The yarn unspun, Part Two

Six months have passed since the events I'm about to tell you happened [I thought I uploaded this, but it's been hiding in the drafts folder]. Fortunately they have been burnt into my memory for the rest of my life, which would not have been a nice thought to cross my mind at the time. Anyway, I digress...

And lo, in the distance, at the end of a long and winding slip road, there stood our salvation. The Pidou (which I assume is pronounced as we pronounce 'paedo') cash and carry. Open all hours for truckers looking to pick up a snack or cheap hooch to take back to the UK. We headed straight for the snack option.



Our journey from A to B through torrential rain felt like an eternity

There was bread, which the French are pretty good at, and cheese (which they also have a talent for). I bought a jar of roll-mops to expand the sustenance and some chocolate that reminded me of advent calendars. A tube of Pringles helped get rid of the shitty Christmas chocolate taste. Our feast was well earned. It was the first food since breakfast back at Fiesta in Bow.

Somewhat nourished, we decided to make camp against the front wall of our Pidou. Exhausted, I found myself in little bother or discomfort at curling up under a sleeping bag. Somehow, I drifted off to a peaceful slumber.

THUNK!

Weird voices and noises were present in my sleep, but that last one brought me back to some kind of consciousness. Bleary eyed, I turned to Dunc for some kind of answer. He was sat next to me staring a thousand miles into the distance. I followed the line of his sight and saw about a dozen asylum seekers chasing after a lorry, shouting in whatever language they spoke.

'This is a bit sketchy.' I thought to myself and being a total coward wrapped myself tighter into the sleeping bag in an lame attempt to hide from the monsters. The walk had taken such a toll on my unhealthy body, no amount of fear could keep me from returning to my doze. But it wasn't a complete slumber. How could it be?

The pitter patter of desperate feet returned again. Through my half opened eyes I could see men trying to find entry into a parked truck outside the shop. The driver exited the shop and Dunc warned him of the situation. 'Is that really a good idea?' I screamed to myself, but found no way of communicating this to Dunc. The driver diligent to the fine he'd receive if found with illegal immigrants in his truck scouted around his vehicle before driving off. 'This is fucked.' We told each other.

Another THUNK! hit my eardrums. 'We need to get inside!' screamed Dunc. From my seat, I saw to my left an asylum seeker; Dunc stood up to my right. I was sat in the middle of a stand off and knew little of it. The asylum seeker had squared up to Dunc with a brick in his hand. Dunc stood his ground, hoping to dissuade the man from launching his projectile. It didn't work.

Desperate, we piled into the shop and explained the situation to the night staff. They seemed happy to let us hide for cover. Happy or not; I didn't give a shit. There was no way we were going out there again before daylight.

And so we sat in our cafe collecting our thoughts. Myself trying to piece things together through the blur of fear and unconsciousness and Dunc with an all too clear recollection of the events just gone. When would morning come and let us leave this island, our Somme?

Morning came and with it a bus load of booze cruisers from the Midlands. To interested ears of elderly gentleman we told them of the night before and our reasons for being holed up in a service station just outside Calais. 'We're hitchhiking to Warsaw,' we told them. A younger lad responded, 'That's right near us, Walsall.' They couldn't unfortunately give us the lift we needed to officially start our hitchhiking.

During the night we worked on our destination signs. After about twenty minutes of standing in the sun my patience was already wearing thin. A truck drove past us and slowed down. We chased after it waving at the driver.

'I'm going to Luxembourg if that's any use to you,' we looked at each other and silently agreed. Anywhere but here!

Intermission

Seeing as you good people are still coming on to this page, I feel it's only fair to direct you to my current blog As In Jack which I've been slowly working on.

Trust, there will be a conclusion to this story. When I get time to write it and more importantly remember what the fuck happened.

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.