The yarn unspun, Part One

The plan was simple. Two friends, were to get from London to Warsaw in under a week, using hitch-hiking as the only means of transportation. Well, that was the plan.

Officially, our trip started on the rainy Wednesday morning of 2nd September. Not wanting to set off under prepared, Dunc spent a few hours making sure he had everything in his backpack. Not wanting to set off under nourished, we headed to the Fiesta Cafe on Roman Road for our last fried breakfast for a long time.

It was now edging into Wednesday afternoon, and arriving at London Victoria (via the tube), we made the executive decision to take the train to Dover, if we were to make France by the end of the day.

Arriving at Dover, a shuttle bus took us to the ferry port. Our reliance on hitch-hiking, we decided, would be a continental European affair. The first ferry company we approached at the ferry port informed us that their last journey for the day had set off. Our stomachs sank. Our stomachs rose as we were informed that we could just about make the last trip that P&O had for the day. We were to make it to France by the end of the day after all.

Waving our goodbyes to the White Cliffs of Dover, we drank a few moderately priced beers and smoked a few cigarettes, safe in the ignorance of what was to come.

With the clocks set forward an hour to Central European Time, we disembarked on to French soil later than we had hoped. It was dark. We were on the last crossing of the day. And to top it off, foot passengers were only allowed off after all vehicular passengers had done so.

'Last time, we went that way, which was the wrong way.' Dunc surmised, pointing us in what he believed to be the right direction for the main road. Under sparse lamp posts, we trundled beside the road, at this point with a lack of traffic, hoping for traffic. Praying for a ride.

Then the heavens opened.

We had made it to a dual carriageway, with cars and lorries travelling at the speeds that they do on dual carriageways. In pissing rain. Our tempers began to fray. A fly-over provided shelter for a deserved break from an hours walk in torrential rain. Desperately we fought with a wet lighter to provide a spark for a much needed cigarette. Our hitch-hiking was lacking the operative 'hitch'.

Continuing our journey along the hard shoulder, we reached a sprawl of a junction, at which we were certain in which way to go. The problem was how to get to where we wanted to go. The split of traffic lanes reduced the space beside the road on which to walk. The nature of the convergence of roads led to an increase of traffic (coming from several directions at once). A field to our left looked like an option, but after further inspection, we discovered a river (well it was probably just a stream) cutting our path. We had to take the road and hope that whoever was driving on it was paying attention to what they were doing.

The rain had subsided in to a drizzle. The map seemed to agree with our bearings. In the distance we spotted what looked like a toll gate. The perfect place to approach stationery vehicles. All we had to do was keep walking. And wait for something to happen.

The joys of being disconnected from the world

To be brutally honest, I'm not entirely disconnected. Just disconnected in the sense that my only contact with the internet (and all its uses) is through a disappointingly poor (and painfully new) Sony Ericsson mobile device. (I've written about these before.)

The initial problem here is that my only way of writing on here is via text message (which costs, ie fuck off) or like I'm trying now on the Blogger site, which involves writing in a tiny text box and having to add limited html code. So here's hoping it all works out.

This should be on a new line.

And this.

My other major issue with the phone thing is that it seems to have been designed for use by pixies, with tiny little pixie fingers. It's not like I've got the machoest build, but I do tend to yrste th.gsm like this rather often.

Fucking phones.

Back In England

It would be mean to try and explain the trip in one half-cut post. So I won't.

The trip is over and we're back home. Stupidly, I left my stress inducing laptop in Cornwall. I'm in London. This means I have sporadic access to the internet, which means I haven't had the chance to write much. This makes me sad.

I'm gonna be on the job and flat hunt for the next few weeks so this is another solemn farewell from the blogoshere (damn I hate that word).

I'll try and find some time to explain the trip in one post. One day.

That was fun

Firstly, I apologise for not keeping a running commentary on this one. Wi-Fi hot spots aren't as readily available or as free as they are in England. Especially the ones situated on the slip roads of service stations in the pissing rain in the middle of Western Europe.

More follows...

Day One: Get On The Road

Maybe drinking Zubrowka last night wasn't the best plan. Myself and Dunk woke up at about 9.00 this morning, blurry of head.

We still haven't vacated his apartment. There's still plenty of preparation work to be done. Dunk has found his passport. Which we assume will be of some use on this trip. I need to unload some stuff from my backpack. There's also been some techy action like charging mobile phones, cameras, downloading FTP clients (don't ask me), setting up a Twitter account that we hope people will follow. Plus our mate Russ has kindly donated a mini laptop with a broken screen - so apologies for any typos that may occur on the right hand of the page.

But before we go anywhere, it's time for a cup of tea and some toast. Not going anywhere on an empty stomach!

Pre-mission Update

The backpack has been packed, emptied and repacked. Seriously, how the hell do you prepare for a trip like this?

With fingers firmly crossed for good weather, a spare pair of trousers, plenty of socks and pants and a few t-shirts is basically all there is. Sleeping bag; check. Passport; check. That should just about cover it.

The main problem is not knowing quite how long it's going to take to get to Warsaw. Two, three, maybe ten days? It's a bit of a leap of faith this one.

On top of that, there is the move to London after the trip to take into account. Couple of black shirts, bar blade and guitar to be put in storage for future bar and busking work; check. All right. Let's get this show on the road. Or at least, let's get to London first.

And so I sit, on my sofa counting the hours until my train departs from town. Two hours to go. I think I'll be longing for scheduled transport in the coming days.

Going Back to Poland

Put down your copy of the Daily Mail and take a deep breath. I've got news for you: This country isn't going to the dogs. If you'd allow a second for reality to enter your brains you'd come to terms with the fact that life ain't that perfect and it never has been. (Can you remember a time when it were that perfect? No, I thought not.)

But anyway, it's early in the morning, so I'll excuse myself for that little rant. They don't belong here, not when I've not written shit in ages.

THE NEWS: It's a trip back to Poland. Fuck yeah. In just under two weeks (or maybe above, depending on variables) we is gonna be doing a mission back to my favourite country in Europe.

The plan is to hitchhike from the golden paved streets of London to the badly paved streets of Warsaw. Even better is the idea that we can do it in 24 hours. More likely is the plan to do it without any sleep, in a Beastie Boys homeage of 'No Sleep Til Warsaw'.

I'm trekking out with a dear friend who has successfully hitched to Morroco, so I'm thinking I'm in safe hands. It's only 1000 miles (that's four trips to London from where I'm from), it can't be such a mission.

Although, I am aware it's going to be a mission. I accept that I am the most accident/bad luck prone person in the universe (seriously God, why me?) which is why I'll be happy to make it there alive. (Limbs and vital organs present and intact would be a preferable bonus.)

So I'm going to start saving my cash to spend on speed to keep us awake for the long haul journey, and should probably think of ways to store that shit abouts my body for border crossings (thank God I'm skinny, plenty of room to hide stuff). This is going to be a fun little adventure.

Good night Warsaw

Seeing as I left Poland around a month ago, I thought I'd set up a new, less Polish blog.

The Newquay Times

Hope to see you there. It's been fun writing this one. Time for a new challenge!

Back to it

It's been quite a busy week. Easter usually is. The first real mass movement of cattle down to my fair land to graze on beer, fry ups and each other. It's really quite a sight.

Since my last writings (too long ago) I have found myself receiving a promotion from lowly, but loveable glass collector, to all round waiter, barista and bartender. Once I wanted to be a barrister, I'm almost there. The difference of the work to that I did in Poland is pretty much polar. Teaching English involved standing in a room and talking. Now I'm standing in a room talking and so much more. In Warsaw, half my time was spent traversing the city in the desperate hope of finding and attending my classes on time, with the constant panic of the repercussions of lateness. The Chy is literally a minute from my house. It's downhill. And no one gives a shit if you're five, ten or fifteen minutes late. I love it.

Not

Doesn't the guy in the first one look just like Jake Gyllenhaal? And John Cleese making a return appearance to my blog.

This weekend that's just gone has been pretty manic. On Friday I worked the day shift and was on call in the evening. When I was told not to come in (via a text message I received in Belushi's) it seemed only right to make the most of a free night. Around half midnight, me and my drinking companion saw the reason why I was not required at work. The Chy was practically dead. We headed to Red Square. Around five hours of sleep later I was back in The Chy. Work was busy, but not quite as bad as the day before. The sun was shining and people came out to drink in the beer garden. It's as simple as that really. A few hours off and I was back in to do my first night shift behind the bar. A nice short one because I had worked earlier. Everything went sweet except a few shouting fits about vodka. I made enough tips to get a few drinks afterwards to go on top of the awesome 'double' Maker's Mark and Coke my mate Sean bought me. They helped in the dancing like a twat I did to Mr Brightside (both the Rich Cheese and Killers' versions). Whilst in Red Square, Sean and I discussed making a decent vodka martini and the need for my bar to stock some Kina Lillet to make a proper Bond style one. Five more hours sleep later and it was Sunday. I don't remember much from yesterday except the excruciating pain I felt in my feet and my legs. My muscles were tighter than the proverbial nun's, I could barely stand up. I hit the sack at around 11pm after an episode of Lost and a bath. I was done.

A good night's sleep can do you the world of good. Unless you've been drinking heavily for the past few days, in which case you'll probably feel a bit better, but still at the mercy of the results of excess. I got through today's shift with a sore throat and sore back. Thankfully the weather at the moment is fucking miserable, so hardly anybody came in today. I've got a few hours off before returning at 10pm for a full length night shift. I'll have done 11 hours there today by the time it's all done.

Which is why I don't really find myself that concerned about looking on eBay for some work gear. The bar seems to be my new home and for once it's on the side that receives money instead of spending money. Might help me get out of the mineshaft of debt that I'm stuck down. Another graduate joins the work force, behind the bar.

Day tripper

Only being back home for week, I've allowed myself to get back into the weekly (ish) trips to Falmouth.

The last few days have been a welcome change of pace. Back for a few minutes and I have something to smoke. A bar which provides ample measures of Sailor Jerry's, lime and lemonade. A nice place to relax.

Unfortunately there was only one guitar at hand. Music took a back seat in the proceedings. Banter and episodes of Screenwipe were aptly at hand.

Right now I'm feeling pretty beat. I'm in a three table tournament on Full Tilt. Should keep me busy before jumping in either the tub or the sack. Need to be feeling up to speed tomorrow as the drinking session with my uni buddies kicks off Duncan's birthday weekend in Woking.

Ah, the life of the social-ist.

Back to the grind

It's quite disheartening that the only thing I have to write about after being home for about a week is my new job. Previously I've been able to report on the crazy life I was living in Warsaw, teaching English and being caught up in crazy situations.

Now I'm glass collecting. Hoo-fucking-ray!

The biggest problem I've found adjusting to normal, home town life, is that everything seems so normal. The minuscule events in the world that pass through my existence seem pretty straight forward. No longer am I brought face to face with strange habits or customs. It's all a bit boring.

I guess I'm using this as a reminder to myself, to not get caught up in the simple life for too long. Too many people I meet talk about how long they've been stuck in this town. You wouldn't say that if it was a good place to dwell.

I might get something like that tattooed on the back of my hand. "Get the fuck out of here!" Although that might get confusing in the future, when hopefully I'll find somewhere I'll want to stay.

Homecoming Part 2

Now that I've had a decent night's sleep, a few more cups of tea and some scraps that I found in my top draw to smoke, I'm definitely feeling in a better state to write about the last few days.

In a last effort ditch to get my hands on as much Polish money as I could before I left, I foolishly organised a conversation on Monday morning. My last day in the country. I arose at 6.45am to head into town when I was met by the clusterfuck that is Warsaw's public transport system. The Metro wasn't running properly between two stations, one alternative to squeezing into a train was to squeeze onto a tram, the other was to wait for non-existent replacement buses. They're not too great at organisation over there. Anyhoo, it fucked up my being able to get to the lesson at all thing. That'll teach me for being a money grabbing capitalist whore.

Approximately 23¾ hours without any sleep later I took off from Warsaw. Somewhere over Europe I got my eyes shut for all of half an hour. The day continued as I landed in Luton and got a bus to London, where my eyes dipped up and down for another 30 minutes. From there, with my eyes looking similar to how they would after an evening smoking with the Wu Tang Clan, I caught the train to Newquay. During this trip I again snuck in a sneaky 30 or 40 minutes shut eye. Not proper sleep, just traveling kip, where the slightest nudge stirs the senses into bewilderment.

The change at Par allowed me to get in a cigarette, to which I received a telling off from a First Great Western employee. On the train I met a chap who was going to Newquay from Falmouth. In a rather non English way, we started up quite a conversation that included loads of things that I actually know about. Teaching English abroad, Falmouth, traveling around Australia, Newquay, blogging. It's quite handy when you have a full round of ammunition for a chat. Not just crap you know, but crap that you're really interested in. Nice one Will. His blog Alternative Current isn't bad either.

At around 5.00 we got into town. Within minutes of arriving I realised not a lot had changed. Abandoned and half completed building sites everywhere, my folks complaining about it and numerous other injustices in the world, my house that is colder in an unseasonably warm March day than my digs in Warsaw on a seasonably cold (-25°c) winter's day. Boy, it's good to be back.

As it was St Patrick's Day, I wasn't going to let 38 hours without sleep stop me from catching up with some friends and having a few pints. The few pints turned into 6 or 7 - my tiredness got in the way of drinking more, but didn't stop me from playing a few tunes at the open mic. Back five minutes and I'm pissed, playing someone else's songs in front of a pub full of people. I've got to work on these bad habits. By that I mean the someone else's songs thing.

Just after 3.00am I finally got myself horizontal and out of the 44¼ hours of consciousness that started two days earlier. For a trip that only took 11 hours of actual traveling, that was a bloody long day.

Homecoming Part 1

The Teenagers sang about fucking some American cunt. I can't say I paid any attention to what Kanye West and Chris Martin were banging on about.

I've been back in my home town for about three hours. Having been up since 6.45am yesterdy morning, not a lot makes sense. The broken phone and laptop aren't helping either. All I know is I need to go for a few pints of the black stuff.

Perhaps tomorrow will hold the answers to the Kanye West-ions I have about the last 38 hours.

Tune in for Homecoming Part 2 tomorrow...

Getting further entangled in the web

Sorry for the pun. I know the term 'web' hasn't been used since about 1997 (or the last mention of some cyber crime in the Daily Mail), but it's late. My concentration is slowly sinking (as is the plan to send me to sleep) but not to such a degree to stop me from joining the latest online trend.

Tonight I got me a Twitter. Fucking hell, a hillbilly with a lisp, I'm really missing writing at three o'clock in the morning aided by a bottle of wine or an eighth of green.

Where was I?

Oh yes, Twitter. I've heard it being mentioned quite a bit recently and what with being a total geek that has a tendency to get into things just as they stop being cool, I thought I'd get on it ahead of the rush. If I'm being honest about the degree of my geek claims, I went on it after reading something that Stephen Fry said on the BBC here.

It's been almost two years since I opened a Facebook account. My thirst for knowledge of my friends' activities and whereabouts vastly outweighs my need to get away from my computer screen and have a chat face to face with them. This seems to be the next big move in permanently gluing our faces to our computer screens or mobile handsets. By getting in now I can offset the (damn I hate to use it again, spiders should have got a copyright on that years ago, alas) web trendsetting against my awfully uncool @hotmail email addresses.

I haven't been on it long enough to tell what it's really like (what with having about nine contacts), but I think the idea is pretty cool. In 160 odd characters, you write what you're up to. It seems to be that simple. It also seems to be vaguely (exactly) similar to Facebook's status updates, which is my favourite bit of it. Meh, photos of your holidays, your favourite commodities, what school you went to, adverts coming at you from all angles... I could live without it. I'm pretty sure, I did for the first 23 years of my life. Obviously the old businesses have got in on the Twitter action (the second of third screen asks you if you would like to add any of these members: Britney Spears - No, Ryan Seacrest - No, Coca-Cola - No... for example), but at least they only have 160 characters to sell you their shit. That is, if you add them.

So I'm going to stare blankly at my screen awaiting news from eight mates, Stephen Fry and The Onion. I don't think I'd get that done in a room full of friends.

Dreams...

According to the 1990's cycloptic pop singer Gabrielle can come true. What the little piratey minx didn't mention was that nine times out of ten they are either: impossible, improbable or so loosely based on reality that it's probably just your brain keeping itself entertained while the rest of the selfish body gets to lie there and do nothing. Another thing old Gabbers forgot to mention was that dreams are a pain the harris to talk about without sounding like a fucking idiot.

I'm probably breaking one of the ten men commandments written somewhere highly witty and so highly macho that only giant men with their strength gained from the gym, where they go to enhance their alpha muscles (as opposed to look at others') so they can lift such intellectual weight off a shelf, a guide to life so overwhelmed by insight that each word has been carefully wanked over for millennia, for each one is worth a thousand mortal breaths: except the title. (Or Im Agazine is waiting in a bin for its revenge.) My real concern was that I've been away from this page for about four days and I felt like writing something this morning.

Ah yes, the dream thing. If I'm going to bear my soul to a dozen people on the internet, I might as well do it properly. Normally my dreams are so inanely boring that for the first few minutes of my day I'm glad to have woken to a world that is not limited to my rather limited imagination. The joy usually wears off when I reach the level of consciousness that reminds me that my life is limited to my imagination as well as my ability to do anything with it. But as the film flickered in my head in the early hours of this morning, I got the idea that for once in my life my head wasn't just showing me pictures that made absolutely no sense. Unlike most of my dreams, this morning there was dialogue. Hopefully this is going to do to my head what talkies did for Hollywood.

There was also a strange amount of product placement.

Have you ever seen the episode of Futurama where people's sleep is invaded by advertising campaigns? I think it's starting to happen. And you know how websites track your previously visited sites and personal data to tailor fit the ads that appear in your browser? (E.g. 20 something male, uses social networking, email, reads the news and watches a bit of porn: TV LICENSING ad.) My brain's adverts had that. I remember looking at a slogan on a billboard which had a misplaced question mark and thinking: why is there a question mark in that brand X advert. (In fact it was one of those double brand ads, like use Friendface on your iWank.) And instinctively, in my sleep, my obsessive nature made me shout at the advertising hoardings like a madman.

Then another advert appeared that made me laugh, because it really seems to have worked in a backward ass kind of way. So I'm walking through the park and then out of nowhere, on the side of a building or floating through the sky like in Blade Runner, another billboard appears: New York City, a place to blog. Sheesh kebab, did that make me laugh. If all NYC has got going for it is ten million morons like my morose self tapping inane thoughts into iBooks at brand coffee houses, America is more fucked than we thought. Hell, we might as well right off the idea of the Western hemisphere already.

But the important thing is that these bizarre images in my stupid head seem to have done the trick. I've woken up an hour earlier than I planned to. Despite not being in the Blogger's City, I've spent the first half an hour of my day writing about the last half an hour of my last day. Things are starting to make sense to me. I've been reading Catcher In The Rye again, which explains the New York setting of this morning's adventure through my skull. I've already finished school so I can't drop out like old Caulfield did. But I can go home and explain to my folks: Mum, Dad, I want to be a famous blogger.

One of those

It seems like I'm following up the last lazy post with another half assed effort. Well, you can't say I'm not consistent.

This evening's entertainment has been brought to you by Zubrówka vodka, a lack of sleep and the letter L.

My time here in Poland is drawing to a close. As of yesterday evening, my time left was reduced by 24 hours. For some retarded reason I got my dates mixed up and thought I was here until a week on Wednesday. It turns out I'm coming back a week on Tuesday. Arse.

My current theme of operation is a bi-polar approach to pretty much anything that I can wrap my head around. The slightest bit of inspiration is marred with an (I'd like to say equally, but I'm not that way inclined) a-pessimism. (That was an attempt to turn pessimism into a Present Perfect verb and to follow on from the 'an': not sure what you call that.) For every idea of something I can do, there's at least two excuses why not.

In the last week I've had the pleasure of finishing my work as a Callan Method English teacher. To re-cap, the Callan Method involves asking (foreign speaking) students quickfire questions (in English). I can't really comment on its standard of teaching English, but I can say it's been the only opportunity to ask Pole's questions like:

If you fell from the top of a building, what would happen?
Have you ever seen a fight in the street? Between two drunks for example...
[And] Why is it some people want to fight the moment they get drunk?

In spite of all the stress of teaching (such as finding and getting to students' classes in the remotest parts of Warsaw, getting them to speak English regardless of their abilities...) I have to say it's more interesting than the usual service industry shit employment that is waiting for me back home. I look forward to my next interview where I can explain that, 'I was paid a reasonable amount of money to talk to people'. Perhaps I should only apply for journalist type jobs when I get back.

During this past week I've been doing conversation classes, which is pretty much what it sounds like. I have a conversation in English, with a Pole. (Yes, I just noticed how amusing it would be if it read: ...with a pole.) I've had the chance to talk to some staff writers of Rzeczpospolita, one of the three national dailies based in Warsaw. Cunningly using my conversation session to do further research on getting into the media, I've reached the familiar conclusion: sell yourself for nothing (or less than you're worth)... maybe you'll get a contract after a few years.

And this is the shit kicker (a poker term, where you're practically unused card is beaten by an opponent's better practically unused card). I'm not 18, 19 or 21. My folks don't own a house in or near the city. My folks don't have any connections of any sort out of the square mile that is Newquay. Journalism seems to be something done by those who can [afford to]. It looks like I'll be serving pints or writing hollow press releases until I can afford a midlife crisis internship.

If the worst comes to the worst I can apply to become an English teacher in England. I used to watch Teachers, it looked pretty cool. I just hope I never come face to face with myself at age thirteen:

Me, 13: 'So this is what you did with your life?'
Me: 'Yeah. You should probably work on your ambitions.'

My fucking short attention span

If I was ten years younger and my parents were lazy, I'm sure I'd be put on a course of Ritalin. My attempts at playing more music have been achieved in many ways. I'm playing my guitar for a matter of minutes, then mucking about on Ableton and just before I came on here to write about it I got bored of my computer's pathetic memory speed and played around with a remix of Black History Month on DSS DJ. I'm playing music, but apart from a crappy drum and piano loop: I haven't come up with much.

And so I'm stood in the kitchen at 2.40am smoking a cigarette and writing.

Now I'm back in bed, slouched in a semi-horizontal position which is probably the cause of my latest back problems. (I'm such an old man. It's embarrassing.)

I want to be able to sit down and produce something vaguely artistically valid. Perhaps that's why I've diverted my attention to the warming text box of Blogger. Blogger doesn't freeze as soon as you enter some text. My computer can cope with Blogger. It doesn't demand too much from my head to try and think outside of the painfully simple (ergo useful) minor pentatonic scale that the neck of my guitar demands. Just tap away and try not to think how late it is and how much all this shit sounds like everybody who has ever been before's shit. Damn, I've fallen into that trap again.

All I wanted to do was change the world, all I managed was to change my underpants.

The French Chick

By popular demand (or rather some nagging from Chris) I have to add an appendix to the night we went to the mafia run strip club.

"I can't believe you left out the French chick!"

OK mate, for your benefit and everybody else's, I give you The French Chick.

As I previously mentioned, the variety of girls at work at Sofia (yes, they have a website!) catered for everybody's tastes: the blind, the old, the drunk. There were even some hot ones. The kind that you wouldn't say no to after a strong cup of tea.

And despite our glances being taken by the not so gut-wrenchingly ugly ones (the kind that wouldn't look a miss in a top shelf magazine), the star of the night was a pretty average looking girl.

With a shoulder length haircut which made me think of this girl from Clerks, I thought we had fallen back into the early 1990s. But in strip clubs, as anywhere else, appearances can be deceiving. Within about thirty seconds of her taking the pole, our "she's not even hot" type comments were stunted mid breath. Despite not being extremely attractive in the face, tits or well... any department, this girl could do to a pole what any chap would like to be done to his pole. I'm no expert on the finesse technicalities of pole dancing, but for all the stretching and athleticism she lacked, she more than made up with the 'this is how I'd fuck you' attitude.

Marveling from our front row seats, with room temperatured beer in our hands, I tried to surmise the appeal of her 'stage presence'.

"Perhaps, and look around you as I say this, it's because she's not some plastic titted, bleach blonde, kerb crawling looking stripper. She's so hot, because in this world of generally accepted standards of hotness, she isn't hot. It's her difference to the crowd that makes her look so awesome. That or we've been staring at fake tits for so long, we just want to get on someone who looks like a real girl. One that we could and have many times before, met somewhere and just nailed the hell out of her for the sake of having sex. She's hot because she seems obtainable."

The irony being that neither of us parted with 50zł to obtain some regulated attention.

My night as a rock star

It's Thursday afternoon. At Stefan Batory School the UFO festival is buzzing in its preparatory phase. The UFO festival, I gather hasn't much to do with aliens, more an opportunity for students to gain some exposure for their artistic work and talents. My involvement in the proceedings is playing a song as part of Olivia's fashion show. The band consists of Piot (playing bass), Alex (playing guitar), Zd [another foreign name I have trouble remembering] (on drums) and myself playing guitar and singing.

We are delayed from being able to practice on the stage by some local teen rock band. They crank out Zombie by The Cranberries on out of tune Gibsons and Fenders. The two questions I put to my band mates are: Are The Cranberries still cool here? And what's the point in having a £2000 guitar if you can't even tune it properly? Two questions I've asked before at open mic nights in the UK. We sit in an unused classroom and play along, unplugged to the tune playing on Alex's mobile phone. Finally, our chance to use the amps and drums arrives. We do about three attempts, which sound all right from my position on stage. Sweet.

Olivia and I work our way through a bottle of wine in the practice session and as she adds the final touches to her girls in the minutes before they go on stage, we're quite a way through the second. I feel quite honoured being allowed to sit in on their preparations. I sit at the window with the wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Around me a dozen hot final year of high school girls are getting ready (i.e. putting their clothes on), I feel like a right VIP. Before the show, I hadn't played in front of an audience for about six months. Even then, an audience consisted of about fifty people in a pub not watching the open mic. I was about to go and play to about 200.

For some reason the girls go out on stage way too fast and I find myself being hurried on to stage. Alex tells me to let everyone know about our lack of preparation. 'We only got together this afternoon and I'm British,' I say into the microphone as we start playing Main Offender. Despite being told previously not to walk down the centre aisle and that the show wasn't over, rogue members of the audience start to filter down the area used as the catwalk as the girls come out for a final appearance. I don't remember much. In my head the whole song lasted about ten seconds long.

We leave the hall to a decent applause, which some I have to steal for myself, in spite of all the work my girlfriend has done. We pack up all the clothes, equipment and head to the nearest pub. The nearest pub is an underground rock bar, which reminds me distinctly of the (now defunct) Vic Bars in Newquay. I feel a bit out of place in a black jacket, white shirt and skinny jeans, but I don't give a fuck. I'm on the performance buzz. By about midnight our friends decide to depart, they have school again in the morning. I don't.

As I come in to my apartment, I'm met by my house mate Krzysiu (here in referred to as Chris, because I'm lazy). 'Do you want to go out drinking?' I ask him. He does. Awesome.

We get the bus up to Plac Trzech Krzyzy and walk over to Lustro. Lustro is Polish for mirror, but as it's that kind of place, it's suspiciously empty at just after 12.30am. 'We should go to Sofia,' says Chris. 'The strip club?' I ask, pointlessly. Yes, the strip club.

At the door is a chap about three times the size of me. He takes 50zl off Chris and points the way. We check our coats at the cloakroom and head inside. The place is massive. There are two podiums, dozens of tables and chairs, a massive red sofa in the shape of lips. We scope the employees and clientele, avoiding eye contact for two very different reasons. The are practically as many naked or almost naked girls as there are men, dressed in either designer suits of sports gear. Behind the bar, behemoths of men with ruler straight buzz cuts man the taps. 'Ex-KGB, definitely,' I joke. 'I wouldn't say that too loud in here,' replies Chris.

'Jesus, I feel like I've walked into a scene from a Bond movie. I wonder how many people died to build this place.' I say to Chris as he takes in the view of a pair of fake tits stood defying gravity on an upside down dancer. The variety amongst the girls is quite impressive. There are token stripper looking strippers with fake tits and blonde hair, some look quite attractive despite their token stripper garments, some are just repulsive. They each take turns to approach us for business and as the night grows later our explanations grow shorter. Some we don't even look at as we shoe them away, 'No, thanks.' Now where were we in the conversation?

Chris and I debated our place in the club as a couple of poor drunk twentysomethings compared to the guys in the club with money. I think the general gist was: They're here because they have to spend money to look at women who want their money, we're here for a laugh, ergo we are the cool ones.

We decide it might be better if we go to a normal club and drink beer that we can afford and maybe dance with some girls that don't expect to be paid for the pleasure. The only place we find open at 3.30am on a Thursday morning is Underground. It's a consistently shit place. Every time we go it gets worse and after our first port of call, the crowd of about three ugly girls doesn't get our attention. Good job too, with us both having girlfriends.

At about 5.30am we decided to call it a night. After beginning to walk home, we bundled ourselves into a taxi and went home.

It's cold outside

And it's pretty flipping nippy in here, as I try and regain feeling in my toes.

It's quite late, I'm quite tired and the last thing I feel like is tapping away on my keyboard. So you all have to wait until my next feature length blog. So this is kind of a trailer.

In the last week I've played a (one song) gig at a fashion show, hungout backstage with half dressed hot girls, drank my weight in alcohol and taken some curious substances before visiting a curious strip club. Well, that all happened in one night to be honest. Rock n fucking roll. I'm going to have to apply myself if I want to tell the story properly.

I hope you understand why I've got to keep you waiting.

Pissing in the dark

Don't you just love it when visits to the łazienka (that's Polish for bathroom) fill your head with abstract joy? My last one did. I'll sleep happy tonight.

As I stood over the basin of the toilet, clutching a lighter in my hand, I had an epiphany.

For in one hand, I had man's most useful tool and in the other I had fire. I was stood, not in the snow covered surroundings of the outside, but in a centrally heated bathroom, in a centrally heated apartment. I was using a lighter that was in perfectly useful state. As was the equipment in the other hand. Yet, this being Poland, things are never as simple as they should be. I found myself playing the toilet by ear. Pissing in the dark.

My urinal adventure sums up my daily life. Take a normal everyday task, add an unknown quantity of the unknown and see what happens. Being late for work is the usual result. It also seems to relate to my life on other levels.

For example, I've decided to head back to England in the near future. What I shall do when I arrive is yet undecided. Where I will live has yet to be decided. I'm a bit in the pissing dark on that one.

And due to a total lack of being in the vicinity of my mates back in England, I've no idea what the hell they are up to (or in the case of one good friend, who doesn't know himself what he's up to). You could say I'm pissing in the dark on that one too.

But the most relieving thing about my toe dampening situation which I can apply to my life in comparison: at least I'm not shitting in the dark.

Time To Pretend

Every night when I go to bed, I can't wait for the morning to greet me. As I open my eyes to the silver [grey] skies (if I'm lucky enough for it to be light already) my heart is filled with joy, the prospects of another day at work is enlightening.

My heart explodes as I find myself arrive at a bus stop on time to find that I'm either five minutes late or five minutes early for my bus to work. Either way, I'm not going to make it on time to class and my brain fills with excitement at this possibility.

I'm met at a school by a dinner lady looking person (apparently a caretaker) who doesn't understand a word I say, as I try to explain in broken Polish that: I'm an English teacher and I'd like the keys to one of the classrooms please. My sides rip with laughter as when walking up the stairs I hear her joking in a snide voice to her caretaking friends, 'Dzien dobry, jestem angielskim.'

LOL. Big fat, squirm around on the floor because you've stuffed your face with too many cases of screw the Englishman in the ass laugh out louds.

You see, today I got paid. In the normal world of common sense, this would be a day of joy and happiness. A time for buying luxuries and ignoring the impeding three weeks of poverty. Alas, in my world it has been a time of reckoning.

This is because my employer has decided it is appropriate to punish my lateness to classes (entirely due to poor knowledge of the city and its SHITHOUSE public transportation system) by docking my wages. Apparently, if I'm to survive the next month I have to live on about a KitKat and egg shells for my daily meals. And they don't even have KitKats here.

So for the next few hours I'm going to be in a world where I can leap from building to building on legs made of tagliatelle and the worst thing that will happen is I'll find myself stood front of a school assembly with my shiny hairless balls on display. [I don't have bald nuts, my dreams are just so vivid they can account for physical development depending on when the scene is set.]

And then I'll wake up and find myself in my room, with my hairy balls on display in just as much despair.

About the other night

It's been a fair few years since I've had to don a suit in the name of educational celebration.

Actually, scratch that. Last June I stumbled out of bed, still pissed, for my graduation. My old man had to shout at me from the garden to wake me up. Well, that's what happens if you stay up all night drinking Asda Smart Price beer and playing Pro Evolution Soccer.

Where was I?

Ah yes. Saturday was the night of my girlfriend's prom. Because it started at about 8pm there was no chance of arriving straight from bed. All suited and booted (and some fine boots they are) we got in the party spirit with a few cans of Żywiec and a couple of shots of vodka.

After half an hour's milling about the crowds of suited chaps, hoards of future Bond girls (mine the most beautiful) and cooing parents, it was time to do the Polonez. For those reading who aren't of Polish heritage: the Polonez is a traditional national dance. It involves walking with a partner, hand in hand, whilst doing a funny little limp every three steps. Also, it involves a large number of people doing it (about a hundred of so) who walk around the room for a bit, then walk under the arms of each other (a bit like London's Burning if I remember my childhood correctly). A human version of the Snake game on Nokia mobile phones.

Once the Polonez was completed (quite successfully, I'm told) we did the Waltz. It turns out that all that practice paid off to some extent. Although I'd rather be shot than go on Strictly Come Dancing.

Following all the dancing it was time for some liquid refreshment. Despite alcohol being banned from the premises, we resorted to some devious means to have a few beers and a smoke in peace. Behind a bookcase in one of the classrooms a whole in the wall led to a disused staircase, that led to... well, quite a large amount of disused space. After one set of stairs there was a room (or two), which had another set of stairs that led to the roof. A great little spot to have a toot on a pipe and a few cans of beer.

It was in these disused rooms that during World War II three school friends planned high-jinx against the Nazi occupiers. I'd love to be able to tell you more about these guys, but that's about all I know at the minute. I'll have to read up on them in the future. It's always a pleasure getting wrecked in a place of historical value.

Back to 2009: In hindsight, it would have been a bit easier, but nowhere near as cool, just to drink and smoke in the toilets like some less adventurous souls at the party. A bit pissed, the run of the mill catering quite was rather adequate.

Filled up with food and booze, we then hit the dance floor to some seriously dated disco tunes. Ray Von would be proud: Footloose, Ghostbusters, it was like they were playing at a British student union. Awesome.

When the beer up in the roof ran out we decided to head into town. As it was about 2am at this point, our timing wasn't ideal. Every club around Pl. Pilsudkiego had a queue about thirty people long. If there wasn't one queue, there was two or three queues as people tried to jostle their way in as VIPs.

Having queued at Opera for about twenty minutes without moving, we tried our luck around the corner at Cinnamon. The place had a smaller line, maybe due to the door men's fascist entrance policy. My 'Sorry mate, how much is it?' (in English) line didn't work the slightest. (I think too many people are trying that one. Need to be more creative next time.)

When we finally got inside I regretted the choice of venue. Ear drum raping hard house pumped through the speakers. Chopped up (that means 'on coke' to my foreign friends) thirtysomethings in wanky high street/whorehouse fashions crowded the place; doing something that neither resembled dancing nor remaining stationery. The consolation of not having to pay at the door was torn out of my arsehole as I was charged 30zł for two 33cl bottles of beer. Not going back there again.

In comparison to my own prom (if you can call a Year 11 Ball that) it seems these guys know how to put on a decent shindig. Apart from episodes of Saved By The Bell, my knowledge of proms isn't that extensive. Mine was so long ago, that apart from getting stoned and pulling a whitie beforehand; there's not a lot I remember about it. Climbing into loft space. Dancing like a grown up. Smoking on the roof. Being surrounded by a densely populated number of hot girls in an educational institute... I think the night went pretty well.

Distracted from distraction

My on and off affair with time wasting has reached an annual high. Since arriving here in Warsaw I’ve managed to wile away many any hour by devouring a small selection of books. This is not something I’d call time wasting. It was about this time last year I complained about not being able to read for pleasure (I had the small matter of writing a 12,000 word dissertation on top of the final semester’s work). I’m enjoying reading. It’s all the shit I do when I’m not reading, spending time with my girlfriend, working or sleeping – that I can deem time wasting. To be honest, that doesn’t leave a great deal of time.

My latest distraction has been (woefully uncultured, I know) a computer game. I’ve spent about a week playing Virtua Tennis 3. It’s a bit addictive. But there in lies its attraction to me. I switch on the computer and compulsively play game after game, after set after set, after match after match, oblivious to the outside world. Oblivious to the damage it is causing to my health and relationships with those around me. It’s very much like an addiction.

Because the thing I’ve noticed recently is that despite all my efforts to piss around on my guitar for hours on end and come up with some cool little sounds, for one reason or another, I’m not. I spent two months missing playing the guitar. Then I bought one. Now two months later, I still miss playing the guitar. I just don’t do it. Maybe it’s because I’ve found a million (three or four) other things to do instead. More likely, I’m inclined to believe, there’s a weird hippie vibe thing going on (or lack there of) getting in my way.

At university, I rarely had the problem of picking up a guitar and making a sound. Numerous afternoons, evenings and early hours into the morning were spent with a wooden box on my crotch. And it made for some interesting sounds. Despite the ever looming pressure of third year university work, there was always time to have a little muck about. Sometimes aided by intoxicants of one form or another, sometimes not. But there was always music.

It’s quite sad now that I think about it, that I’m no longer in that position. I seem to be incapable of recapturing my affinity with the guitar. Is it down to my location?

Where I studied in England, Falmouth, has been a retreat for artists of one sort or another for centuries. Without wanting to sound a little bit thick (or maybe it makes me sound trendy) the university is in all reality an expanded art college (Art School Writer – get it?). A friend of mine, a crusty, as some would call him, told me about Falmouth’s spiritual links. It’s all very complicated and goes over my head, but from what I remember him saying: there’s something to do with lay-lines running through it (?).

Either way, I can’t help but feel I’ve left some part of my ability back in my college town. Perhaps it’s because I’m not surrounded by Guardian reading, line drawing, acoustic beating, spiritual healing liberals. I can’t say I’ve seen many around this city. I’ve got nowhere to play, so why play? I’ve got no one to compete with, so why practice? It’s a bit of a spot I find myself in. And one of reasons I’m missing home so much. It would just help a little if I could write a bloody song about it!

Slow News Day

It's only 10.39, but I've figured since I've got a few hours to spend until my next lesson I might as well get some writing done. Not much else to do with my day.

I was on the Metro just now, when I noticed the front pages of my fellow commuters' newspapers. Upon the front page, the page usually reserved for the most interesting news, was a picture of Big Ben engulfed in snow.

'There's snow in England, stop everything, we have to laugh at their incompetence!' I'm not kidding. Listening to Radio 1 while cooking lunch yesterday, I heard that all London buses had been removed from service due to the 5cm of snow. This was followed by a barrage of comments from disbelieving travelers, 'Bloody typical' was their typical English reaction to such typical English incompetence.

Trawling through the BBC website to see if it has snowed back home in Cornwall (I'm quite surprised that my Mum hasn't text me with the groundbreaking news) I came across this beauty of a pic. Such is the historical relevance of a snow day, some smart alec has installed this monumental day into the annals of history. (Nice one Ms Legg)

In between ignoring group requests on Facebook, I came across some pictures of it snowing in Newquay. I can't remember the last time it snowed in Newquay. Normally the sea air is too much of a killjoy to let the snow settle. It must be freezing, like -1c or something.

Photo credit goes to my friend Kirsten, who when not taking pictures of the snow, takes awesome pictures of the awesome local surf at KFishSurf.com

In non-snow related news today, I was treated to some more traditional Polish bus etiquette. As I was only traveling for a few stops I stood in the door way. As the stop approached I found myself boxed in by two rather large chaps and a rather large old woman. Making my presence noticed, I tried to edge away from the enveloping flippy doors. Unfortunately my fellow passengers gave me insufficient room to manoeuver. My random attempt of courtesy went unheeded by one of the rotund gentleman, who decided that if I wasn't going to get out of his way, he'd get in mine. And proceeded to walk straight through me as he exited the bus in a fat guy spin with my leg catching his momentum. What a twat. I'll remember to use my ability to teleport next time I catch a fucking bus.

Mobile phones + Poland = Seering pain in the ass

Somedays I wish I didn't live in the era of mobile communications. A simpler time, where if you need to make a phone call you would have to locate a telephone and remember a number. 1999 perhaps.

As I roam the streets of Warsaw, I can't help but notice the range of mobile phones that people are using. Some skinny and sexy, some are fat and battered; also the mobile phones that they use come in all appearances too.

My own experience with the mobile in Poland has taught me not to laugh at those unfortunate enough to have the newest handset with 5 mega pixel camera, MP3 player, FM radio and HSDPA internet access. (Seriously, FM? Is there a conspiracy against DAB Radio?) I myself have been using phones that have seen better days.

It took about six weeks of being here in Poland before I decided that I couldn't live with the old handset that my girlfriend donated me: a top of the range Sony CMD J70. With a display not too dissimilar to that of a GameBoy, I felt strangely at home with it, but it's ten message memory and incapability to read messages with foreign characters (ą,ę,ł,ó...) was a pain the arse.

So I parted with my cash and took my English mobile, this fancy looking piece of silicon ass to a shop to get the SIM lock removed. Ah, happy days. A digital camera for taking amusing holiday snaps, an MP3 player with a 2Gb memory, room for about six months worth of messages. It's a great little phone.

Two days later and I was on my way home from work. Entering Ratusz Arsenal Metro station, I beeped my wallet on the turnstile and CRUNCH. The barrier didn't make way for my sparrowy legs. It felt like the rest of my body passed through to the other side, but my thighs were impaled on the metal pole. 'Motherfucker!' I cried, half under my breath. Later that night, settling down to sleep, I picked up my phone to set the alarm for the next morning. 'Son of a fucking bitch!' The (oh so beautiful LCD) screen had cracked. A black scar scratched across the digital image of my girlfriend confined in my phone.

Back to basics again.

So, I've been using the GameBoy phone for the past few months. Every time I get a message that is two messages long or has a 'ł,ą,ó...' I've had to switch SIM cards with phones with Olivia, to read them. Luckily this week I've got a new hand-me-down. Perfect. It can read messages, it can send them and if pushed to the limits of Poland's second rate coverage: it can make a fucking phone call! Really, it's a little bit too good at the first if I'm being fair. We were sat in the kitchen this evening when the phone writhed around in my pocket in an orgasmic fit of ecstacy. Bzzz-'Ping', bzzz-'ping', bzzz-'ping!' What the hell is it doing? 'Message sent', 'Message sent', 'Message sent'. What message?

After switching it off and back on again, I checked the Sent Items menu. My phone, as a sign of disrespect for not having its keys locked, decided to send twenty blank messages to my friend. I think I might have to get some more credit tomorrow.

Out of touch

'Your out of touch, I'm out of time, cut your hands on the edge of lime...'

I've never really liked that song, whichever version springs to mind first: it's terrible. There seems to be a penchant for terrible music in this country.

I know I've moaned in the past about Radio 1 and its tendency to kill a song before it's even been released, but I'm seriously missing radio programmed by people who know that we are in the 21st Century.

If I judged my surroundings by the music I hear on the radio over here, I'd hazard a guess that it's somewhere between 1986 and 1993. The people who chose the playlists must really have fond memories of this period. Having your eardrums forced into submission, you can still feel like those first winters mornings free of communist control. All to the sweet sounds of Charles and Fucking Eddie.

That's a bit harsh on my favourite interacial (musical) duo from the late 80s/90s. Since arriving here and hearing Would I Lie To You? about 37,000 times, the song really has grown on me.

Where stations try and rebel against the Goodbye Lenin logic (it's still 1989, it's still 1989) they only seem to have stumbled across the kind of shit music (if you can call it that) that boy racers tend to emit from their suped up Suzuki Swifts. Not a day goes by when I don't hear Guru Josh Project's Infinity at least four times. [I just had to check the Radio 1 site to find out a) The name of the artist, and b) That it is a new release.] Perhaps when I arrive back in England I'll hang out in car parks to get nostalgic about the music in Poland that I so dearly miss. I doubt it.

Bizarrely, it's in the high street stores that I hear music that I recognise and/or know and don't despise. The other day we were in H&M (we love you globalisation) and I heard something that sounded like The Killers. I'm pretty sure it was The Killers. Only The Killers sound like The Killers. And once I get hold of whatever their new album is called and listen to it a few times, I'll profess that it's great. (At least that's what happened with Sam's Town.) About a month or so back we were Christmas shopping in a big department type store and they were playing Ladyhawke's Paris Is Burning!

So it seems that now I'm back online I can get back into the habit of being in touch with decent music. It's been a quiet, lonely winter without any new tunes to croon to (yes, more Killers!). And if it means not having to go to H&M to do so, all the better!

'Swimming'

Today, we went to go swimming. Note that that’s not ‘we went swimming’. Nothing as simple as wanting to flap around in an unco-ordinated manner can be achieved easily in this country. Haven’t you been reading?

In preparation to go to the pool, Olivia asked me the (relatively absurd – to an Englishman) question, ‘Have you got any flip-flops?’ Why on earth would I need flip-flops to go swimming? We’re going to the pool, not the beach, right? After a few minutes of cross-cultural debate, she gave me a pair of sandals and I shut up. Then came the question of what I’d be wearing. ‘You can wear these, it’s all I could find,’ said Olivia, as she passed me some shorts smaller than the boxers I was wearing under my jeans. If the 1980s called up to report an artefact missing, I’d let them take it back without argument.

Twenty minutes scanning Tesco for some more suitable swimwear provided no desirable substitute. Their two options: Speedos or Speedo shorts, were not going to be seen on me in the next thirty years. I’m not wearing anything like that until I’ve got a beer gut and some kids to embarrass on the beach, I thought. We decided to leave it to chance. Either see what’s for sale at the pool or I go looking like a lime green David Hasselhoff.

We were down in the foyer of the pool complex to check our shoes into the cloakroom. All the hygienic hubub that Olivia explained to me earlier was happening before me. Another overly complicated process that Poland seems to have an affection for. Having been seated for all of five seconds and with my first shoe half off, an angry cleaning lady hovered in front of us. Let me make a mess before you try and clean it up! I thought. Her apparent hatred increased as I found it impossible to place my flip-flop on without balancing my shoed foot on the ground. We duly bagged up our shoes and handed them over with our coats to the cloakroom attendant.

‘Fuck that,’ I responded to seeing the price (four times that of Tesco’s) cut-off cycling shorts behind a second counter. It was time for some Baywatch action. Taking a rubbery wristband from a third desk, Olivia and I parted ways to our respective changing rooms.

I don’t fucking believe it. Opening the door to the changing room (corresponding to the number on my wristband, not that anyone told me) I was greeted by the sight of the cleaner with OCD. Seeing a solitary corner with a shower curtain, I concealed myself from the miserable bitch to get changed. Wow, these are even smaller with me in them. The material finished about an inch from the tip of my cock. Acres of thigh that have never seen daylight were exposed to the fluorescent glow of the pool lighting. I’m going to blind people, I thought.

Stepping out into the pool area, I was immediately stopped in my tracks by a lifeguard. ‘You can’t go in the pool in those shorts,’ explained Olivia. We dropped into the jaccuzzi to discuss the matter. Apparently my efforts to wear (the most) appropriately sized shorts was inappropriate. The most appropriate shorts to be worn in the pool (but not the jaccuzzi, the slide or the sauna) were skin tight swimming shorts. The ones that I refused to buy earlier. The ones that through their lack of surface area revealed more skin than the shorts I was wearing, and with their body hugging characteristics: reveal the contents contained within in high definition.

Restricted from using the pool and the activity of swimming, Olivia, myself and my hideous shorts had a play on the slide before going into the steam room and the sauna. It was a good job that there was no one else there, as I noticed myself emerge from the leg of my shorts. ‘Check,’ I looked at Olivia and then down to my crotch so she’d follow my gaze. ‘They are pretty inappropriate.’

Exiting the showers, I again met my nemesis in the changing rooms. It’s a good job I’m English, I thought as I doubled checked that I had my miniature shorts on. Again she looked at the square foot of ground that I was occupying and moaned something in Polish. Helpless and not wanting to help her in any way, I ignored her snide sounding foreign remarks. What else was I supposed to do? And with a customer comes first work ethic, she left, leaving the changing room door wide open so I could feeze my tits off and her floor could dry quicker.

Just a few rules so you can enjoy the pool a bit better

C-c-cold

Thank God, it’s snowing again. It must be getting warmer. For the past few days the skies have been clear of cloud and precipitation. The sun has had complete access to glare across the snow left behind on Friday. It’s beautiful. And freezing.

For the first time in my life, I’ve found it impossible to roll a cigarette. Wind, rain and snow has never dampened my pursuit to make a cigarette, yet as I walk along the street, the numbing of my hands has made my task impossible.

While the Christmas card image of snow covered cars and pavements lasted just a day or so, the city looks different in the fall out of the arctic weather. Piles of snow are now tinted yellow. It would seem that there are as many dogs as people in the neighbourhood. I hazard to imagine the origins of the red tinted snow outside my supermarket.

From my window I can see a white expanse free of buildings or traffic. Last week there was a river, at least two hundred metres wide. I don’t think I’ll be the first person to test the security of the frozen water. Just thinking of my next trip outside brings on feelings of hypothermia.

When I do go outside, I’m attired in almost my entire wardrobe. I leave the doors and hinges, as it’s uncomfortable enough wearing three pairs of socks, a vest, long-johns (sexy!), jeans, t-shirt, a shirt, two jumpers, a scarf, gloves, hat and my shoes. God damn my fucking shoes. Of the three pairs I own, none are designed for the winter climate. The pair of Converse copies are like walking around bare-foot. My fancy shoes provide barely any more insulation. I opt for my trainers. They look shit and holes are appearing in the soles. However, they are my best option. Until I get paid, they are the only option. No one can look good in this kind of weather.

Somewhere between Christmas and New Year's

I’ve just got back to my flat from Gdańsk. Six hours on the train has left me feeling totally drained. I should probably go to the shop and pick up some food, as I have nothing in the kitchen. But I hate shopping. Eating isn’t a great pleasure of mine either.

I’m feeling quite spacey. Lack of food methinks. That and the half of a rolly I’ve just had possibly. Instead of sitting around the family house with nothing to do, I’m lying on my bed with nothing to do. Force myself to write something. Be productive or something. I just had a little play on the Mega Drive games I downloaded, it seems like my attention span has decreased in age. It feels like I can’t focus or be entertained by anything for more than five minutes any more. God knows what I’ll be like at 30. I doubt I’ll have free time to spend when I’m 30. I might as well make the most of it while I’ve got it.

Drum my fingers on the keyboard while I think of something to write. I’m not even thinking. Just churning out dirge from the shallowest enclaves of my head.

Something documentary like. Come on Horner. OK, so the past three days of holiday fun has been entertaining. Three days in the company of the parents Borszyńska has been quite hard work. I believe the majority of the time spent in the carriage was time spent witnessing Jerzy in comedian mode. I can’t be sure as I don’t understand that much Polish, I couldn’t help thinking I was the butt of most of it. I don’t know if I was or not. That’s not the point. I’m not even sure what the point is. I think it something to do with the lack of expertise in Polish. I’m feeling quite lost not understanding anything. The best bit of the Christmas trip was mucking about with Olivia’s cousin Bartek. He’s 12. Mucking about knows no language. Nor does making fart noises.

The house in Gdańsk was just that. A real house. Apparently I’ve started to forget that they exist. You don’t see many in Warsaw. Four walls, stairs, multiple bathrooms. Crazy. The place was situated on a hill too. Imagine that! Perhaps that’s the issue I have with Warsaw. It’s too flat.

So… plans. Olivia’s coming over in a while (vague time frames, my favourite) and then we’re going to drink some beer. Not much alcohol was consumed during the festive period. Not at all like the Christmas I’m used to. Bloody religion. Getting in the way of fun. Seriously. In the four days we spent there we went to church three times! (Although once was just a drop in visit to say ‘Hi’ to God, I had to explain to Ol that it still counted as a trip to church despite that lack of service.) Hmm, what else? Lots of sitting around thinking, what next, I think.

Yeah, what next? The eternal question. At some point in the next few months I’m going to have to figure out what exactly the fuck I am going to do when we get back to Britain. Hell, I can’t even figure out what to do this afternoon. As the next step to my writing about stuff (the term stuff can be easily applied) I’m going to try and produce some videos. Get my stupid face on YouTube. Expand on the creativity stakes. Plus if I have to speak to a camera I’ll have to use it for something other than boring mind wandering rants.

Getting older, not getting wiser

(Originally written 02/01/09 - 08/01/09)

I look to the clock in the bottom hand corner of the screen. It’s 23:59. I carry on playing my guitar, trying to come up with a decent sounding riff. One that hasn’t been written by somebody else. I’ve been playing the guitar for about half my life and have rarely spent any of that time playing my own music. It’s time for a change, I think.

I look again. It’s 00:01. I am officially 25 years old.

This is only the second birthday I’ve had away from home. And seeing as I’m only nine minutes into it, I think I can leave the critique until the day is done.

Away from home. What does that even mean anyway? I’ve never really felt at home in Newquay. The vast majority of my time at home in Newquay is usually spent imagining what lies for me out of town.

It’s like with the music. In Newquay I’ve played open mic nights since I was about 16. Pretty much all of them (barring one or two) were spent playing covers. That is what is popular, that is what works well. Also, I’ve been busking for a similar amount of time. Likewise, playing covers. That’s what works. That’s what pays well.

When I started learning to play the guitar I saw a Beatles cover band while on a family holiday in Tenerife. It seemed odd to me for someone with so much creative talent to devote their time and energy emulating someone else’s hard work. Yet here I am almost ten years down the line caught in the exact position. I’m not playing open mic nights or busking. I have no reason to play songs that aren’t mine. It is time for a change.

Olivia made a rather simple fact that I’ve never really thought about abundantly clear earlier. She said that business is providing something that someone doesn’t have, but needs in exchange for something else. I’ve never really been business minded. Hence, as a musician without any of my own material, I’m nothing more than a humanoid jukebox. I don’t want to be one of those. Vacuous peddlers of plastic pop from televised talent shows never got me playing the guitar. It was real musicians, who had something to sing about that got me playing the guitar. Fuck, I need to stop talking about playing the guitar and play the bloody guitar.

* * * * * * *

I think I did stay up for a little while playing my guitar, coming to terms with how old I am, moping and all that. It wasn't until the evening that my age and experience really shone through.

At about 8pm my friends Anna, Piot, Karaś came over to drink some vodka. It's something of a national drink over here. So we sat around the table and talked bollocks and drank shot after shot of vodka. You know, the same kind of drinking that is done around the world.

At about 11, Piot and Karaś made for the exit, explaining that they had some studies to do or something. I can't really remember. Within minutes of their departure we were blessed with the arrival of more of my friends. Instead of just bringing a copious amount of alcohol like my first guests did, my friend Żuk shows up with a bag of weed. 'We should roll one each!' He tells me. Yeah, sure why not, what harm can that do?

As I take my final drag on the joint, the penny drops. Rather, instead of the penny it's the vague outline of sobriety I have left in my body. My bed has about five people sat on it, yet I manage to roll back into a spot behind my girlfriend's back to obscure myself from the view of the party. After about five minutes of lying down, gripping on to the bed for balance, I stumble into the bathroom and release the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Out of my senses, I allow my girlfriend to put me to sleep, in my housemate's bed (mine has half a dozen people sat on it). My birthday is over.

About fucking time

This might sound like a token 'bad dad' from a token bad Disney film, but:

Kids I promise, I'll try harder this time.

If this was a bad Disney film, my current blog would've run off with the blatently smarmy blog from next door. I don't know what my blog sees in that son of a bitch: he's more work obsessed and money driven than I am. Plus, he can't even take our genetically engineered baby blogs to the blog pool because of something that happened in the town that he used to live in. How does he spend so little time at work, earn a great living and know all the ice-cream salesmen in the area on first name basis?

Fortunately this is not a Disney film. Nor is it a Disney blog. I wonder what a Disney blog would be comprised of. I'm too scared to look at the one I saw before. Pinnochio was doing something to Bambi that I don't really understand.

Where was I? Oh yeah, let me pick the fragments of brain I have left from the tepid pool of family values and perfectly formed smiles that I seem to have fallen into.

The bad dad character's empty promises have just had their arseholes ripped wide open. 'Oooh, I'll write more in the New Year...'... 'I do believe in Santa Claus' and all that shit. No more my over paid, straight to DVD friend. As of about twenty minutes ago, I just got my laptop hooked up to the internet. I'm at home, I'm online and I'm feeling fine!

Except that last bit isn't quite true. I feel like shit. I've spent the past four days at the mercy of a Slavic strength manflu. It serves me right for spending the week wishing I was high. I've spent the weekend off my fucking rocker. And it hasn't cost me a penny neither. Granted, I can't quite feel my fingertips, palms of hands (or any body parts with nerve endings), I'm either on fire or feel like I'm trapped under an ice rink, and I'm sweating so much I might as well just relieve myself of what dignity I have left and relieve myself. But I'm feeling kind of spaced. Awesome.

So yes, after months of going to coffee shops to use free internet (which obviously costs a coffee), I have internet in a place that I need it. Now roll the credits and I'll stick up all the stuff I've written in the last few weeks as the sequel.

(Which means I'll be played by a different actor, but we'll recycle the gags, you'll never notice.)