Communist folk song. We couldn't understand the lyrics of course, but that was the vibe we got.

After eventually arriving at Fulir Hostel, in Zagreb, we were settled in by the irrepressible Dabor. Although he didn't seem quite as chirpy and mischievous as he did on our last visit. This worried us. Turned out it was because he was drunk and was at work. Understandable. Give him his due, he gave us all a free beer and cracked out the vodka for himself. After sitting on a roof terrace and being informed of the day's Gay and Anti-Gay marches we went inside. Dabor closed the common room so we could have it to ourselves, along with his band of Croatian buddies. He and an affable ginger Canadian decided to dance for us. It got slightly out of hand and resembled a wrestle more than a waltz. Dabor ended the dance by jumping onto a very fragile table covered in beer bottles. Bed time for Dabor.

His friend - and Beans's main gay-scare of the holiday - Teem recommended we go to a club called Piranha, so we went. There. It was pricey but had a great atmosphere and played some good dance stuff. I don't normally like this sort of thing. But I did. Beans threw up by the DJ booth, so we left.

We were rather hungover the next day and couldn't find a pub that was showing the rugby, having trekked to at least 3 different 'recommended' establishments. After a kip and a spot of blog writing - turned out to be the last of the trip - we joined the hostel men to watch some Ultimate Fighting. After one round the Croatian fighter decimated the Brit. We kept schtum. We three, and an Irishman with a PhD - PhD Patrick - went out for drinks with the Croatian girl we met on our last visit. Unfortunately the cool rock club was empty and it was raining.

The next day another Irishman - with the enviable position of working at the hostel - Damien, took us to the Zagreb Music and Arts Festival. The music was shite, but the weather was nice and the company was pleasant. We played with a ball for a bit then went to get some food at a 24 hour eatery. I had the cordon bleau - or 'Gordon Blue' as the menu informed me - which was truly horrific. A taste sensation similar, I'd imagine, to deep fried rubber. The chips were OK though.

Our last night's sleep in Zagreb was marred not only by the heat, but by a bed so noisy that I might as well have been playing a CD of howler monkeys using megaphones, than just rolling over because my arm had pins and needles.

Ah well. Another day, another country.

Oooh, I've Split Me Difference

Now this may come as a shock, but the last blog was not the last bit of the trip. Oh no. We travelled to 9 more cities in 3 more countries. I am, of course, sitting in my room in Warwickshire, flitting through my travel notes and trying to rekindle the magic that seemed to drip off my mental tongue while abroad. What I'm really getting at is an apology. Well, 2 apologies actually:

1) Sorry the blog was not completed while I was away, and

2) Sorry the 'benefits' of hindsight are, in fact, detrimental

The blog's quality may begin to wane in comparison. Anyhow, I'll try my best to keep the tempo up. Maybe delete what I've just written....

Myself (Gerald), Monty and Beans were now without Doug. We would have to continue this journey alone. Together. So, a 5 hour coach trip to Split it was. On arrival it was apparent that the hostel was going to be a real bugger to find. After some searching and rowing (as in 'arguing', not 'using oars as a means of forward propulsion') we found it. CroParadise. The staff were friendly, sexy and helpful and the hostel itself was excellent. There was even a 32-inch plasma in each dorm, loaded with 1500 films to choose from. Good job there isn't a lot to see in Split.

After a brief wander we found the beautiful beach. The water stayed shallow for ages and the temperature was perfect. Some lads - all of whom were more toned and tanned than us - were playing a game involving a very small ball. It was much more than merely a game of catch. It was like keepy-ups with your hands, except the main purpose seemed to be to make it difficult for your teammates so they could do spectacular diving saves. It turns out that its a 'sport' invented and played almost exclusively on the Dalmatian coast. It goes by the name of Picigin.

After a lovely day of shoulder burning we got dressed up for a night on the Split tiles - they were actually well preserved and not, in any way, split - and headed out to the town. It wasn't that busy but we got a feel for where the cool people hung out. Tired, hot and sweaty we resigned ourselves to an early-ish night.

The course of the next few days was unspectacular, so as to avoid repetition and the inevitable dissinterest that will follow, I will sum up the Split leg of the tour in succinct, amusing tit-bits.

Every morning the cleaner woke us up between 7.30 and 8am, be it with noxious spray - once she sprayed me in the face with it - or by moving the VERY heavy lockers, for NO FUCKING REASON.

The hostel lady was showing 4 girls around. On opening the door to the bathroom they were greeted by a naked Tom Hughes, flossing his gooch and grinning. That door didn't lock.

We frequented a joint called Pizzeria Karaka - 3 visits to be exact - and befriended the Latvian waitress Ayla. Casual flirting ensued, her being just old enough to know we didn't mean it and just young enough for it not to appear patronising. Beans pissed on Monty's feet in the toilet.

We achieved 93 keepy-ups in succession during our own Picigin marathon. It transpired that we were in the sea so long that we burnt our shoulders.

One day we were so bored/hungover that we watched Hot Rod and The Wrestler on our massive TV.

We watched England destroy Andorra. Beans and Monty had a pathetic argument about Newcastle, Cov, The Championship and other things they couldn't articulate or comprehend.

We went to a club called O'Hara's and had an amazing night, ending in Beans asleep in a car parking space and Monty pulling Frank de Boer.

We saw the same old guy on the beach every day. His skin was like leather and his trunks were like gossamer. We named him Slobodan Miskovic, former Chief of Police. He also holds the current record for the best tan in the Adriatic.

We organised to go for a drink with some fit Aussie Sheila's. It didn't happen. Instead we all went to bed. An American guy's bunk collapsed, causing a Sheila to scream, and him - already on crutches - to sleep on the dorm floor.

Monty lost his key - and would lose his key deposit - so he left really early on his own.

That, my friends was Split.