We're all going to die - but at least we're full

If it's not bovine, equine, avian or climate chang-ine; it's some other thing lurking around the corner. But I never thought that pigs would be the supreme rulers of the world once we have all died out, albeit ones sipping away on Lemsip.
London is the world's most visited city, being a hub between Europe, the America's and Africa. The damp weather and cramped conditions are the perfect breeding ground for an infleunza like bug, and well the Tube is basically a pietry dish. But it's not that I'm worried about. It's the meat.

The meat?

The shortage of meat. Experts say that animal infleunza based illnesses are the result of mass produced livestock. Say you placed 300 people in a tight space, forcing them to eat, sleep and relieve themselves with in centi metres of each other (ladies and gents - The Tube once more). It's not long before an infectious diseases rips through the masses. Well, that's what happens with our little piggy friends too. They start going - no more full English. And demand for meat in the UK is phenominal.

This is the land of what I call, the double meat. Why add two when you can have three?
I'm not complaining, but a country that has faced mad cow, signs of avian flu, and now swine - you'd think they'd learn to maybe eat a salad every second Wednesday - or at least one kind of meat in a sandwich.

The usual are prawn and chicken stirfrys; beef and turkey mince bolognaise; chicken and bacon sandwhich, or my favourite - at Christmas we get the Pret Christmas Bloomer: that's turkey, ham, stuffing, cranberry and bacon - on white. Double meat is everywhere! Triple even - chipoloata sausages are wrapped in bacon...and you only get them with a Sunday roast (chicken, pork or beef of course). No wonder the flu is being passed on to humans; there's fuck all animals left.

The UK also imports over 60% of its meat, which means that cows, pigs and Australians are their greatest immigrants, a fact I learnt when I went up to regional England - Liverpool - and saw none of any. And boy wasn't that an interesting trip! But it was not all gastronomic fantasia and Home office data collection, we also went to the football.

Worst case of advertise placement...ever!

Going to Merseyside (the river the stadium is near) to get to Anfield you pass some very derelict area – called Liverpool. Down town Liverpool is old, boarded up, and not very welcoming. But what does that matter to us – we were wearing the red of the Scouse and it was obvious who we were there to support. So it was with complete comfort that we went in to the nearest boozer – no windows, just slated boards and a bar in the back – and prepared ourselves for the Kop.

The Spion Kop (or Kop for short) is the name of the supported end of Anfield, named so due to their steep nature, resembling a hill near Ladysmith, South Africa that was the scene of the Battle of Spion Kop in the Second Boer War. The Kop is renowned for giving Liverpool a very good home advantage. Supporting in the Kop was interesting. The game kicked off after Liverpool’s home song – Walk On – and the next 90 minutes taught me words, I’d never heard, gestures I’d never seen and I think I caught swine flu from the seat.

Aye – what da fock was dat you fooking carnt. Imm going to fooking cut your fooking throooat.
Billy, 7 years old, directly behind me to the ref


But all this was simply preparation for walking back to the station with the aggression of a couple of thousand fans who had witnessed a 1-1 draw. Scooting our way back through the roped off, hazardous buildings and parks that you knew you are only one step away from standing on a Hep C needle, we got back for the 2 hour train ride to London.

At least returning from London on these little trips you get to stretch out on the train back before you have to deal with the tube. But I prefer to not think about that, and simply get stuck in to my pork, chicken and turkey ham sandwich.

Bart's Austro-Hungarian tour

The reason why there's been peace in Western Europe for over 60 years is Ryan Air. Cheap flights have allowed people to travel here, there and everywhere - immersing themselves in a variety of cultures. However, this cheap travel is about to end. But I don't think it will matter. London is so multicultural that you don't really have to leave your town to experience the world.

I bought my train ticket off an Indian, before getting my coffee from a Polish girl. Bumping into an American on my way down to the tube and standing next to a Japanese lady I cursed myself because I had left my Spanish homework in the kitchen. Coming in to work I sat down with my English, Scottish, Canadian, French and Irish colleagues, chated to a Kiwi opposite me, said hi to a Fin and Norwegian by the coffee machine, took phone calls from Portugal, Germany, Brazil and the US before sending an email to a Chinese journalist. Shared a bench with Saffa at the gym, had a pint pulled by a Canadian at my local while talking with my Aussie mates and got home to plan my trip to Slovakia...and that's where we begin our story.

In 1867 the Austro-Hungarian Empire stretched from Germany to Czechoslovakia, down through Austria and in to what is now Hungary. It was one of Europe’s richest areas; steeped in beauty, wealth and had some of the most intelligent, artistic and powerful people in the land. It only seemed fair that I travelled to it to show them what all these qualities looked like in a person.

Bart’s Austro-Hungarian Tour!!!!!

Once again I was a Fanatics tour guide: this time on the road. The plan was to take 47 punters from the Spires of Prague to the two cities separated by the Danube: Buda and Pest (or Budapest for you cartographers). On the way we’d wet our whistle in the beer halls of Munich at Oktoberfest, mark our respects at Dachua – the original concentration camp – and tour the beautiful city of Vienna. I’d then go on by myself to explore Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia. So off we go…

Prague , Czech Republic
skoro podvádění

If you’ve been keeping up, and you should as this will count for extra credit, I was only here three weeks earlier (http://barts-european-tour.blogspot.com/2008/11/i-now-pronounce-youstag-do-participants.html), so I tagged along for the walking tours pissing off the guide with my constant interjections, and took my little group to the bars of Prague at night. Things are a little different when you are a guide. People follow you everywhere. So rather than going to the bars that I like, I went to the tourist sites. When you are doing this, you do get to act like you are on a Griswald family vacation. Prague is famous for its Absynth; however, it is only usually the tourists that get in, well when in Rome...

Ordering a few, I sat in the corner with the a double shot, a lighter and tablespoon of sugar – slowly melting the concoction, stirring it in and tasting that familiar. I was careful not to have too much of the green fairy after the last time I consumed this beverage (which ended with me forgetting where I lived, chasing a waiter around a bar trying to steal the food he was serving to patrons, passing out in my lounge room and then eating butter from the container as it was the only thing in my fridge). But this time I was fine. All that happened was that one of the people on tour went missing, and when they came looking for me to help I could only reply from behind my closed door – ‘It’s okay, delivery is on Tuesday’. No idea.

Oktoberfest

Munich, Germany
Ich fickend Liebe oktoberfest. Das und küssend zufällige Küken in Zelten.

Like an ex- on a drunken night, I went back (http://barts-european-tour.blogspot.com/2006/09/oktoberfest-oh-mein-gott.htmlmein-gott.html). The difference being that I love Oktoberfest. Completely, wholly, unfalteringly, passionately, damn near obsessively love Oktoberfest. Everything about it. Huge quantities of beer, food, tradition, colour, laughter, smiles, music and shouting/singing. You talk with someone who doesn’t speak a word of English, but it’s the best conversation you’ve had in years. There are tens of thousands of people a day there, many very drunk, but no fights. I’m not sure if it’s the Bavarian style music, the fact that there are no additives in the beer or all the revelry, but no one really has much aggression. I would say there isn't much crime, but stein stealing is a great game. Oktoberfest beer mugs (1-litre-Steins, Masskrug in German) are made from heavy glass and typically have a decorative brewery logo on the side, thus making them very popular souvenirs among visitors. If you get one out of the beer halls you then have to deal with the security guards patrolling the park grounds. Once passed them you have to try to get out the gates with police there. Now here's the bit that amateurs fall for all the time. Once out of the grounds, many take their stein out of their hiding place - wrong move. About 300 metres from the exit along the bridge to Munich, plain clothes police wait and catch those that think they have got away. Apart from that merriment, the rest of the festival is about pure glutony. Just check these stats out:

Visitors: 6.2 million
Beer: appr. 6,940,600 litres (126,900 litres non-alcoholic) - who orders non-alcoholic beer????
Wine: 79,624 litres
Sparkling wine: 32,047 litres
Coffee, tea: 222,725 litres
Water, lemonade: 909,765 ½ litres
Chicken: 521,872 units
Pork sausages: 142,253 pairs
Fish: 38,650 kg
Pork knuckles: 58,446 units

Arriving in Munich in the mid-afternoon, it was straight in to the Lederhosen, wrist strapped up to support the steins, and in to the beers halls. Straight towards Hofbrahaus (tourist tent) where it was packed. Sitting 46 people is pretty much impossible, despite the tents getting 10,000 in - as the Germans had packed in work for the day and were in the tents themselves - so we spread out. Didn’t worry me, it was full steam ahead for the steins and pork knuckles.

What's German for inuendo?

The next day was in earlier (10am) and off to . The beers didn’t taste that great so I did try a little Bavarian treat of schnapps, moonshine and sherbet. Interesting.

Back to the beer. I decided to do wander around several beer halls, sampling each one. Each tent brews their very own beer, so imagine a Stella Tent, Fosters Tent, Kronenburg Tent, etc. Leaving that night, one of the punters had managed to steal me a stein from the Lowenbrau tent and gave it to me as a present. I was chuffed.

Leaving the belchy haze of Munich, it was off to Vienna, but via Dachua. The last concentration camp I went to was Auschwitz during a football trip to Poland, so I was still in that hungover state. For those that haven't been to a concentration camp, they have this eerie silence and a bit of a chill. I remember Poland, and while it was 30 odd degrees in Krackow, Birkenau felt like it was only 2 degreeshttp://barts-european-tour.blogspot.com/2006/09/football-trip-krakow-poland.html). Dachua was much the same. Once you pass the gate with the words Arbeit Macht Fret (work sets you free), which is on the gates of all concentration camps, no one says a word. Opened in March 1933, it was the first regular concentration camp established by the Nazis and served as a prototype and model for the other concentration camps that followed.

Vienna, Austria
Ist für lang aber eine unfassbare Stadt nicht geblieben

We didn't get in to Vienna until late, so it was only a few drinks in the hotel while we relaxed after a decent crack at the past few days. Vienna is an architectural marvel of a place, with stunning buildings, statues, parks and streets; however, we only had a few hours before we headed off to Budapest, so not a huge amount to tell you.

Budapest, Hungary
Hungarinan asszony – szexis bár fene

Now I didn't really enjoy Budapest last time I was there (http://barts-european-tour.blogspot.com/2007/11/budapest-hungary-not-worth-of-witty.html) but then again I did get food poisoning from eating horse so I thought I'd give it another try - Budapest - not the horse. In fact my next encounter with a horse was much more enjoyable. In the middle of Buda there is a statue that if you rub the horses..., shall we say, area - it grants you good luck. Before exams, students jump over the barrier and do it. Well, I needed a little luck so why not. In front of a crowd of tourists I popped on to the statue and gave those little equine plums a jolly good squeeze.

After exploring the palace of Buddha for the second time, it was down across the famous chain bridge and in to the Raday area - a street full of bars, restaurants and all manner of kooky places, including a personal favourite: Paris Texas. On one side of the bar is karaoke, on the other a DJ - it's like a screaming match with a stereo.

The next day while strolling around Pest I realised that I actually really enjoyed this city. I had made the mistake of coming here on a boys' trip - and it is really not that sort of place. It's a place to wander, to explore, to go to smaller clubs (not the larger ones) and to blend in. For those back home, it's a Melbourne vs a Brisbane. In fact on the closing night we ended up at a place called Mono, which had seperate little areas where you hide away from the crowd - it was awesome. Following a large night it was time to head to the Baths to warm up before we went our seperate ways.

The baths are split between outdoor and indoor, the hot pools (up to 42 degrees) and the cool ones outside, but unfortunately not male and female. You may think that a good thing...but when you go on a Thursday morning, there are no nubile young things bouncing around. Let me tell you, the only thing worse than an 85 year old woman getting a semi-nude massage is a 80 year old man getting a fully nude scrub down.

Leaving shortly after I had time to visit Statue Park before my train to Slovakia. Now, when the Communists pulled out of the Eastern Block many locals destroyed all the old war propoganda, statues and posters. I for one find these propaganda tools amazing - possibly explaining my choice in career - and was delighted when I heard that Hungary actually kept them, and moved them to Statue Park. Venturing out there in 2 degree, raining weather, I was astounded by their sheer size. I mean look at me next to them - I'm dwarfed - some of them must be at least 6 foot!!!! That's me standing at their base.Racing back to Keleti Station, another piece of 1960s Soviet Union transport pulled up to whisk me away to Slovakia; 3 hours North-West.

Bratislava, Slovakia
Ne ten najväčší priateľský ľudia

Slovakia and Bratislava are stunning. The old town streets, the castle on the hill and the crystal blue sky are all great attractions...but that's it. I could talk about the statues that are displayed around the town: there's a man in man hole, another taking a picture, a statue of Napolean leaning over a bench to listen to peoples' secrets (conveniently located outside the French Embassy - I told him where the Rainbow Warrier was docked); and the Schoner Nazi - yep you heard right - tipping his hat to strangers.

I should mention that Slovakia was part of Czechoslavkia until they split in to the Czech Republic and Slovakia (the smarter of you would have seen what those names are together...). There is a bitter jealousy between the two. One got the history, the supermodels and the excitement, the other got the goats.

And we're done. Borat should have said he was from here, seriously. Their tourist guide is hilarious. In the interesting facts section, the third fact down about the country is their divorce rate?? On page 10 under 'Bratislava - Info Update', under the subheading of 'Jogging Bratislava' the guide prints: "Every Thursday afternoon there will be a trainer at the Janko Kral Hay (jetty) to advise how to start jogging a pick up speed." I didn't know it was hard - just run faster!

Page 34 under 'Tourism', it starts with transport and then the next paragraph is nearly a page dedicated to the commercial sex trade with the line 'its connection with the tourism industry is complex'. It goes on further to tell me that it is illegal for hotel workers to arrange sex for you. Thanks - these are the things that Easyjet's in flight magazine just won't tell you, and golly gee I would have had egg on my face. But it least it was easy to find a club to go to. Ah well, at least they've given up the dark arts.

So after a week of highjinks, fun, sun and pork knuckles, it was time to return home to the UK and in to the winter. Little did I know at this stage, that I would not set foot out of the country for another two months, the winter would be come one of the coldest on record, and in a few weeks I would be celebrating the 4pm sunsets and -2 degree weather in the lead up to Christmas as a single man while everyone stayed at home and snuggled on the couch - it was going to be a boozy December!

I now pronounce you...stag do participants

So where, what, how, when and why have I been. These constant interruptions I keep having have been getting in my way. Unfortunately for you – my worshipping public – I have not really had the chance to waffle on, being too embroiled in work, travel and relationship to be able to look out at the wide world of the UK and realise once again, the hilarity that is presented to me. But no more! I will not let you down. The New Year brings with it a new commitment to my adoring public, but I'll need to pump out a couple of prequel blogs in 2009 to bring you up to speed.

First things first, for the second time I have chosen the UK over a perfectly healthy relationship. Unfortunately Alyssa’s visa ran out and she had to return to Australia. Pondering a possible return, I decided not to. Sitting here on a cold day after looking through photos of her in the sunny Sydney weather, I question the decision. As I look outside at the drizzle running the down the window, wake up alone and wish the heating had clicked on just the 15 minutes earlier and then push my face in to a random man’s armpit on the tube, I question why again.

Well – travel of course. That and I just got promoted, so I'll focusing on that.

However, one thing to be missed about living with your girlfriend is coming home to find your draws with this kind of organisation...Pre-break up, however, waiting for an answer on the visa, I was jaunting around Europe on boys’ trips. Football trip followed by two stag dos in quick succession meant Central, Eastern and Western Europe all got hit up. First up it was time to go to the capital of the Czech Republic, Prague!

Prague, Czech Republic
Oko šoustání velké město

What I can’t really tell you is what we did – what goes on footy trip, stays on footy trip. However, once the usual crowd of 30 football guys left, it was left to Worm and I to do the site seeing.

Prague is a stunning city. It has been named again and again as ‘The City of Cities’ and was the centre of Europe. The Bavarian kings (German) used to use Prague as there Summer capital. That bavarinan influence – which I love so much myself – is obvious.

Hoping on the back of a walking tour we visited some of the classic sites of Prague:

Old Town Square

Located between Wenceslas Square and the Charles Bridge, Prague's Old Town Square is an oasis for travelers wearied by Prague's narrow streets. Among many churches, there's the Astronomical Clock on this square, while the tower at the Old Town Hall offers a panoramic view of Old Town.

Charles Bridge

Its construction started in 1357 under the auspices of King Charles IV, and finished in the beginning of 15th century. As the only means of crossing the river Vltava (Moldau), the Charles Bridge used to be the most important connection between the Old Town, Prague Castle and adjacent areas until 1841. Also this 'solid-land' connection made Prague important as a trade route between east and west Europe. The bridge was originally called the Stone Bridge (Kamenný most) or the Prague Bridge (Pražský most) but has been the "Charles Bridge" since 1870.

The bridge is 516 meters long and nearly 10 meters wide, resting on 16 arches shielded by ice guards. It is protected by three bridge towers, two of them on the Lesser Quarter side and the third one on the Old Town side. The Old Town bridge tower is often considered to be one of the most astonishing civil gothic-style buildings in the world. The bridge is decorated by a continuous alley of 30 statues and statuaries, most of them baroque-style, erected around 1700.

But you'll probably remember it as the bridge that Jon Voight fell off in Mission Impossible.

Astronomical Clock

The Orloj is composed of three main components: the astronomical dial, representing the position of the Sun and Moon in the sky and displaying various astronomical details; "The Walk of the Apostles", a clockwork hourly show of figures of the Apostles and other moving sculptures; and a calendar dial with medallions representing the months. The clock is so complicated and stunning, that the designer had his eyes gouged out on its completition so that he could not replicate it!

The background represents the Earth and the local view of the sky. The blue circle directly in the center represents the Earth, and the upper blue is the portion of the sky which is above the horizon. The red and black areas indicate portions of the sky below the horizon. During the daytime, the sun sits over the blue part of the background and at night it sits over the black. During dawn or dusk, the mechanical sun is positioned over the red part of the background.

Written on the eastern (left) part of the horizon is aurora (dawn in Latin) and ortus (rising). On the western (right) part is occasus (sunset), and crepusculum (twilight).

Golden Roman numbers at the outer edge of blue circle are the timescale of a normal 24 hour day and indicate time in local Prague time, or Central European Time. Curved golden lines dividing the blue part of dial into 12 parts are marks for unequal hours. These hours are defined as 1/12 of the time between sunrise and sunset, and vary as the days grow longer or shorter during the year.

Inside the large black outer circle lies another movable circle marked with the signs of the zodiac which indicates the location of the sun on the ecliptic. The signs are shown in anticlockwise order. In the photographs accompanying this article, the sun is currently in Aries, and will be moving anticlockwise into Taurus next.
The displacement of the zodiac circle results from the use of a stereographic projection of the ecliptic plane using the North pole as the basis of the projection. This is commonly seen in astronomical clocks of the period.
The small golden star shows the position of the vernal equinox, and sidereal time can be read on the scale with golden Roman numerals.

Prague Castle and Cathedral

Prague Castle (Czech: Pražský hrad, former Austrian: Prager Burg) is a castle in Prague where the Czech kings, Holy Roman Emperors and presidents of Czechoslovakia and the Czech Republic have had their offices. The Czech Crown Jewels are kept here. Prague Castle is one of the biggest castles in the world (according to Guinness Book of Records the biggest ancient castle) at about 570 meters in length and an average of about 130 meters wide.

Bird watching (four nights in a row)

And Darth Vader (still not sure what the hell this actually is!!!)

Shuffling around the city that night we were fairly tired after a big long weekend and decided to have a few beers somewhere small. After bumping in to some Irish lads and lasses on the street we had one or two and headed home. Walking in the door at 5am it was time to head back to London.

On leaving Prague, we were reminded why this city had endeared itself to us....a place where beer is cheaper than water!

Edinburgh, Scotland

The next week was time for the Stag Dos. First off the rank – Doc’s Edinburgh epic. A nearly missed train, early celebrations and an apartment looking over the Royal Mile were some obvious highlights. Me trying to joust people with a mop and a cushion as a shield was not.

Monday morning was very difficult for me, and so was the following week leading up to Gary ‘Guns’ Gillgallon’s stag do in Estonia – smack right next to Russia. And don’t they remind you of it.

Tallin, Estonia
Uimastav naispere, uimastav linn

Estonia is great fun and the people are extremely friendly…if you’re not Russian. It’s the only place I've been to that has out and out xenophobia so much so that as you walk in to a club they ask you if you are Russian. If you say no, in you go. If you say yes, out you go, with a foot closely following. Asking a local, apparently it’s because the Ruskis take great pleasure in coming to the cheaper city of Tallin, boozing up and hitting people. We saw a little of it in Estonia, but it was ramapant in Prague. Of course, they spent most of their childhood eating concrete and trying not to be tortured, so who can blame them for bursting on to the world's beaches and bars in a tizzy of frills, Versace sunglasses and extraordinary tight pants.

Once again I nearly missed my plane – mainly due to the insistence of Ryan Air to fly out of airports situated miles away from any area that could remotely be called civilization and the only means to get there is bus at 4am. So obviously tired, it probably wasn’t wise for the first thing for us to do was to go to a medieval Estonian tavern to drink home brewed beer and eat wild boar. Worse still was that then then decided to go play with shot guns. Now the only guns I have ever used are an air rifle when I was 10 – shooting balloons on a board in Northern Pakistan – or a .22 at cans on a mate’s farm in Garfield (yes that is a place). So I wasn’t expecting to actually be any good at this.

After missing 6 of the 7 targets in the practice round, hearing the people talking about bear hunting (apparently there are bears in and around the area the forests we were wandering through) focused my attention. Hitting 80 per cent of the targets in the next three rounds, I was surprised as anyone that I turned out to be the best shooter. It was time to go looking for those bears.

Heading out the night I was very proud of my medal and did actually tell random stramgers about my success. They didn’t really seem to understand. Never mind, I was two sheets to the wind and having a ball. Most Estonians didn’t really know much about Aussies so several of us were a novelty.

The next day I still couldn’t find any bears, so we decided to pursue them on wheels. Many moons ago Eastern Europe – the people’s paradise – produced cars called Ladas. They were pretty much made out plastic, cheap and plugged along like that old car you had when you first started driving. They main use for them now s just to trash them around a racing track. And we did. Coming just shy or rolling my car, Guns smashing in to a tree and cracking his radiator meant that the game was over. But good fun nonetheless. More bear watching followed.

'Don't play with me - tell me where I can find more of you!!'

And back to the bars in and around Tallin. Venturing around the odl city centre, I finally found my prey. Deviating down and side street, into a doorway and sitting down in an Estonian restaurant, I finally found a bear.Not how I expected, but quite tasty. Kind of tasted like a sasusage with the consistency of steak.

So it's back in London and the single life for me. Ah well, I guess it's not all that bad!
http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/relationships/article5257166.ece

More photos here.

Here bully, bully, bull!

Not content to simply enjoy my beef served up with a baked potato and a little pink, I once again decided to head down to Pamplona in Northern Spain to run in front of them; and these ones are served very rare. Just check out my last experiences with 600 kilogram quadrupeds (here).

This time; however, I was the tour guide. Would you follow me???!!!!!
Waiting in the cold with Kiwi Rhys to my left and wondering why the bus hadn’t shown up 2 hours ago when it was supposed to, I questioned my choice. By the time the bus got there, everyone was decently pissed (we waited in a pub) and were lamenting the 18 hours drive.

Now one thing I’ve picked up doing these tour guide gigs is that people ask you the dumbest questions. Questions that they should be able to answer by themselves quite easily – such as ‘do they have euros in Spain’, ‘will it be cold’ and ‘is the running really dangerous'. Answers are usually quick ‘yes’, ‘about 8 degrees at night’ and ‘are you fucking five?’. But, it does mean I get a free holiday, hang around with some really good people, and see a lot more of Europe.

So all aboard, and we’re going back to San Fermin!
I’m not going to go in to the bus trip as it truly was painful. We finally arrived at the campsite just out of Pamps in the pouring rain and exhausted. Luckily for me Kiwi Nick and Glasso were on hand to dish out the beer bongs and Diamonds fed me. I hadn’t seen most of the people since Turkey, so it was a big night. And I knew what was coming…

Now, it’s not the bulls that scare me – it’s the opening party. Last year I thought I was going to die, and the girl next to me nearly did. It is the biggest crush I have ever had (and I see myself in the mirror every morning – get it!!?), and was not something I was looking forward to. Imagine tens of thousands of people crammed in to a small, slippery cobble stoned courtyard, sangria and champagne is thrown everywhere, and glasses are smashed on the ground, which leave bits jutting up waiting to be stepped on. Now, add a 30 degree day. The heat generated by the crowd and the sun becomes hot enough that all the booze starts to evaporate on your clothes, creating a steamy sauna like environment and people are crushed in to you. Bake for 1 hour. Serve on a bed of panic and hyperventilation, and side of drunkenness.

This year, though, I decided to get above it all - and squirt sangria from someone's shoulders!
The enjoyable part of the day is the ‘tits out for the boys’. Whenever a girl gets on shoulders – top off. I thought I was safe, but no, mine got taken too.
This time I knew what was coming, so I didn’t mind it so much. But I could tell the punters who didn’t see it coming where shitting themselves. With the day over, it was time to get people back to the campsite; the pool and general looseness ensued.

Waking up the next morning at 5am, I knew the feeling that everyone had. Taking my group in, most of them wanted to watch the first run and then do it the following day. So, knowing the way around, we watched the first run from the seats, where I randomly bumped in to Donners and his bolt-ons…

Best placed t-shirt ever

Now, it looked pretty vicious from the stadium, but I had never had this view before, so wasn’t sure if this was how it normally looked. It wasn’t until later that the race was called one of the most violent they have ever had, that I realised the full extent of the carnage.

Basically, right at the start a bull had slipped, which meant that the 5 behind him moved to the right to avoid, and ploughed through dozens of people. Now, I told my group one thing – don’t get hit because I don’t want to deal with it.

This is one of my tour punters on the left of the girl.
Now this is him to the left of something a little more threatening - note where the horn is.
How about a little bit closer...
Deaf prick.

The next few days drifted by in sunshine filled madness – both on the streets of Pamps and the campsite. But by the end of the week it was time to go back to London, and I had managed to recruit Coomba away from Rachel and on to my bus, so I had someone to do my bidding. Two miles out of Pamps the damn bus broke down. This was all we needed. Coomba was relentless in his abuse.
Pulling back in to Waterloo early the next afternoon I’ve told myself twice is enough.

“Waiter – medium rare thank you.”

More photos here.

Come on, say it, you missed me!

Well it has been awhile, hasn’t it?

I have been quite busy, but that has never stopped me in the past. I’m starting to think it’s because I’m lacking inspiration. It’s when this happens that you start to worry – am I so used to London that the stupidity no longer affects me? Am I so used to the hell that is catching the tube to work that I fail to notice the hilarity that a Northern Line station attendant literally shrugging his shoulders and walking off when someone asks him if there is a replacement bus service between Angel and Camden? Do I have so much inner peace that I don’t feel the need to throw an ash tray at the TV when I see the latest reality show is named ‘Choir Wars’?

Someone forgot to tell Ralph that 'Britain's Greatest Over Actor' was next door

Well, I’ve just been busy. Alyssa has been forcing me to see the tourist sites, and after 2 and a half years of really not caring to see them - as I walk past them daily - I relented. There really is a lot to see in London that doesn't include someone's kitchen floor at 4.37am. Maybe that's why I haven't really written many blogs; it's because I've kind of settled in.

So with contenment looming, it was time to head to that truely English institution - the festival. What better place to go to completely forget who you are, which way is up and what personal hygiene is - all the things that English find dear - than Glastonbury.

It was a three hour drive to Glastonbury, which after making friends with a bottle of scotch was relatively painless. Stonehenge shot by on the right - missed it - the 40 minute walk from the car to the campsite - missed it. Falling through a tent, trying to crawl in to Coomba's to stay warm, telling tall stories and finally Coomba having to set my tent up as a I couldn't stand that well only for his to flood in the rain and mine to be bone dry-misse..well actually I remember that and it was pretty funny.

The mud, the crowds, the 900 litre hole in the ground that is used by 130,000 people as a toliet, all fall away when the excitement and sensation flooding fun kicks in for the next three days.

Some embraced the rain...

...some didn't.

Things seemed a little calm on day one. With so many things to pick from we ended up settling in at the Pyramid Stage. In a crowd of 130,000 people it was quite bizarre that every second person I bumped in to I knew. Yakka, Steve Canty (who bizarrely enough I only bump in to at festivals - Virgin, Glasto, SW4) and finally waking up in the morning I look over and unnoticed to me, I (well Coomba) seemed to have set up the tent next to Michael Valvo from Uni.

Highlight of the evening was undoubtedly Kings of Leon who closed the day before we all went off to watch Fatboy Slim while Coomba explained his theory of economics to random strangers.

Falling out of my muddy, hot tent the next morning I wondered to myself why Guantanamo Bay wardens simply don't make prisoners sleep in tents and do away with water boarding - a lot more effective style of torture. The slow crawl to the 'toilets' in gumboots was made much worse by the knowledge that I had two more days and nights of this. Shower in a can and sanatised wipes, all was forgotten when we walked in to listen to Sneaky Sound System, and promptly bumped in to Tess and Treve steaming away. Definately a highlight that one. Fast forward through our experiences in the hippy section of Glastonbury, we headed back to the Main Stage to listen to Amy Winehouse.

I've lost my Kiwi friend - anyone know him?

Wow - what a train wreck she was. Obviously forgetting the words, she was basically singing half a second behind the backing band, stumbling across stage, before finally coming to the front of the crowd and punching fans - hilarious. Dutchy screaming out 'you're a crack whore' at the top of his voice when it was most quiet was a highlight for me. Following that, Jay-Z performed in what I thought with as a pretty lack lustre performance.

Fast forward 24 hours and we were standing in front of Groove Armada and the most expensive light show put together. I don't really remember a huge amount except for what looked kind of like an explosion, flares and lots of people bouncing.

The rest is kind of a blur. Wandering around like lost children for the next five hours it was time to go home. After no sleep for seveal days and the excitement levels of a Morman accountant, that car ride was painful.

Glastonbury was over for me.

A couple of weeks later, I went to a more cultured festival; that is that it was just up the road and I got to shower. SW4 (so named as that is the postcode for Clapham) is Carl Cox's festival, which is basically an excuse for him to invite all his DJ mates to come around to the Common and have a play.

Says it all really

Next day Alyssa was heading home to sort out her visa situation. This basically means that I'll have more time to be able to get the blog back on track. On that, I better get cracking.

More pics here.

Gobble, gobble

Like an annoying stalker London has a way of punishing you if you leave it while still maintaining that façade of being nice. The double back-handed insult. The killer smile, etc. Arriving back in London from a two week holiday it had been a sunny week with great temperatures and beautiful weather. And I caught a killer cold. Not just me – but at least 10 other people I was there with!! And friends of friends who went to Turkey for ANZAC Day as well. London is a revengeful madame!

But anyway, let’s move on to Turkey. Now for those that have read my blogs since day one know that they are usually quite detailed and descriptive. I don’t think I can do it for this one, for three main reasons:

• there was such a diversity in what happened in Turkey;
• it was quite lengthy – two weeks; and
• I wasn’t sober much (ironic when travelling an Islamic country).

Istanbul

Arriving in Instanbul, Longy, Kiwi Falan and Kiwi Nick greeted me with roaring hangovers and advice where I could get one. Taking that advice the opening night was a blur of shishas, Efes and some randomness….

It wasn’t pleasant that I was woken the next morning by Kiwi Nick telling me that the bus was about to leave with out me and I had missed breakfast – he found me in jocks spread eagle on the bed with my tongue hanging out. There were no winners on that day.

Moving out of Istanbul we headed to Anakara and Mutsfa Attaturk’s tomb, which is a testament to how much Turkey loves their founder. Fresh from defeating the Allied Forces in Gallipoli he then won the civil war and founded Turkey, before completely rejigging the economy, establishing a parliament, a new currency, etc, etc. Pretty lazy guy. No idea why he picked Anakara over Instanbul, as it’s in the middle of a dry, hot sand bed. After pushing our way up the hill, I realised that it must have been the abundance of booze and how bad teh devil drink made you feel that made him come here from Istanbul. Kiwi Nick was having similair thoughts about my semi-nakewd waking pose. We pushed on.

Buried on the hills over looking Anakara his tomb is spread out over an area that you usually see reserved for pharaohs. Feeling like I needed a tomb myself, we slowly carved our way East to Cappadocia.

Cappadoccia

The town is a bizarre place. Surrounded by limestone towers that over the years have been carved out for housing by nomads, tribes fleeing invading armys and the Flinstones, ‘rock houses’ scatter the landscape. And not to mentione, hard as nailing shit to a wall to get down once you climb in one!

Arriving late, a few of us decided to take a look around the town. Four minutes later we had finished. It’s amazing how quickly you get bored when you can’t even have a perve on the Turkish ladies. Once that sun goes down there are no ladies on the streets. Walking through town all we could see were dozens of guys, hunkered down over back gammon sets, sipping their coffee and smoking away. Making friends with the locals we got a few beers and had a little chuckle before it was time for bed. Ducking behind a building to relieve myself of the ‘strong beer’, I finally found the women. Well, three of them staring at me. First sight of woman in four hours and they are staring at me decorating the side of a house.

Up early the next morning we were going to see the lime stones caves of Cappadocia from the air.

Now people talk about the serene beauty of hot air ballooning, and Lonely Planet says that ballooning over Cappadocia is one of the Top 100 things to do before you die, but after 15 minutes it does get a bit tedious.

So soaking up the rising sun while the dry crisp air gently ruffled our hair and the intermittent burst of the air balloon’s flame punctured the silent morning…..it seemed a perfect time to tell fart jokes. And we did.

This went for three hours.

Air ballooning and site seeing over it was time for a shower, shave and slap on some Turkish kit for a night of sampling Turkish culture. Being taken to by a paucnhly old man with a cut throat razor while your friends behind make fun of Turkish TV is a scary thing, but the ‘cut throat shaves’ are vunderbah!

So all Turked up – no shower, BO and constantly failing to make a dent on the world soccer stage – it was off for one of those tourist ‘this is our real culture’ evenings. By the end of the night the only Turkish culture I had experienced was my head being slammed in to a door by an over zealous security guard and a similar thing by a kiwi.

Waking up with a sore head and no idea where my wallet, camera, phone or keys were, I was glad to be leaving the moonscape of Capadoccia for the Treehouses of Olympus.

Items returned a few minutes later and away we went.

Now bounding around the Turkish countryside, seeing scenery and experiencing the sensual flavoursome food was on all our minds, so the arid highway, Bangkok Hilton toilets and oh so wonderful tourist buffets studded along the path didn’t endear themselves to us. Every now and again you’d duck in to a mega mall in the middle of nowhere to get something. Kebab..kebab…kebab…Burger King…kebab…kebab. In one such mall I was accosted by two men: one with a microphone, one with a camera. Bleating at me in Turkish, my confused looks let him know I wasn’t from around there. After getting over the language barrier, they asked me to smile and say yes after he said something followed by a wave and a smile. I did.

I’m hoping that it wasn’t for the Turkish dating game or I’m some how in an arranged marriage?

Arriving at the treehouses in Olympus we were glad to be unloading – and after drinking Efes for three hours we unloaded quite quickly – and then took our bags off the bus.

Olympus

Our initial disappoint that a fire had ravaged the treehouses and now they were just houses made of trees was quickly forgotten with one visit to the treehouse bar, of which I never had in my treehouse as a kid (did have a treehouse meth lab and brothel…but no bar). For the rest of the night I rushed around at play in my little treehouse world until we were told there was a night club around the corner…so off we toddled. Now this ‘club’ was much like a colosseum – and hosted some gladiatorial battles that night – with a large fire in the middle, a DJ booth up high on one of the walls and a bar in the corner. Pepped up of ‘tree nectar’ I was having a riotess time minding my own business until I was set upon by a random girl named Alyssa. Trying to experiment and impress with my athletic prowess, I was all confident and decided to bust out some dance moves that involved catching her…

Waking up on my face I was told that my head hitting the ground made a clunk sound, kind of like a log being hit with an axe. Apparently I didn’t even put my hands out to stop, so my face caught the brunt of it. It was off to bed for me.

The injuries and the attacker!!

Rising the next morning to a face that resembled a burn victim, I decided it was good to get some salt water on to it to wash out the dust/dirt/ash and shame.

My last swim in water was San Sebastian beach in July 2007, so I was ecstatic to be peering out over the wonderful the Mediterranean! A quick dip and it was fucking freezing, so we hiked for about an hour to take a look at the Chimera – an eternal flame that the Turks thought was a devil as you simply can’t put it out. And as you walk for an hour and come to a rocky outcrop with cracks and holes that spew out flames, you can be convinced it is. After singing the Bangles ‘Eternal Flame’ to it, it was time to go back and on to another night at the Treehouses via a five hour cocktail session at a bar along the way. One of the best sessions ever. This bar was a series of huge ‘beds’ with pillows, a big table and shishas all around. And a bar man keen to please.

As you know when a bar man makes the drinks he tests them by dipping a straw in and tasting a tiny bit. Half way through we had ordered so much our barman was pissed. Stumbling back to the treehouses, Alyssa apologised for blatantly tripping me and making me land face first on the ground* and we moved on to the treehouse club again…. and for a second time in the trip….a Kiwi abused an Aussie. But this time kickboxers were needed!

*Some or all of this story is fiction.

It was with great pleasure that the next four days were going to be spent on a boat cruising the Turkish coastline with nothing to do but swim, tan, drink and eat. I don’t usually simply like lying there doing nothing, but this was awesome.

Sailing

There really isn’t a lot to say about sitting on your arse doing nothing. The first day we simply cruised and swam. Now the Mediterranean is basically one big chasm, and as Turkey is at the end of this chasm, the land simply drops away when it hits the ocean. We were moored no more than 10 metres from islands and the bottom – although the water was crystal clear – was gone. It took one anchor 19 seconds to hit the bottom...10 feet from the bank. But what sailing trip would be complete without pirates.

About half a day sail from Olympus is a little alcove surrounded on three sides by small islands and nestled on one of these islands is Smuggler’s Inn; a cool bar that you can only get to by boat. So we put on our best pirate gear, raided a launch and ended up seeing the better side of £2 vodka redbulls. I limped away from the bar later after realising that you can’t do the caterpillar on a hard wood floor. Knees bruised, pride dented I was glad to limp back to the boat to a joyous welcome.

The next few days were a bit more subdued. There was a lot more swimming, a lot of cannonballs and a few boat parties here and there. With three large boats, all sleeping about 16 – and a random larger one that followed us around – you can imagine the parties when they are all joined together.

After a particularly rough evening and some more sailing, we decided to throw ourselves off a perfectly good mountain. Motor boating (hehehe) in to port we took some jeeps up one of the thinnest and scariest drops in to the valley below, that I’ve ever seen. Finally making it up to the top I was strapped in to the front of some guy (who actually said ‘can I scare you’) and ran off a cliff. After the intial fun, it gets a little dull. Simply sitting there taking in the scenery. After gliding around for an hour, we came in to land and back to the boat for another party.

Falling off the boat after four days we were in Fethiye, and what a lovely place it was.

Fethiye

Finally a bed to call my own and flushable toilet (on the boat you couldn't flush paper, so you had to wipe and place in a bin). Strolling through the town I was amazed by how long it took to find a freaking kebab, but buoyed on by the promise of a massive night at Car Cemetery (a bar owned by the cousin of our tour guide) I needed to eat. Now the bar for the evening, as I said, was owned and operated by one of the tour guide’s best friends (or relative) so we were taken care of and left to run rampant, which we gave a red hot go at. As all the drinks were named after cars it did get a little confusing when ordering and I did often need to refer to drinks as: “the red one – and I want mint!” Stumbling out of the bar and half past fuck knows I ended up finding a dog and trying to take it home – and when I say dog I mean canine!!!!After my suggestion of the drink Datsun 180B (containing VB, Ouzo, half a pack of Winnie Blues and some grease) was denied, I needed the comfort. The dog left me for Nick. I wasn’t happy.

I needed to relax. Thanks Christ, we were heading to the lime pools at Pamaluke the next dat for a little bit of a lie down.

Pamakkale

Pamakkale is something else. You can see it long before you get there. The lime pools cascade down the hillside and make it look like snow from a distance. It is formed by hot, lime rich water bubbling from the ground, which as it cools drops the lime forming encrusted pools. Where the water comes from the ground there is a pool that dates back to Roman times and invites you to bath in the warm water. The water forms bubbles on your skin and as you move the surface of the water fizzes like a huge glass of lemonade. For thousands of years it was used as a spa bath.

Oh, and did I say I found weapons of mass destructions.
Moving swiftly away from the radio active weaponry we travelled to Ephesus.

Ephesus

Ephesus used to be one of the most important cities in Turkey, until the ocean receded and the trade routes with Europe and Asia took precedence, moving the ecomony to Istanbul. To this day it is still a large, spread out city that, by the standard I’ve seen in ancient cities, quite large. With a hospital, running water, sewage system and an underground tunnel that connected the library to the local brothel – this place had everything!!!!! Oh, but did I mention it was ruined?

A spot of sight seeing and we were back on the road for lunch. Lamenting what we thought was going to be the stock standard, German finger-licking, tourist buffet was not to be. We set up shop in a local restaurant and had some bizarre pancake like things.

It starts here...

and ends up here.

Sight seeing out of the way, the next stops were all on the way to Gallipolli for the main event. But not before one final stop off in Kusdasi to, basically, party our asses off, as the next two days were going to be quiet, respectful, cold and late. Jim’s Irish Bar took the full force of the blow. Not sure if it was the buy one get one free vodka red bulls or the..hell…I don’t know what it was, but the night got a little out of hand – in a good way of course – and ended with walking on glass in bare feet (Nick?), tattoo contemplation and Alyssa and I walking around looking for a kebab for nearly an hour – why can’t you find a frigging kebab in Turkey when you need one???

In fact, after walking up to a hamburger shop, asking for hamburgers and being told that they only had apples – I was done.

Gallipoli and Anzac Cove

A few days later we crossed the Dardanelles on to the Gallipoli Pennisula. There are statues, memorials and every single shop is selling a Aussie or Kiwi flag all around when you get in to the port. Driving for another hour or two you start to hit the huge line of buses that snake their way down from the entrance to Anzac Cove. Off the buses, through the checkpoints, another 20 minute walk and you’re there.

Turks and the Aussies at it again

Like a mini-festival there are shops, toilets, stands, etc. After pushing down to the front, you set your sleeping bag up and wait. Horseshoeing around the grass area are seats where the people sit upright for 12 hours (you need to arrive by midday or you probably won’t get a space) we were glad we were lying down with sleeping bags. Didn’t help with the fuckwit MC blaring out his opinion on everything from the weather to how to act respectful to insulting cultures and nationalities. Apart from him ruining the day for 70 per cent of the crowd, the event was a moving ceremony.

As soon as the sun went down the temperature plummeted. So crawling in to our sleeping bags we had a 10 hour wait before the Dawn Service. After the ceremony, it was an hour walk up to Lone Pine, the site for the Australian war memory, due to the area hosting significant battles between the Turks and Aussies.

Finishing up with a ceremony at Lone Pine, we were all totally bushed from two weeks of partying and no sleep the night before. I was looking forward to getting back to London, funnily enough. I could on and on about the history, battles and more, but I'm guessing you probably would just scroll over it.

One thing that was mentioned and is reinforced all through the area is that both armies really had no quarm with each other, but were part of a larger plan. There is a large statue when going up to The Nek of a Turkish soldier carrying an ANZAC back to his trench after he was injured. More amazingly is that this actually happened, and these stories are not rare.

Istanbul..again

Back in Istanbul and not a moment too soon. We were sore. We were tired and we were ready to go home. I for one was ready for bed. But push on we did. The memories of the diggers still in our minds, we ventured back to the Sultana Bar for some two-up and shisha – what a mix of cultures. The following day was tourist time in Istanbul – what a perfect time for Alyssa to have her card swallowed by the ATM. To let you know, this place is mosque city: there’s hundreds of them, and they are all superb. It was built between 1609 and 1616, during the rule of Ahmed I. Like many other mosques, it also comprises a tomb of the founder, a madrasah and a hospice. The Sultan Ahmed Mosque has become one of the greatest tourist attractions of Istanbul. And it’s not difficult to see why. Stunning on the outside and vast on the inside, it’s not only cavernous but imaculate in detail. It is mirrored by the Süleymaniye Mosque which was finished in 1557, but was used as a place of worship for both Christians and Muslims. But I’ve seen enough of mosqus, forts, castles and temples to last a life time in my years, I wanted something else.

After speaking to our friendly neighbourhood police officer, off to the Grand Bizarre for a bit of shopping. The Grand Bazaar (or Covered Bazaar, Turkish: Kapalıçarşı (Covered Bazaar) is one of the largest covered markets in the world with more than 58 streets and 6,000 shops, and has between 250,000 and 400,000 visitors daily. In two words – farking huge. After walking around with a few people, Alyssa and I peeled off to do our own thing, which included eating from the street vendors, buying some spice and being growled at by shop owners, with a bargain and barter thrown in here and there for good measure.All shopped out it was time to say goodbye to everyone in a closing party. A wild endeavour it was too. On the way home, Alyssa and I were accosted at the door of a nightclub near the hotel:

“Allo – you want to have drinks?”
“No thanks – we just want a kebab?”
“We do kebab – wait here.”

And off the man went – in to a heaving nightclub with people dancing on the tables and the music blaring…and 10 minutes later he emerged with two kebabs!!!! The entire holiday we had been searching in vane for a Turkish kebab, but we were foolishly looking in kebab shops, not nightclubs. Amateurs. But in the end we finally found our kebab.

For all photos, please click here and here.

Weed, whiskey and Wales

It was off to Amsterdam for my birthday, and it was good to see my family there to say goodbye.

Amsterdam, Holland
Een dag ga ik een van die raammeisjes kopen

Arriving in Amsterdam everything was going my way. As the plane touched down everyone cringed and waited for the crash landing that is your standard Easy Jet touchdown, but no, we smoothly kissed the tarmac and came to a non-white knuckle landing. They must have heard I was on board. If they hadn’t the customs official had. Pawing through my passport he noticed my impending birthday and smirked:

“You coming to Amsterdam for birthday? I’d like to see how you on your return. Have fun.”

I found my home!!!

I like the Dutchies. This was followed by a very friendly ticket collector, the train was waiting, we were 5 minutes from the red light district and 5 from the train station. Coomba and I threw our bags to the ground, grabbed my Ricoh and disappeared in to the depths of the seedier side of Holland. We had three hours to kill before the 11 other people got there. And we killed them. We did such a good job of that, that we must have buried them too, as I don’t really remember where they went or what we did in them. Although the next morning I had eaten something and there was half a bottle of Fanta in bed with me.

We were in town now and fresh from polluting ourselves the night before we decided we needed our ‘vegetables’. Legumes down, we wandered to a park. Had a laugh, had a chat and then experienced some very weird things. Now I hear you saying ‘but Bart, of course you did, what were you expecting’, but some of the things occurring was out of place.

For example: there was one man who was walking around the park shouting at people. Simply shouting and throwing his tennis ball. It took me 10 minutes to realise he was getting closer, but we all thought he was talking specifically to us. Another man dressed in a tight blue leotard trying to scare the homeless people; a crow with an afro; and big dogs looking very out of place was making us a little nervous. I would have liked to see a photo of us walking away, but 13 of us moving as one, never more than an inch away from the other one when leaving the park must have been a sight (safety in numbers).

Leaving the park in to the big bad world, I realised how big and bad it actually was. People moving, sounds everywhere, trams, bikes, cars – fuck me! Crossing a footpath, road, footpath, took about 3 minutes to try. I eventually stepped out and raced across to the traffic island….only to see 12 guys didn’t follow me. I felt so alone. I heard Becks turn to Glasso and say: “Shit, he’s out there by himself”. So I ran back over the road to stand with the group. We finally made it to a pub where we could hide. I was glad when it was all over some 4 hours later and we could navigate back to central Amsterdam. The evening involved a birthday dinner and plenty of shenanigans. We’ll end the story there.

I was glad we were leaving in the morning…as we left Coomba standing all by himself on the platform as we vaulted on to a train as the doors were shutting. Now juxtaposed to my trip to Holland, my trip back felt made me feel I was not welcome back in London. First, Dutch Customs held me up as my passport – coming off second best against a bottle of water falling in a draw – is a bit tatty. Second, another typical Easyjet landing. Third, walking down in to the customs area of Gatwick there is a big sign saying ‘Now entering the UK’. Just before I crossed that line, my foot scuffed something, I looked down, and it was £10. This was Europe’s final ditch attempt at saying: “No, Bart, no. Stay out of the UK.” Nevertheless, I crossed the barrier and was back in the ‘ol Bligh.

But not for long. Easter was just around the corner, and like that random person that comes home for an impromptu house party after a night out, I had to leave.

Republic of Ireland

Anyway, Easter – the non-sense holiday. A chance to eat chocolate, take a four day weekend, be forced to eat fish and – sometime I hate religious holidays – not drink. With forced sobriety; Luke, Coomba and I pondered where we could go to get a drink. Ireland had to be serving Guiness – it’s in their blood – and they’re not religious are they?

So it was off to Dublin with these two excitement machines:












Landing in Dublin was one of the hardest I’ve had (Ryan Air). The pilot landed half way up the runway, was dipping the wings on approach and damn near went off the end (well probably not, but he slammed on the brakes and even the stewardesses looked a little worried). Stepping in to a lovely 1 degree Dublin afternoon, it wasn’t long before we started looking for a pub. Alas, Dublin was dry. Very dry. So back to our room we went. The night was interesting. I tried to practice my Spanish on a group from the Canary Islands, and was rather pleased that while I’m not that good at speaking it just yet, I can follow bits of a conversation; we got abused by some random Aussie who had been living in a hostel for two months; and in the end got the best sleep ever due to no drinking on Good Friday and bed by 10pm.

Fresh the next day it was off to Killarney, but first we had to go the Blarney Castle to kiss the Blarney stone. Kissing the Blarney stone is supposed to bequeath the gift of the gab. After a shocking start I needed to smooch it to regain my chat, Coomba needed some extra jokes (as the old faithfulls simply weren;t working), and Luke needed better lines than simply saying ‘no chat’ or ‘shit chat’. We all kissed it. Didn’t work.

Moving on to Killarney, we took in an Irish monologue act (won’t get that time back), some Irish stew and some Irish beer. I felt Irish..drunk. After some bar hopping, we ended up at a great place and I had one of the best nights I’ve had in ages.

The next morning we were all feeling pretty rough, but Coomba was about to die. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that bad. Crossing over to the North Atlantic coast, the wind coming up the cliffs was hurricane like. Eventually we had to cross a bay on a ferry – a few of the boys looked worried about the prospect of a rocking boat in their frame of mind. I went to the pub to steel my nerves.

Nerves steeled, on to the boat, ocean crossed, and off to Doolin.
On the way to Doolin are the Cliffs on Mohar. Sheer rock walls that impressively rise out of the ocean for hundreds off feet, quite a sight to behold. Just as impressive is Vice, a sheer rock man that rises out of the ground for 5 foot 8, quite a sight to behold.

Vice is our big Irish friend. Vice once bet us that he could drink 10 pints of Guinness in an hour. He did…and had a pint of larger to finish as he had extra time. Think about that – that’s the equivalent of eating 35 metres of road tar. Vice’s family home is just out of Doolin, so we were invited to spend the evening with the McNamara clan (Vice’s real name is Brian McNamara; but he crushes you like a vice, hence the name). But after coming all that way to see his family, he didn’t even show up to retrieve us. This has nothing to do with the story, I just wanted to have another go at him, plus it’s scary to do it to him in person. So we had another Irish night in Doolin (there are six buildings in Doolin and two are pubs).

Gayest...photo..ever!

Going cross-country in the morning we swung by one of Ireland’s oldest distilleries to learn about whiskey. I was only there for the tasting, but found the process quite interesting too. A monument and cathedrals on the way back to Dublin, but it was homeward bound. Getting home after two hectic weekends was good. Unpacked the bags, washed the clothes, and then threw them back in the bag for Wales.

Cardiff, Wales

Cardiff, the capital of Wales, was the place for the 2008 Wandsworth Demon’s football trip, with 40 guys descending on the town. Can’t really go in to more than that, as we all know the moniker ‘what goes on football trip, stays on football trip’. But I had a great night. Most of the bars in Cardiff are on one main street, so at 4am, when they all close everyone stumbles in to the street for a random street party for a few more hours.

Only Bart knew of the chaos to come...

Great town.

Photos and the usual here: photos