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.