|A long entry, but fairly humorous. As per, we nearly missed the flight. Craig and Richie went to the wrong gate and were lining up for a flight to Porto.
Catching the tube into the city center we bought 8 tickets. Only just made the train, Richie ran and managed to make it with all our tickets. Tickets were handed out. We seem to have one extra. Maybe it’s a receipt? Where’s Steve? He was left standing on the platform.
Few drinks Friday night. Having a heightened Gay-dar Jeremy queried: “I think this is a gay bar.” Discussions were furious. Apart from the waiter, there was no clear evidence, just a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Some might say it was the lack of girls (which proved to be a problem the entire weekend), some might say it was the big heart on the front window, but most would say it was the open plan toilets with no doors.
Ended up in an Irish Bar Matt spotted. Over the course of the weekend he showed his true gift – instinctively knowing where an Irish Pub was even if it couldn’t be seen. Kinda like Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber training in Star Wars.
Saturday checked out the city. Some cool sites, but parched mouths led us to an Irish Pub Matt had spotted while we were flying down the road on a bus – “I think there’s an Irish bar just back there”. Beers and English football in an Irish Pub. Yes, we had immersed ourselves in the German culture. Back to the hotel for cards and drinking games. Someone called “Let’s trash the hotel”. While at the bottom of an 8 man pile on I let fly with a punch and hit Jimmy square in the nuts “Don’t go near Jim when he’s in a nut punching mood”, to which Jimmy replied “All I could see was this fist coming towards me and I couldn’t do anything about it”. More male bonding than a Selley’s No More Gaps explosion at the post office.
We still had one mini-keg left, so headed outside to wait for the taxi. Laybacks on the pavement, taxi pulls up, sees antics, continues driving. Eventually she stopped further down the street and we ran after her. “Takes us to this place” (A strip club). Off we head to the west side of town. Get out of the taxi. No sign of the strip club so off to the Kebabery. Jeremy orders his kebab. And waits. Eventually he asks “Where is my kebab?”
“You did not order a kebab”
“Yes I did. Where is my kebab?!”
“No, no! No kebab”
“Where is my kebab! I want my f**kin kebab!!”
These last two sentences were repeated about 5-6 times at heightened volumes until the owner threatened to call the cops, Jeremy replied: “Alright lets call the cops! I have a phone too buddy! I. Want. My. F**ckin. Kebab!!!!!!”
The rest of us had been chuckling away to ourselves. We eventually left, and Matt left his “restaurant review” in a pot plant.
Took another taxi to the other side of town and wandered around looking for bars. I dumped Jeremy in a bush that turned out to be full of thorns. Richie dived in to rescue him unaware of said thorns. Humorous sight as Jeremy and Richie had their pants round their ankles scratching their legs.
Found a bar where we weren’t allowed in. Something about the war I think. Or being too many guys. Matt found another Irish Pub. It’s about now the night started to go pear shaped. Literally.
Decided a strip club was the order of the day. Jeremy, the master negotiator, inquires as to the cost. We decide 10 euros is too much. Fools.
Decide to investigate a second strip club. This time Matt negotiates. He should really stick to Irish bars. 5 euros and a free drink. What a deal! I’m first in the door and think I’ve stumbled into a weight watchers aerobics workout. Fat, old women everywhere wearing spandex and enough lingerie to fill an Ann Summers store. Nothing was left to the imagination. In fact I’m not sure I have an imagination anymore. I think one of the lads cried out “Ahhh! My eyes!”. For once in my life I was suddenly hoping a group of 30 guys would walk into a bar. I moved briskly to the bar, picked up the free beers. The women turned and looked at us like the buffet table at Valentine’s had just walked through the door.
I grabbed our beers from the bar and we all sat in seats in the corner. Backs together. Staying as a pack. We feared for Michael Dashwood, as they might single him out as the weak link and try to separate him from the group. One robust Bulgarian woman in her early 40’s, who I thought at the time had swallowed the arm of my chair in her buttocks, tried to get me to buy her champagne. “I don’t think so”.
Steveo was talking to one of them, pointing at Craig he was heard to say, “It’s his 18th birthday and he’s an only child”. She was the youngest working the floor at 40, pushed through the lads, tossing chairs aside with her fleshy thighs and made a bee line for Craig. Sitting on his lap she tried to convince him to go upstairs with her.
Meanwhile one of the more grandmotherly figures decided she would do a little pole dance for us. In the name of all that’s holy I have never seen a piece of metal under such strain! If it wasn’t a load-bearing member beforehand it certainly proved to be capable of holding up the building afterwards. You didn’t want to look, but you just couldn’t help staring as so much fat moved in so many directions all at once. I think she had a double buttocks instead of a double chin. I don’t think she realized how much momentum she could muster as when she spun around the pole she was unable to hold on and went flying off the stage. Possibly one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen, but we were all too nervous to laugh much. By this stage Craig had put up a stern fight and the woman had given up. Pealing herself from Craig’s leg she walked away. Craig wasn’t too happy about the state of where she had been sitting on his trousers.
Shaken and a little pale we left and went to another Irish Pub. At the previous bar Jeremy had told us we were all soft for not having a beer. He then preceded to power chuck all over the bathroom and go home early. Craig was flicking lit matches around the bar, Richie burnt himself, and then Craig foolishly fell asleep at the bar, resulting in Steve toilet papering, and pouring hot wax on him – “I’ve just poured hot wax on him and he still isn’t waking up. Richie, sit on his head”.
Sunday checked out the Berlin Wall. On the train back to the airport Craig dropped a pellet of noxious gas. The German’s sharing the train opened all the doors of the carriage, including the doors that opened onto thin air on the opposite side from the platform. Declared the worst fart of 2006, and will take a bit of beating. I have a challenge.