Nothing (much) To Report

Yep, I’m getting far too much grief from people who know me to continue here. If I wish to write from the heart anymore, I need to take my incoherant ramblings elsewhere.

Meh, I’ve waffled on far too much here anyway - so maybe a fresh start is just what I need.

So, ta-ta everyone. So long, and thanks for all the fish etc. No really - thanks to all the well wishers and people who’ve taken the time out to say helloooo.

No doubt, if you google some weird phrase in the future like “what to do wearing velvet trousers and time on your hands in xxxx country” you will get my new site…or if you ask me nicely, I will tell you*

*mad stalkers and drunk poles need not apply

-moosh

Is what today is. Actually, it’s very gay. I’m sat here all alone, yawning my head off after a particularly long drive back from the continent yesterday this morning and feel like not doing much work.

WordPress has had a move around and I can’t find stuff anymore, and there was a bizarre comment from some strange Russian-speaking chap who was going to drive around Russia without his girlfriend and was asking for suggestions of what to do. Why he thought I’d have a sugesstion of what to do in such a vast country sans gf was beyond me. I have plenty of suggestions of where to buy the nicest cheboreks(Khimki train station btw - opposite side to the town), where the pointiest shoes are (off Svobodi Ulitsa), and I have a great suggestion for what to do on a dull afternoon, but it involves almost stalking marine soldiers in their winter uniform. All of this is unlikely to appeal to my strange postee though, and these activities are all pretty much Moscow based.

I’m also having a day of deep and meaningful self-questioning of an existenial nature, and it’s scaring me enough to want to go and get extremely drunk. Well, I would do just that if it wasn’t for a weird ear thing I have at the moment - it feels like I’m constantly at sea. The only time the earth doesn’t really feel like it’s moving is when I *am* at sea. Given that my house isn’t particulalry sea-worthy this could be a bit of a problem. Anyway, after the last few days events, I’ve convinced myself that I should never go anywhere with anyone ever again. It’s a terrible realisation that the reason I like travelling on my own is perhaps because I’m a miserble old git who can’t cope with other peoples indecision. In fact, scrap that: I’m just destined to be that old woman with lots of cats and bags of string living in the middle of nowhere. Oh, and with a taste for fine wines.

Right. Back to the shuffling of paperwork for me and pondering where cyclists keep their spare pants when they go off on cycling holidays in Northern France. One of life’s great mysteries.

-Moosh

I am trying out something new. Actually, it’s not new and I’m not new to it but that’s not the point. I’m blogging for the sake of blogging with this, just to try something out. As you do when you have nothing better to do and Facebook takes an age to load or do anything, like approve the changing my name to what my name actually is instead of the pseudoname I usually use on and about the internet.

This week there will be no work for me. Work that requires proper preparation for and interaction with other humans whom I am not related to anyway. Otherwise, I am working for and dashing about for someone, and from tomorrow, mostly all on my own. But I won’t break into song about it.

Bea

Tags: Flock, Facebook

easyjet are shit,

hairy pants,

pissage 6,

and aaarrrhhh…

…are just some of the delightful things that people are looking for on the interweb recently. And then found our site. God knows how - google, you work in mysterious ways.

It may well have seemed like I’ve disappeared of the face of the planet lately - and you’d almost be right. I thought it was just January being fucky, but no - February was pretty screwy too. I was officially made redundant on the 27th - I was offered a slightly different job with the same mad community charity, but decided to take a look around at the job market and basically thumbed my nose at them.

So yeah, Jeremy Kyle and chair sanding has filled my days when I haven’t been for job interviews. You’d be bloody surprised at the amount of time it takes applying for shitty jobs. I thought I was finally going to get my life in order with all this extra free time - but I think it just made it worse! Now I am back in gainful employment, I’m not sure how I’m going to have enough time to fit in my day to day faffing.

I was offered another job straight away with some dull corporate American company as a business analyst. I turned it down because the interviewer was smarmy (a good enough reason on it’s own) and it looked as exciting as watching paint dry there. I may moan about mad community jobs, but they’re actually quite interesting.

The job I really wanted, I didn’t even get an interview for *sob* and one I didn’t think I wanted, I had 2 interviews for and then they left me hanging for 2 weeks to get an answer. Swines. After the first interview they looked quite cool, and I decided I did want that job (it was going around the country installing software and doing training) but 2 weeks of hanging did me in, and forced me to do the following…

…accepting a job back at mad community charity. Humbly.

I had a dark moment, induced by getting the tower in a tarot card reading and all I could imagine was having to get some shit job and renting my house out to 20 other people just to be able to afford the mortgage on minimum wage. I am prone to those dark moments, and they normally pass with the addition of chocolate and hiding under the duvet for a number of hours/days.

All’s well that ends well though. As it turns out, mad community charity are moving their HQ away from Chav Town. Yay! I will now have to split my working week between London and just 100 metres away from The Retreat pub in Stroud (a recipe for not getting much work done in the afternoons due to Fruli excesses, I can tell ya) The downside to all of this is that 5 people have left…and I’m now expected to pick up the day to day running of the place as well as their jobs because the MD is as useful at that stuff as a fart in a tin. Oh deary dear.

Wish me luck. It’s my first day back today - a good start with half the building in darkness due to no electricity and no heating whatsoever. Fwap.

-moosh

There a trip over to Stroud recently. I could’ve blogged about this on t’other blog, but the love affair with Blogger was over some time ago. It was a trip to be of many firsts.

I got to have a bit of a nose around Moosh’s lovely little newish house before we hit the Farmers’ Market. I learnt it’s now unwise to mention laminate flooring in Moosh’s presence, specifically the laying of said material. The slightest mutter could lead to several minutes of deranged repetition of the words: “It’s not coming up! It’s not coming up!” Appropriate action in the event of you encountering this phenomenon is to back away and offer tea once the spitting and twitching has eased a little.
As a side note: The garage door should definitely be painted purple with silver strips, join the campaign!

Off we toddled to the Farmers’ Market, that’s incorrect, we drove there. Again, wrong! We were driven there, by the lovely A. Exiting the car with some relief - I thought travel sickness had left me for sunnier climes, but it appears not to be - we marched gently ascended the hill. Neither of us had any specific agenda for the market, just a general nosey around like we normally do. We meandered past the stalls, briefly looking at some and occasionally taking a greater interest in others. Moosh took such a fancy to some Vampire Relish (good with cheese in big sandwiches, apparently) on the garlic stall that she actually bought some, an extremely rare event at the Farmers’ Market for either of us.

Past the crystal and olive stalls (not together) and Over Farm’s stall came into view. There was a bit of a bone-chilling wind blowing that day and the poor solitary guy trying to serve the customers swarming around the produce didn’t look a happy bunny. I was quite happy as there was masses of kale - 85p per branch, or £2 for three bits. I took the 3 for £2 offer. I’ve never witnessed someone with red-looking, frozen fingers trying to struggle to open a carrier bag and shove a large unwieldy stem of kale into it, whilst fighting the wind as well, without any assistance. I would have helped, but this drama was occurring on the other side of the heavily-laden table of veg.

We wandered a little more around and after both buying some russet apples and a bottle of perry (Moosh again), we headed for some warmth and a soothing cup of tea. I had squeezed two cups out of a pot of Earl Grey and Moosh supped at hot chocolate. It was busy in that little place, and I felt a little conspicuous by carrying three rather large bags of kale, which had a chair all to themselves. How this kale was so badly mistreated but also well looked after during its long day out in Stroud.

Revived, we once again headed out and meandered around the usual haunts. I’m almost getting to know and remember the place now. Stroud’s a rather nice place to wander round, somewhat more so when there isn’t a force 9 gale blowing. It’s a busy little place, which on Saturday afternoons, and I suspect school holidays, fills up with gangs of kids, like every other town centre in the country. But there are less chav-types in Stroud than, say, Gloucester.

Soon it came beer time. This is another traditional aspect of any trip to Stroud, but more so on the first and third Saturdays of the month. The pub of choice this time was The Retreat. I couldn’t give you instructions on how to find the place but someone else can.

There was a slight quandary as to what we should start with, and it was very nearly some Kronenberg, but the lore of something different won over and beyond all else. A half each of strawberry beer was bought and tentatively supped for a the first few seconds. It was quickly decided that this was possibly a very girlly beer, but nonetheless utterly delicious.

The Retreat is a nice pub, not a chav in sight on this particular visit. A lively lunchtime crowd, but I could still hold a conversation with Moosh.

(And that was as far as I got, before my brain failed on so many levels. As it has ever since. It did before, but I don’t like to mention that too often. So, due to this post being sat around with no one to read for too long, I’m gonna add the bit of an email Moosh sent me regarding this, and just leave it at that. Unless I should remember certain aspects of it, thanks to the Random Bollockness From Pubs I be writing up.)

The strawberry beer pub was called The Retreat and then mad drunken old incest man pub was called The Queen Vic. Both very nice we must do it again sometime (but perhaps without the mad drunken old men this time?)

So, I will be performing a perfume check on you before we leave the house. What is it with you? You attract really mad drunk people! Maybe it’s not your perfume? Do you have this problem when out with Ms PG-Tips?

I think you have to mention the Kale. From the first struggling into the bag by the poor little man, to the carrying around from pub to pub, right down to the eating it for *every* meal for a week. Hehehe. They should ration kale into the small packets, like they do with sugar. Very sensible.

Don’t forget the we just zeros and ones man theory. But that will take some blogging. And possibly more strawberry beer to re-explore the ideas that made sense at the time

OK, well I’m off. Everything’s broken at the moment - the website is broken, the membership database is broken and sending out emails randomly. Gahhhhh. And it’s all up to me to fix. And I don’t have a clue where to start. Feck. Okely-dokely, skype me if you come online before 4.30…

Mostly Bea Whale, with email from Moosh

I’ve been getting these tingles in the neck for the past week or so. No biggy or anything. Just thought I’d see if google had anything to say on the matter - and have just found out that neck tingling is a symptom of the Menopause!

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

That’s bloody it. I’ve gone and caught the menopause of my middle-aged colleagues.

Oh fwap.

-moosh

Nope. This is wrong. Anyone with any sense knows it is folly to be engaging in this sort of behaviour at this time. One should step away, well away. But I’m not. Idiot that I am.

Thankfully I haven’t been near eBay or Amazon in a serious sense, just looking, and longing. Other potential points of horror have been avoided too, due to not been in the mood for chat so Skyper’s/MSNer’s/IRCer’s have escaped the badly typed ramblings of a slightly drunken twonk. That be me.

Currently the only other possible embarrassment factor available to me is this internet thing; which is probably for the best. Having someone witness shite singing/dancing/shagging doesn’t bear thinking about.

What I had planned to do was thrown out the window due to equipment failures. But never mind, as if it had gone to plan then I would have stayed up until a ridiculous time and then cursed myself silly due to having to be up and all responsible at a slighty-more-than-sensible-time-than-I-would-like.

I have spent more time at this wonderful newish laptop than I have at any other time today. Mostly doing stuff of no consequence, but I massively suspect that’s what most peeps do anyway, or play games. I lack computer games, something I’m gonna change, due to bugger all else to do. On the whole I’ve faffed around with which set of desktop gadgetry suits me best: Google or Vista. Vista almost won out, til I got annoyed and Googled triumphed. That could be viewed as a general view of the world of the internets all over!

Over and out.

For now. Tomorrow, when recovered from hang over/coughing / lack of sleep / poop wiping(not my own!!!); I will send your way the second part of Random Bollockness From Pubs! Duck now.

So, here I am, back from the near-dead. Not really you understand, but something quite close to it all the same. Joyfully, I have a computer that I can sit at in almost total comfort and far removed from any smoking or general tosspottery. My lovely Ubuntu laptop is currently not playing ball, so I have moved on, to a supa-doopa widescreen, duel-core Toshiba laptop.
Anyway, the reason I’m sat here right now is to share something I’ve been meaning to do for fucking ages.

Moosh and I haven’t been out on one of our little jollies for quite a while. Actually bastardly ages. We have this wee thing of recording totally random thoughts or points of topic’s of conversations into one of a couple of ickle notebooks I have. And I keep saying that after these, or more often during, nights out I should/will blog it. But I haven’t. Cos I forget, or I’m actually too lazy to do so, or it’s a less than pleasant way to recover from a great deal of beer and dancing. So I present for your delectation, the first part of:

Random Bollockness From Pubs

Occasion: Pre-Halloween Drinkies

When: Before Halloween, obviously

Location: Stroud, as far as I can tell

Britain: Wall to Wall Lettuces!
Russia: Not so hot on the lettuces.
Moosh said: “I love big wavey mustaches!”

There is then a picture of two heads with Russian hats on and what mostly looks like sheep bodies with feet sticking out the bottom. This was actually Moosh’s attempt to draw us dressed as lettuces, Russian lettuces. For Halloween. Yes, that really makes sense, doesn’t it?! That was the plan for what our Halloween dressing up was to be that year. It was revised for something a little more sane - Russian military.

Russian lettuces. Bad idea?

30/9/06 Prediction - brunny
blokes -
either secret transvestites with big fake boobies (inflatable balloons - which hilariously get popped at 11pm)
OR
dress up like the crow/scary vampires
women -
slutty things

And the difference between that & normal Saturdays is….?

Bea loses voice saying “quim” in the Retreat.

Cardigan Flasher!

I’ve forgotten how to write!
Damn you internet!

Minge, quim, vulva, clam something, flaaange, cunt, fanny, box.

A small diagram of an equilateral triangle with the words quim at the top, flange at the bottom left & minge on the other corner. Then a circle with arrows going anti-clockwise with the word cock pointing to it. And what looks like a shoe a kid would draw, with tied up laces, that has the word penesse written within it. I think we may have been discussing the various slang words for genitalia. Where I get that idea from I don’t know! The penesse might be due to us talking about penis not being spelt the way it sounds, or something. I’m at a loss to understand the pictures.

Searching for camel toes.
= unfruitful
(thankfully)

FACT: Tights cause camel toes
says Bea

“I am a great slut” said Bea in the Retreat after the book was put away.

It’s not just muffin tops people should be aware of - it’s whole cake spillage.

*Everything in purple text was written by Bea; everything in pink was Moosh’s note-taking. But that doesn’t always mean the writer is recording their own musings.*

End Of Part One.

Bea Whale

This somehow seems right at home on this blog, currently.

Bea - Did ya miss me?? Did ya? Did ya?

Your country needs you.

Well, OK, Moosh does. I need your views, opinions and experiences for my totally non-scientific survey. About threesomes (and lets not just limit it to threesomes, we’ll chuck in orgies too)

I want, nay need, to know just how far you’ve been down that road. The questions are as follows:

1) Have you ever been with more than one person at a time?

2) What sex are you? Aaaaaaand, what sex was everyone else there (We’re talking M to F ratio here)?

3) If you’ve never had one, would you like one?

4) If you’ve had the opportunity to have one, but didn’t - why not?

I can hear you all asking “but why, Moosh?” And the answer is simple. I was musing a recent topic of conversation up on Selsley Hill this afternoon, freezing my nads off (if I’d had any) and reckoned that I must be the only person in the whole world to have not already had a threesome. It’s just one of those “100 things to do before you’re 30″ type of jobs, isn’t it?

Well, a quick text later to Bea explaining my lamentations, and as it turns out she feels my pain. And also regrets many peoples lack of interest when talking about poo, but that’s another story.

A conversation at this moment with an ex-colleague of mine via skype, reveals his threesomelessness too and he’s 40.

So it got me wondering about the rest of the population, and I am quite a nosey person - watching that guy indulging in some self-gratification in Amsterdam was the ultimate reward for such a closet dogger as myself.

It’s not that I haven’t actually had the opportunities to have multiple partners at once, because I have. At a nightclub back in the dim and distant past of 2003ish a friend and I were drinking with some amiable fellows when they suggested we all went back to their hotel room. There were 4 of them (if I remember correctly) and just 2 of us. I remember her looking at me, and me looking at her and for maybe 2 seconds we were both seriously considering it…but then it was like the green cross code man was sat on our shoulders: always look both ways before crossing the road, never except sweets from strangers etc. And that was it. We declined.

You could say it was all very sensible to not go back to 4 strange mens hotel room (thanks 70s public information films!). And you’d probably be right. At least that’s what I shall tell myself - they were all mad axe murderers anyway.

On the flip side of unknown murderers though, was when I spent a blissful summer living in a one bedroomed flat with about 10 other people. Quite often there would be 5 of us in bed at any given time, so when 2 people started getting a little frisky - I remember looking round at the other 3 people in the room…and we all looked at each other. We were a, how to put it…a relaxed kind of community, and I think all of us were waiting for just one person, just one, to kick things off. The tension in the air crackled - everyone felt it. I just don’t know for the life of me why I didn’t kiss the girl next to me that I’d fancied for ages.

Unfortunately I can’t blame David Prowse for the lack of action on my part for that one, so I just had to chalk that up to experience.

Ah well, I’m confident that with 10 months to go until I hit 30 I will have another opportunity to tick this off my list. Hopefully :S

-moosh

And why do B&Bs in Richmond have showers that were once cupboards. Small cupboards?

Are just 2 of many questions that I’ve been asking of late.

If anyone has the answers to these, please do tell - it’d spare my brain musing on it at 4am, along with why I *had* to race two grown men in a people carrier last night (don’t worry, I did win) but when they were a tad pissed off at losing to a girl, I thought they were going to follow me, so I went about 3 miles out of my way up the motorway to “lose” them. Why oh why, did I feel the need to do it when I’m clearly a big girl’s blouse. Were my thoughts this morning.

Have promised myself only to race when absolutely necessary i.e. when the other car is not likely to beat mine, when someone tries to sneakily overtake at traffic lights, when I’ve got PMT, or all of the above.

Aaaaanyway I do have an incling of why Sheffield smells of wee. Or at least the Ibis Hotel Sheffield (and other isolated pockets of the city) The clue was when I went down for breakfast and saw all the single, depressed-looking, cheap salesmen-type “business travelers”. These people clearly like to wee in the shower I thought to myself. And I think they did. On a regular basis. There’s no other reason why the bathroom should reek of urine quite so much otherwise.  The hotel has clearly given up stamping it out - or perhaps lost the fight against the somewhat primeval urge of territory marking. Perhaps if there was more to do in Sheffield of an evening other than get in a fight, there would be less need for leisure activities such as these. 

Thus, my conclusion is: don’t ever go to Sheffield. Or if you find yourself sent on a business trip there, do take a large bottle of bleach with you and perhaps a travel scrabble for the long, dark evenings.

I’m afraid this post doesn’t contain any sordid tales of sex or violence. Firstly because you really wouldn’t want to accidentally catch sight of a local Sheffieldian cracking one off on the balcony below you, let alone letting their grubby mits anywhere near your mimsy. (I do love the word mimsy - it’s not used enough in everyday English)

I’m sure I’d have lots to say about the violence in Sheffield, had I been brave enough to be outside past 8pm. I wasn’t. The general feeling there is that a fight is brewing, regardless of the time of day. The necessity to smoke outside of pubs now has created groups of pissed up Northerners swearing at you on the street as you try to sneak past quietly (no difference to Gloucester, really)

As far as actual violence is concerned, I’d have to say it was only me - gnashing my teeth loudly and getting hysterical at not being able to find my way out of the damn place when it was time to leave. I could have easily punched someone then - a town planner, preferably.

-moosh (staring at the pattern on the bottom of the shoes of the nice man from The School of Social Entrepreneurs for the past 3 hours. Concentration today, lacking somewhat)

OK, OK, after a minor poking I thought it best to come back and try to explain the lack of posts.

Firstly, it’s January. I fecking hate January. It’s so long, and for 99% of january, it’s not payday. That in itself is enough to make anyone want to bury under the duvet and only wake up on the last working day of the month (and only then to check the bank account online)

Then…due to my own doing, for the last few months I’ve had to pay a rather large mortgage and all the trimmings on my own. It’s not cheap. So I’m trying to launch my own business of IT tomfoolery in the evenings. This is a rather large inconvenience as it eats into one’s drinking time rather considerably.

<shameless plug> Anyone need any IT support/development/advice in the Stroud area?</shameless plug>

That only leaves blogging time here at work. Whilst I am not against reclaiming some of my unpaid overtime this way, the situation here at odd community charity is now at the point of redundancy.

Being the IT dude, I of course, have access to peoples emails *cough* so I already know (99% sure) that I wont be made redundant by reading the confidential discussion going on. I also know that they’ve already decided who is going, and that they’re going to go through the motions of an “open and fair” staff review. My arse. So everyone is flapping. There’s shouting, speculation, crying and now out and out bitchyness (from carpet jumpered freak naturally)

I am in a big “keep yer head down” mode at the moment. And it seems the best course of action to take.

After new year in London with Monsieur Fwapper, we have decided to go on a kind of EasyJet adventure. We’re yet to decide a destination…although you can pretty much guarentee large amounts of high jinx wherever we end up. We’re torn between Madrid, Sofia or Sarajevo. The trouble is, we’re limited to places we can easily get to with EasyJet - that would make Madrid the simple option…but me being me wants to have a bit more of an adventure and fly to Croatia and then try to take a train to Sarajevo. Dave is not convinced enough yet. I think he will need plying with Fruli Strawberry Beer.

And you’d have thought that all of this was enough for one January, yes?

Well I’d have thought so too. But there’s one last thing: I’ve been quite ill too since xmas, and I’m gonna have to go into hospital in the next week or 2. This is something I’m not looking forward to, as I’m more scared of doctors than I am of Hairdressers (and I’m pretty scared of them)

I expect normal service to be resumed in February though

-moosh

Thankfully, 2007 is coming to an end. I can’t really say I’ll be sad to see it go, because not only has it been an odd-numbered year, it has been well and truly odd aswell.

I feel like I did when I was 21 - not really sure what the hell to do with my life and here I am now, positively hurtling towards 30 (although not hurtling as much as a certain person - Happy Birthday BTW!) but with only really a clue about what I *don’t* want to do anymore rather than what I actually do. If that makes any sense.

Whilst the rest of the world was getting it’s shit together, I was the one who metephorically nipped out the back for a fag and missed it.

Well - 2008 is going to be different! For once, I’m going to see the new year in in Blighty -London to be specific. OoOOOooooo. Something I’ve always wanted to do. There’s going to be a change of job (at some point)  with even the possibility of starting my own business!Of course, I’ll have to chastise myself for the stupid amounts of time I spend fwapping about on the internets, but I think I’ll be OK with that.

I will also be concentrating *very* hard on growing my hair in 2008.

Predictions:

• I think Terry Wogan will snuff it in 2008, but that’s only because I dreamt that he did and was upset that Radio 2 in the mornings just wouldn’t be the same without him.
• I reckon we’ll have some heavy snow in late January (possibly just wishful thinking)
• Aaaaaand, I think that Prince William will break some bones in the summer.

I think I’ll stop being Mystic Meg there.

 -Moosh

p.s. I’m feeling very Christmassy. Will this working week never end?

OK, I’ve only just found my notebook and it’s 8pm on day 2. I’m going to have to write up day 1 from memory. Here goes.

My logic of joining the longest queues let me down once again, as in Britol Airport I was actually in the queue for the flight to Budapest. Nice as it is in Budapest; it wasn’t where I wanted to go today. I was tutting to myself at how 2 desks with girls on were empty and they just sat there chatting. It was in fact, where I supposed to check in. The smug Ryanair man told me when I’d finally got to the front of the queue. I actually think he took great pleasure in charging people for even being 0.3 kilos overweight. I reckon he got a kick out of his job.

Aaaaaanyway - all checked in and beered up in the departure lounge (me, not the plane), we departed east.

Yet again I chose the seat in front of a riggling, screaming child. Biological clock spectacularly stopped ticking for the next 2 1/2 hours.

Riga airport surprised me: it felt more like Schiphol in Amsterdam, or even Frankfurt. It was so modern! Not even a sniff of sovietness about it. The motorways and shopping centres outside looked decididly Western Europen too.

Because Ryanair landed ahead of schedule, thanks partly to their passenger hurding methods, I was able to catch the last bus into the centre - 10.30pm. Now: I hate taxis for 2 reasons - they’re a rip off (especially for tourists) and you miss out on being a “proper” local.

Saying that, I guess not many people think the way I do, because the queue for the taxis was huge…whereby the one of the bus was tiny. I did a further Random Act of Kindness by paying for the 2 people in front of me on the bus because they only had euros. It felt quite good - should do this more often.

When we arrived at “Kathedrale” where I needed to get off (found by luck, not expertise) I was so utterly lost. Hotel directions simply say take bus 22a to Kathedrale - which was what I did. So…I kinda expected to be able to see the hotel from the bus stop, as there were no further instructions.

When I realised it was nowhere near, I thought “shit, if only I’d taken a taxi”. Pulling myself together at nearly 11pm, I went for a walk - telling myself how hard can it be (knowing full well I could be spending the forseeable future wandering aimlessly). Luckily I chose the right direction (I’m uncanny like that sometimes - can sniff out a pub from miles away too) but soon came unstuck when I found myself outside the French Embassy of all places.

It was time to rummage for a map. Any map. Luck would have it that I’d ripped the Riga map out of my Lonely Planet bible only a few hours previously. Upon locating it, and then locating myself on it (a difficult task) by finding a street name, I gave up trying not to look lost and just openly gawped at my map - turning it 36o degrees a number of times to make sure I was where I thought I was.

After that mamouth task, finding the hotel was a piece of cake. On the streets were loads of cafes and night clubs and groups of men. Men looking for other men to hand out strip club cards to. Not being their intended cliental I slipped past - I’d like to say quietly, but was unable to do so due to my suitcase clack-clack-clacking across every single cobble in Riga.

The hotel was super, smashing great. As you would expect any 4 star hotel to be. I’d like to add that this cost the same as the 4 star soviet throw back in Bratislava, so, errrr, well done Riga for being cheaper. The bell boy even carried my suitcase up the stairs, which I thought was very nice. I was in such a flap, that I didn’t notice the pause after he put the suitcase down. I noticed it about 3am and thought baaaah! That akward silence was where I was supposed to be tipping him! D’oh. So, apologies from the dippy english girl.

I took a shower and settled down to watch TV. First couple of channels; nothing just blah blah blah waffle in Latvian. Then the next one caught my ear, becuase it was in fact Orta or Channel One in Russia. Lovely job. I cracked open a bottle of Asti from the mini bar, got into bed and watched possibly *the* most unbelivable story line ever about a man (Maxim) and his crime solving dog (Muhktar). Nevertheless, it was compelling watching and didn’t even flick channels until the end. It was then, as I was idly flicking that I got a porn surprise. There it was: talk show, talk show, crime solving dog, MTV, talk show, adverts, hardcore porn.

OK, so it was about 1am local time now - but I was a little taken back. Of course, out of curiosity I watched it for a while *cough* and then fell asleep.

I was rudely awoken at about 3am by what I thought were really noisey drunks coming back to their room and stumbling around…it was only later that I realised that they wern’t being noisey, oh no, the walls in this place were just paper thin. I felt guilty then about the watching of the porn - everyone must know. At breakfast, I didn’t dare look anyone in the eye. But happily chomped through my own body weight in delicious Latvian cheese and little cakes. Mmmmm cheese.

Set up and ready to go for a hard days touristing, I was a little taken back when I reached one of the main monuments in Riga, (in front of my hotel) The House of the Blackheads. There was no one about. I saw one man taking a picture of it, but that was it. This didn’t bode well, I thought. Riga looks closed :S

House of the Blackheads

I duly stood in awe for a bit and then just kinda wandered off randomly. I’m not sure how it then happened, but I found myself at the train station. Yes, I went all the way to Riga, and did some shopping in a train station precinct. Willing myself to snap out of it, I sat down outside and got out my map.

I wanted to go to the Russian market called “Central Market”…given that this was Central Station where I was, I reasoned that it couldn’t be that far away. It wasn’t on my touristy map though - which is a shame becuase you can buy alot of stuff there much cheaper than in the rest of Riga. I did eventually find it (it’s behind the train station, under a tunnely thing) and bought *the* pointiest boots ever. You just can’t buy boots this pointy anywhere west of Poland, so I was jolly pleased with myself. I also bought a bottle of Kvas for reminising purposes. It wasn’t particularly great kvas and I made a note to make my own back in Blighty.

Not wanting to lose my precious cargo (the boots) I decided to drop them back off at the hotel and hit the museums. Luckily, the museum of occupation was again, just outside of my hotel. Inside, the exhibitions was very moving and I actually learnt quite alot of stuff about life in Latvia under its many occupations.

By the time I’d got out of there, it was dark and I started wandering in the general direction of the touristy places…but as I couldn’t see very much in the dwindling light, I decided to postpone for tomorrow and go general shopping instead in the city. The shops don’t shut til about 8 which I thought was just smashing and it’s times like this that I wished I lived in a big city.

I stopped for my tea in a very nice candle lit cafe, god knows where. The beer was very nice, but I had to eat mushrooms in their vegetarian option. This made me a bit sad, so I had some more beer to make up for it. The staff kept staring at me sat on my own, obviously knowing I was foreign and I got the impression that they felt sorry for me, which in turn made me feel lonely. I was fine until that point! So I decided to be on my merry way, via the loo. It was the scariest loo I’ve ever been in, and this picture doesn’t even come close to showing you what it was like to be in there with the door closed:

Riga toilet

It was black and white checked, all done on a strange angle that made the room feel like it was spinning (no, I hadn’t drank that much beer) and so it was, I think I had the quickest piss ever and ran away from there very quickly.

Back in the hotel, I drank more kvas and rested my legs, which were complaining severly by this point. It was now that I found my notebook too.

Yay! Everything back to being “live”.

Must fight urge to smoke. Cigarettes only 60p here.

If I don’t stop watching Russian TV and loafing on the bed - I’m not actually going to go out at all tonight and just fall asleep.

Fighting urge to sleep also.

Right. Have put on extra pointy boots. They look fucking ace, even if I say so myself.

Finally summoned up enough energy and enough courage to go out. Opted for Paddy Whelans Irish Bar. Just because I’m a chicken and I’m too scared to go into a proper Latvian pub right now.

Am listening to the familiar burr of an Irish accent whilst sipping my expensive Staropramen. I think it’s actually cheaper in Poets Bar (was, sorry. RIP poets)

Now wish I’d sat on a stool at the bar with everyone else instead of hiding around the corner.Patiently waiting for Riga to “wake up” to the lively party city that the internet told me about. I think I’m going to be disappointed.

Checking shoes for wear and tear from the cobbles after the 100 metre walk from the hotel. All OK so far.

You can tell I’m bored right now, huh? I’m writing about checking my shoes.

Now I’m writing about writing about my shoes. Note to self: stop.

May go and buy fags or try to find internet cafe. Am seriously bored now - and am going to be quite pissed waiting for things to “pick up”. Just overheard Irish chap on the phone talking about his mate Shamus. I thought Shamus was like, a joke Irish name - I never realised people were actually called that. Almost LOLed.

OK, so I left Paddy’s in search of some fags or an internet cafe - whatever came first. I found neither, and was cheching out all the bars and cafes on the way: absolutely dead.

I eventually found myself in Rimmings (or some such name) the 24 hour supermarket. Yes, that’s right; instead of being out in this “crazy” city, I was buying crisps and sanitary towels. Conclusion: don’t come to Riga on your own if you’re a girl looking for fun, Riga only caters for the more…how to say…”loose” man.

Maybe in the summer it’s a lot more fun. Who knows.

I actually found myself wanting to bump into the so called “shedloads” of Brits on a stag do - just for someone to talk to. Coming to my senses, that I hate stag and hens equally - thankfully there were none (that I saw)

Riga in December seems to be more suited to couples going for candle lit meals. *humpf*

So, I gave up on exploring the nightlife and habbled back to the hotel, wondering if I needed a hip replacement at 28.

Here I am, 11pm scoffing crisps and chocolate, sipping on kvas rather than sex on the beach. Boots survived the cobbles though, so that’s some consolation.

Am watching porn. Being amazed at the size of these guys schlongs. They’re a bit weeble like in their errectness - so big that if they physically flopped about, even though hard. I’m thinking that this skinny guy would faint if all the blood necessary for a fully-stood to attention member was acheived. What an odd thought. Why do they also put tinkly background lift music with the porn too?

It was very crap porn - the girl kinda sucked them off like a rag doll would (I imagined) very difficult to explain. Have decided to have an early night instead of doing porn critiques. (Except that I actually ended up watching the crime solving Russian dog serial instead - am hooked. Still don’t know what the name of the program is…must google it)

3rd and final day of travels

Good job I set my alarm for 9am as I think I could easily have slept til 12. Have to admit that I don’t actually feel very well. Yesterday it was creeping in, although I tried to deny it - my cough and grogginess tell otherwise though.

Had very hot shower and let the water run for ages on my hip - trying to  put all thoughts of osteoporosis out of my mind. It works. Maybe 28 isn’t that old after all.

I try and round up all of my pants that are strewn around the hotel room and generally pack - paying special attention to pointy boots, gently wrapping up in my jeans.

I guiltily pay my minibar tab, put my luggage into storage (not having to face train station attentants - yay!) and head out for the day.

Decide to follow the guide book “trail” and see all of the missed places of attraction from yesterday. Get hideously lost after 2 minutes. Chastise myself for now being able to follow very simple map, no matter how many times I turn it upside down!

Realise that I actually pretty much saw all of the sights yesterday without realising it.

I decided to save the (what I thought was) the best bit for last: Riga Castle. After spending a good 20 minutes trying to find it, accidently ending back up outside the hotel - I resorted to using the river for navigation and eventually found the “castle”. Was a bit miffed - blink and you’d miss it - in fact I went around it twice (fwapping over the presidential soldiers stamping about on parade in the cold).

Latvian soldiers

You can’t go in, so in my book, I think the castle is best seem from the road. Inside a nice warm tourist bus

My nose is running incessantly now and I have my hanky clamped to it permanently. Nice.

Decided to get in the warm somewhere - a museum. Continuing my war theme - I opted for the Latvia War Museum. It was great - although not in English, and my Russian wasdn’t always up to deciphering long waffling official documents - so I just looked at the pictures and stuff. Well worth a visit if you like soldiery type things like me.

After that - I tried to go to the skyline bar for a bird’s eye view of Riga - but I completely failed to find it. What I did find though was this little bridge that I’d read about on t’internet where couples go and put padlocks on with their names engraved on and then throw the key into the water as a symbol of their never ending love.

God, at this point reading all the names (mostly in Russian) that I had to choke back tears at my own fwapped up life. Probably not the best place to visit for people with broken hearts. That is all.

After this episode, I needed some serious cheering up - so decided to go looking for some pointy shoes at Central Market. Managed to get lost *again* and didn’t even make any purchases, except for 2 voblas as a present.

By now (4pm) it was getting dark. Feck, I thought. I wanted to find Skyline Bar to take some pictures. By the time I got there it was too dark to even bother taking any. The view is fantastic though - definately worth the expensive drink price.

I immediately identified myself as a foreigner there - because I went to the bar to order a drink, instead of sitting down and making use of the lovely waitresses. D’oh. Note to self: stop being so British.

Am really missing the internets now. Might get on a mission to find t’internet cafe in a minute.

What I actually found was god though. Possibly. I went into the big orthadox cathedral near the Skyline and had an experience not unlike being on shrooms.

Now, they say that magic mushrooms are like a short cut to tapping into bigger spiritual wossnames, so I can quite believe it was a godly moment.

There was incence, candles, chanting and singing. I didn’t want to move anywhere and found myself unable to leave. I had a bit of a wander around the icons and wondered why some of them had loads of candles and some had none. I already knew that different saints “looked after” different stuff - so I wondered what the popular ones were. I knew when I was last in an orthadox church, we lit a candle for my Nan and put it with the saints that makes people better - and that was quite a full one. Am wondering what the unpopular ones were for though?

At one point there was one..err…vicar type dude who kept coming and going, and as he left, what can only be described as the singing room he disappeared off behind a panel in one of the walls. This was not before turning around and giving me a look. I think he knew I didn’t belong there

After this, I realised I was hungry and traipsed to find the Lido restaurant (a help yourself job) that my book mentioned and I’d seen earlier. It’s really fab in there - for less than £2 I had a beer and a big vegetable rice thingy. This was where the locals ate. Except for one loud American who was busy asking what everything was. Loudly.

At this point - it’s about 6pm and I still have 37 quid in Lats on me. I’m never going to get rid of it I think - so try and spend it on stuff I would have bought anyway. I’d been wanting a 1Gb card for my phone/mp3 player for ages so I had a gander for one - cheapest was £22. Having seen one in Slovakia for £6, I really don’t want to part with that much cash for one, so I wonder off looking for more shoes.

This time my wandering took me fooking miles away. I was accidently in a really, really dodgy part of town getting soaked by rain in the strong winds. Desperately trying to look local and not get mugged - I looked for a familiar building on the skyline. Nothing.

Feckity. I’m just going to have to follow someone and hope that they’re going somewhere nice - near civilisation. The person I picked really didn’t want to be followed and tried to slow down so that I overtook them. I didn’t want to (not knowing where the feck the road went) so I slowed too. I think they probably thought I was going to mug them, so when I turned the corner and saw the Riga clock I was relieved anough to stop following them. Sorry, whoever you are! I was only about 1/2 mile out of town. What a bumkin.

Drenched and miserable by now, I step up my efforts to find an internet cafe, which I eventually did. The girl on the desk had been trained by the Bratislavian luggage man I think.

I skurried in and got the distinct impression that every PC was *very* infected, and that all of my passwords would be stolen before I’d even logged in. Nevertheless - I got into Skype and looked for some friendly faces. There were none, so I sent some emails and read B3ta until my 30 minutes were up.

Back out into the driving rain I went, and decided just to fuck off back to the airport.

I picked up my luggage and headed for what I thought was the closest bus stop on 11 Novembre street. I looked and looked and only saw a stop for bus 22b. I needed 22. Time was ticking on, so I thought - arse - I know where Kathedrale is, so I clack-clacked my way back through the old town.

I had 10 minutes wait for the bus, where I droppped my glove, canvas bag and then wallet into a puddle. I didn’t notice the bag for a while as I was trying to count out all the shitty change to give to the bus driver

Not one person at the bus stop pointed it out to me. I’m undecided about whether Latvians are friendly or not. Certainly not like the Dutch, who are always so happy to speak to you, so on that score I reckon they’re 50 50. 50% nice and 50% hostile. A neutral rating, given that I didn’t really have a decent conversation with any of them *humpf*

Airport musings: this kinda relates to the “are Eastern European girls more pretty than Brits”. The girl I’d sat near on the bus had long hair, long legs, was skinny and wore high heels and despite the inclemant weather - looked lovely. I, however, looked and felt like a drowned rat. I felt even more like crap stood next to her!

Waiting for the plane, I saw the Glasgow Ryanair flight come in. No one was getting off. How strange I thought, as most flights involve a scrum to get to the doors nowadays. In a leisurely manner, the police came and took 2 chaps off the plane. I got the impression they were 2 scots who’d just got beered up a lairy on the plane. What a smashing weekend they’ll have!

And then the ceiling dripped onto my head. And it was there that the European facade crumbled, and I felt more like I was in Sheremetyevo. It was depressingly soviet. I also got to watch all of the Ryanair stewardesses running of the flights to buy the cheap fags from duty free, and I realised - what a great sideline! I guess they need to subsidise their crappy Ryanair pay and conditions somehow.

On the flight I was sat next to 3 lads who’d obviously gone to Riga for the *cough* nightlife. They were discussing which stewardess they’d like to shag. I was concentrating on yet another bizarre Ryanair sign. I wish I’d taken a photo, because for me it looked like the picture was saying, if you see a fire, don’t leave. Bejesus, are the emergency doors just painted on or something??

On a closing note, here is some invaluable information about Riga:

Tram number 7 goes to the Dole. I didn’t try it (been there, done that - got the depressing government issue “I fucking own you, I can ask whatever questions I like of you, scum”  t-shirt)

There’s a sports club on the outskirts of town called “optimistic”. Bless.

Signs often point to walls or across rivers. They mean, as the crow flies, rather than practical directions.

Verdict: go in the summer. Go with someone you love.

Worth going? For the pointy shoes alone, yes!

Oh, and learn Russian before you go.

Moosh

Now with extra longness and spelling mistakes!

This is going to be a long one, so if you don’t have a cup of tea now - best go put the kettle on. I decided to keep a diary of my travels, so what you read was happening “live” as it were. It’s my own pathetic attempt to become a travel writer, because that would just be the bestest job in the whole world (I reckon)

OK:

Sitting on the plane, it’s hard to describe the anticipation right now. For all my bravado about travelling around Europe on my own - I’m cacking it right now. The only way I can placate my brain at the moment is by saying: “OK, if you hate Bratislava so much, and you’re too scared to even go outside - then at least we can spend the next 2 1/2 days sleeping and wanking in a hotel room”.

It works for me. Let’s go.

Plus - it’s also far too late to change my mind. They’ve shut the doors, done the cross checking and all that malarky. Whatever that is.

 Baaaah!

Trying to break the monotony and sooth my eyes from the garishly branded “Ryanair yellow” cabin, I decided to read the safety instructions. In the event of a crash etc etc

• No shoes
• No jewellery (shame, but OK)
• No glasses

And what looks like

• No false teeth - but it could just as easily be no burgers. Why you would want a burger in an emergency situation, I don’t know (excluding Americans, obviously)

My mind is boggling.

I’ve decided to stop writing now, as the inside of an aeroplane isn’t really the best of topics to muse on.

Am very keen to land now, with the prospect of seeing some snow to look forward to. Ooooo.

Bratislava airport was pretty unremarkable as airports go. What was great though was travelling only with hand baggage - I must have landed and been stood outside (looking bewildered) within 5 minutes.

I was reliably informed, before I left (from a Slovakian person, via a Pole) that the ticket machines *do* take slovak notes. They were wrong (or perhaps just never travel on a bus?) I will never doubt you again, internet!

The problem is that nowhere wants to give you any coins for these damn  machines. I wanted the 3 day ticket, which costs 210 Koruna and the machine does sell these. How the hell you get 210 in coinage I don’t know. I managed to get 2 10 Koruna coins and bought myself a 30 minute ticket. I wasn’t entirely sure it was enough to get into the centre - but it was all I could get…so I spent the next 1/2 hour pooping myself incase one of the ticket inspectors (that the internet had scared me to death about) appeared. They didn’t, and I didn’t. Therefore arriving at Hlavna Stanica unsoiled.

Now, directions to the hotel said 1.2km from Hlavna Stanica in a straightish line. Having no more coins, and no means of getting any more (Bratislava is not a 24 hour city) I decided to take a wander. How hard could it be, I said to myself?

The answer to that is: very hard. 1.2km was more like 2 miles and the straight line was mostly straight although with a confusing amount of other straight looking roads to try and tempt you from your path. I shook my fist at them!

The plus side to all of this is that I got myself quite acclimatised to the local area and ambient temperature in a relatively short space of time. I didn’t let the lact of deep snow that I’d been promised dampen my spirits, because you could still find some on the verges and I rather childishly gave into the temptation to jump up and walk through it - much to the amusement of any Slovakians still wandering about at 11pm. And it was good.

When I finally made it to the hotel (after I stocked up on strange 24 hour petrol station bounty), I was slightly irked to say the least when I realised that the very bus that I had travelled on to Hlavna Stanica had actually stopped not 50 metres from the hotel a good 45 minutes ago. D’oh! Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

I can sum up the hotel in 2 words:

Very. Soviet.

Any hotel that hands you the TV remote control with your keys and tells you not to move the furniture around in the room has got to be seriously worried about its cliental.

But anyway - what do you expect for a few pounds more than a youth hostel? There was hot water, Russian films on the telly and a bed. More than enough for now.

Day Two

I’m sure it’s not as dark and dreary here as it is back in Blighty- even allowing for the time difference. I woke up early to sunlight streaming through the nylony curtains, and got ready to face the day (and not just to sleep and wank)

I feel intrinsically at home in Bratislava - which is a surprise as I haven’t even been here 24 hours yet. Walking through the London suburbs after 10pm at night would have made me very nervous, but here it seems just fine - other women were wandering about too (just not looking so touristy and lost as me)

I think it’s also got something to do with it feeling familiarly eastern bloc for me, plus I can understand many of the words and posters. All that time spent in Russia wasn’t wasted.

And so here I am right now, sat on a train bound for Vienna using a ticket I’d bought in Slovakian. I’m so proud of myself right now I could burst.

I bought a “vegetarianska” bagette in Billa (another familiar store for me) opposite the hotel, but looking at it now through the cellophane - I have a sneaky suspiscion it contains ham. It’s like France all over again.

Some interesting news: 6 people were just taken off the train on the Slovakian-Austrian border for not having their passports. Opps. Surely they should have realised that they needed them? Oh well. I got to gawp at the lovely border patrol guards in their uniforms for just that little bit longer *sigh*

OK, so sudbahnhof is not the best thing to judge Vienna on - but it was really easy to firstly locate the ATM and then buy a 24 hour Vienna card. They rather sensibly accept notes in their machines here. *cough*

Stepping out from the station, I knew I had to get on a tram - in which direction I didn’t have a clue - so I plumped for the stop with most people at. (Moosh logic: if there’s a queue, it’s probably because it’s for something interesting)

My logic failed here for this very reason: it was locals, fresh from the station with suitcases - they were going home i.e. to the suburbs. I realised this when the stations started to look a bit, well, untouristy. I let my doubt well up for a good long time though, as I was munching on my bagette at this point - being ecstatic that it didn’t actually contain any dead pigs.

I jumped off at what I thought was a busy intersection and just got myself hideously confused. From my understanding Vienna has: a tube, buses, trolleybuses and trams. But sometimes the trams go underground (does it then make them tubes?) and each of the symbols used on the signs for each of these methods of transport I only later figured out. At about 6pm. Bums.

Eventually I found a tram going somewhere touristy (by pure luck really) so that’s exactly where I went. And I did all manner of touristy things like: going up St Stephan’s Dom (where you could still smell the horses from), drinking mulled wine from a stall in st michael’s platz and just generally was in awe by the amazing architecture. The internet wasn’t lying when it said Vienna was breath taking. It is. Everyone should go here! The locals are friendly and cheerful - I dredged up my best German from my school days to ask for stuff, only to be replied at in English with a smile.

Vienna

Great view of Vienna

I resisted a very touristy thing: going to the loo that plays Mozart at you. I thought, what a waste of 50 cents…only to need the loo 10 minutes later and had to go in some tube station - paying the same 50 cents and being shown into the cubicle by the toilet woman. It’s a good job I didn’t need a shit - I would never have been able to go with her outside!

Lovely xmas lights

I did however want to go to the Christmas markets. I stumbled upon one outside the Rathaus. I also stumbled across a lost Brit too, who came wandering up to me pointing at his map. From that point on - I had a friend.

His name was Bobby and he was a city banker earning scary amounts of money. He’d snuck out from a works conference and wanted to see Vienna. He was very friendly and all that, but he seriously hampered my shopping. Ah well, he probably saved me from buying lots of Austrian tat. Cheers bobby!

He’s supposed to come to Bratislava tomorrow to see the castle - but given that I spurned his advances, I don’t think he’ll show up somehow. It’s weird isn’t it - I always thought I wanted to be propositioned by some rich dude in a suit in some foreign land, but when it happened, it all just felt so Pretty Woman to me, I just didn’t fancy it. I guess I just have more morals than I thought ( shut up Bea, before you even say a word ) Bet the jewellery, clothes, fancy restaurant and posh hotel were bloody nice though. Damn, what was I thinking!

I missed the train that I was going to get back to Bratislava (some things never change). Thankfully there was another one in an hour, so I just mooched around the station buying tat and wine and talking to some nice pizza dude. (The dude was nice, not the pizza. Mind you, no one ever said that train station pizza is nice)

I never thought I’d say it, but I’m glad of the smoking ban in Blighty. Cafes and bars in Vienna, quite frankly stink. And I never realised just how much they do until now.

Here I am, sat on the train again, just had my ticket inspected by what looks like Dave the Fwappers younger brother! I’ll be sure to ask where his Dad was about 18 years ago when I get back.

I’m also wondering why the Austrians have such strange stickers on their trains (as if eating burgers in an emergency wasn’t enough)

To me, this looks like:

Please give up this seat for

• Pregnant women
• Women with children
• Jews on crutches
• Uncle Albert

Or it could just be me

Bratislava

Well. Lets just say that I shouldn’t have done Vienna first.

The day didn’t get off to the most brilliant of starts, by meeting possibly the most surly luggage attendant ever (outside of Sheremetyevo). I  simply wanted to leave my rucksack for the day; lots of smiling, lots of “dobry rano”, but it wasn’t reciprocated. Mr Hvlana Stancia luggage man was not impressed. He was even less impressed when i tried to pay for it upfront (not knowing the ettiquette of these things). I had to admit, in Slovakian that”I haven’t the foggiest what you’re saying”.

He simply muttered “English or deutche?” I had to say “English” and he spat “pay later” at me. I thanked him and skuttled off, quite scared to have to return later to pick it up.

I then set off for the trams. My lonely planet guide clearly states: take tram number 1 from Hvlana Stanica to the old town.

No such trams stop there…or anywhere near - and I am 100% sure of this. For the record, you need tram 13

After wasting a good 30 minutes fruitlessly searching for tram 1, I gave up and started following road traffic signs for “Historical Centre”. 2 buses later (after following some Americans, I’m ashamed to say) I found myself at the castle.

Bratislava
Don’t be fooled by tourist book write ups about the castle. I was spectacularly underwhelemed by the place. OK, so it was basically rebuilt in the 1950s…but thats no excuse for being so souless. It’s nice enough form the outside - take a few pictures etc, etc but for god’s sake don’t waste your 200 Koruna by going inside. I never thought it possible to have such a dull set of museums as that - but trust me: the Slovakians take boredom to a whole new level. I think I was there 30 mins max. I got fed up up of staring at unenthusiastically arranged stuff in cabinets long before that though.

The write ups, although in English, contain such gems as: “these coins were found from an unknown source at an unknown time”. Great.

There wern’t even that many coins! Enough to fit the whole collection in my front room, ffs.

The musical museum was no better. It wore down my will to live and I had to leave. I was going to go to the loo before I left - but considering that they charged 50 Kurona (£1) I thought they’d had enough money off me for the day, so I settled for just blowing my nose instead. (my silent protest)

I did wonder why so many people were outside and not in. I know now, so let me tell you: Don’t bother with the castle at all - you probably even get a better view of it from Novy Most anyway.

The next delight was the historical centre. It was OK. Well, alright then - if pushed I’d call it “lovely”. Cobbled narrow streets, and in the main square was a German market (or the Slovakian equivalent)

God knows what the place is like without this though - just a big empty, dull space. I guess maybe in summer they fill it with cafe tables, who knows. In October though, before this market - it must suck.

I was feeling a little Christmassed out by now, after Vienna, but forced myself to have a mosey. I wasn’t tempted to part with any cash for anything and I LOVE tat.

Disillusioned with both Bratislava and myself I wandered off. The wrong way, (Note this for later) towards the scummy part of town, which is always where the bus station is in *any* town.

It’s like the chicken & egg thingy: did the area become scuzzy because of the bus station, or did they put the bus station in a scummy area? Who knows. But that was exactly where I was.

It was also where Tesco was. I couldn’t resist it - I *had* to go inside. Appart from the odd Tesco value candle or Cherokee branded coat, it was nothing like our Tescos. I was almost relived somehow. Tesco shouldn’t be taking over the world.

I finally found tram number 1, and curiousity got the better of me: I needed to know where it went. It was just at this point (3pm) that I seriously considered getting on a train and going back to Vienna.

Anyway, persevering, I took tram 1 and got off where most of the other people went: a dull shopping centre on the edge of town. Still hoping that tram 1 went somewhere important or interesting, I got back on it after I’d trudged around the overpriced stuff in the “mall”. Tram 1 actually goes to the middle of bloody nowhere. It was bleak. I didn’t want to get off the tram, but the driver made me get off until it was ready to depart back to civilisation.

It’s hard to admit now, but this is when I actually found the rest of Bratislava. All the nice bits that I’d lost earlier. I blame my sense of adventure and unwillingness to get a proper map. I also discovered some lovely mulled wine. It was very strong. I staggered off to the main street and went into a shop - it was when I was staring at the bras that I realised that I was too pissed to do any kind of shopping and should take myself away from garish clothes and accesories.

I reluctantly went back to the train station man to get my rucksack, not trusting Bratislava not to sneakily close at 6pm. (it actually closes at midnight FYI) and I may have been mistaken, but I’m sure he managed a smile this time. I was sure to thank him heartily.

Sceptical that the Bratislavan fayre might have meat in, I opted to dine in a Chinese restaurant that night. I rather Britishly waited at the door to be seated; being very much ignored by all the staff, until the finally wondered what I wanted.

I got my table, and some lovely food too. Highly recommended: I think it was called “Panda” restaurant. I imbibed much more beer & a strange hot spirit here too. Smashing.

Had to stagger back to Hvlana Stanica with stupid grin on my face and find bus 61 to the airport. I had some great drunken ideas on the way: YouTube for hindsight - you get to watch the many possibilites of your life, from the comfort of your PC: i.e. what would happen in my life if I say, decided to throw my job in and become a monk. Lovely idea, shame about the lack of connections to reality with that thought. Also gave all of my spare change to some drunken tramps who spoke Russian.

Once at the airport, I did my next Random Act of Kindness for the day: leaving my 3 day ticket (2 days remaining) on the bus ticket machine for any weary travellers. I got stared at hideously by the taxi drivers nearby - maybe they thought I was vandalising it?

On the flight back, I shared an aisle with some Slovakian chavs. Yes, they do exist. Unfortunately. Except these were slightly more classy, getting pissed on Ryaniar £10 a pop for a small bottle of crappy champagne. Anyway, there was no time for quiet contemplation and to be hungover here.

Final thoughts: Slovakian girls.

As with most Eastern European girls - just the mention of them gets Brit guys (and other nationalities) salivating. Quite frankly, I’d like to set the record straight: they’re not really that different looks wise. I think we’re on par.

Take Gloucester out of the equation though - I’m sometimes surprised at the amount of ugly men and women there wandering about of an afternoon. How can a whole town be beaten with an ugly stick? Small gene pool I guess - everyone with any sense has left the place already.

Anyway, back to the girls.

The only real difference is this:

They make more effort. Full stop.

You wont spot a Slovakian girl with chip greasey hair and dirty tracksuit bottoms scuffing through town.

They’ve probably got loads less cellulite too - although it wasn’t short skirt wearing weather, so it’s only a speculation and a little glimpse at my own insecurities

The end! (phew)

-moosh