And in today’s news…

Busted

Ha! No, not a musical reference (which would have been tenuous anyway becuse they fucking weren’t) but rather the state of my shower. I’d like to say my mammoth strength caused the unit to be ripped away from the wall effortlessly, or that I’d been shagging a supermodel in it and accidentally smashed the front panel with her head. But I can’t. Even though they’d make better posts.

Basically, the pull switch from the ceiling has fritzed. I bought a new one, swapped it over (with some struggle – 50 Amp cabling’s bloody tough stuff to bend) and then proceeded to knacker the plastic box that the switch screws to because it wouldn’t go on at the right angle.

Back to B&Q in the morning for one of those. In the meantime I have some very impressive wiring hanging from a hole in the ceiling. The good bit is that when I was removing the switch to get the box off I’d forgotten to trip the fuse downstairs.

Close one…

What kept you?

I am pissed off that this selfish sod waited so long. Why couldn’t you have done this years go before you split up and fucked off? It would have saved everyone else so much suffering.

Live 8

Well, first off Bob Geldof became the second person in two days to swear on live TV/radio (Ferdinand Jr was “fucking” impressed with West Ham’s win yesterday). Oh, and he was harping on about this new Live 8 thing in summer.

Frankly, I’m disappointed. Five gigs in five cities. Paris get Jamiroquai. Philidelphia get Will Smith, Bon Jovi, Stevie Wonder and Maroon 5. Who do we get? Paul fucking McCartney, Robbie pissing Williams, Elton poufing John, Madonna passed-it-years-ago Madonna and Coldplay. Or Travis. I can’t remember. They’re both the fucking same. And Franz Ferdinand saying they’ll so a Scottish gig. If one’s announced. Why doesn’t Michael Jackson just say he’ll do one in Lapland if they decide to do one there? There’s as much chance.

But do you know what’s even worse? Much much worse? The fucking Spice Girls are likely to reform for the gig. For fuck’s sake. FUCK OFF. YOU WERE WORSE THAN ANAL LEPROSY THE FIRST TIME YOU PATHETIC, TALENTLESS, WRINKLED HAGS.

And I thought I was pissed off that everyone responsible for Big Brother hadn’t been coated in lime and buried in a pit.

Oh, and while I’m at it – great idea on trying to get a million people to march on Edinburgh during the G8 conference, Bob. You fucking idiot. The poor police up there are going to be stretched tighter than a 7 year-old’s hymen when Gary Glitter comes round for supper as it is, without you and your hippy fucking friends trying to get their bastard faces on television.

Now go have a shower, you scruffy old cunt. At least yours probably works.

Prague – part four (the untitled sequel)

Back into our favourite dingy bar. By “favourite” I mean “within 5 seconds walk of the hotel”. It turns out a few of the lads had a problem getting back into their room as the key they got was faulty and the lock jammed. They spent two hours watching some random Czech dude trying to break into their room using an angle grinder, and slicing his hand open in the process. At least we know the rooms were secure.

Most everyone decided to go for a Chinese at a place they’d spotted near the hotel. I wasn’t hungry, and Dean’s stomach was still giving him a bit of a problem, so we volunteered to head down to the sports bar and meet the two guys we’d left down there earlier. When we got there, drunk guy had cornered a youngish couple (she was gorgeous – I guess he was working out how much he could get for her) and our lads had vanished.

After a few minutes, one popped in. They’d escaped to the posh hotel over the road for some food and would be back soon.

OK. Soon to me is 20 minutes, maybe half an hour. Not 90 minutes. But, hey. There was eye candy, and drunk guy had managed to get Fit English Girl to talk about her thoughts on sleeping with other women. So Dean and I pretended to watch some Italian football match while earwigging.

When the others arrived, drunk guy came over and made a comment about Dean not drinking beer.

“Hey, you’re in Prague and not having a beer? Has that got vodka in it?”

“No, it’s just Coke.”

“Coke, eh?” *sniffing noises* “Likes a bit of coke does he? Eh?”

By this time I’d had enough. So I did my “scary guy” act.

“It’s his religious choice not to drink, and he doesn’t do drugs either. Frankly, I think your comments are in very poor taste and it’s pretty bloody ignorant of you to have a go at him because of his lifestyle.”

“Oh. Erm. Sorry. Look. Erm. I didn’t mean…”

He downed his drink and left. They’d been stuck with him for 2 hours earlier. It took me less than 2 minutes to get rid of him. I have that effect on people. Even without farting.

We, in turn, necked what booze we had left and headed out into the warm Prague night. We decided to chance the more expensive area and wended our way towards the centre until we heard loud music. This usually indicates somewhere with a late license, especially in Prague where most bars shut around 11pm.

OK, the music was dancey pants and it was just a bar but a nice place. White and chrome, clean, good sized crowd and chunderloads of totty.

I have a theory on Czech women. It’s a simple one. When they reach a certain age – maybe 7 or 8 – if they show any signs of ugliness they’re exported out of the populated areas and spent the rest of their days farming potatoes or something. They’re allowed back in when they’re old and nobody’s interested anyway.

This does hold up. There are no ugly Czech women in Prague between the ages of roughly 16 and 30. From what I could spot, even ugly tourists are turned away at the border.

I was wanting to smuggle a couple home. Sadly, since they entered the EU, it’s apparently now illegal to drug them and pack them into a suitcase. Silly flipping Euro regulations. Back to the dodgy web sites and trying to get one that’s come through in a transport container I suppose *sigh*

Actually, I know someone who’s marrying a Czech girl in December. He met her in the UK and she’s apparently stunning. She won’t let him meet/see any of her friends as they’re “too pretty”. I have started to hate him in a “better not let him know in case he can pawn a spare off on me” kind of a way.

Anyway, back in Prague… We’d been at the bar maybe two minutes when a tall, blonde guy walks up. “Newcastle!!!” I told you – this shirt is great for making friends. It paid for itself with free drinks in Andorra last year.

It turns out the gent in question was a Liverpool-supporting Swede. He was with a party of many Swedish people. Including many fit women. Thankfully they easily passed the Munter Test at the airport and were allowed in.

Hubba hubba.

Dean made his excuses and left around now, pleading a dodgy tummy. I think he just wanted the bathroom to himself for a bit. At least he got to see the pretty ladies tonight instead of missing out.

By this stage I was utterly hammered, but spent a good while talking to the Swedish guy’s girlfriend’s mate’s breasts. And learning how to ask for a beer in Swedish. Always handy: Un Aahl tank (apologies for the spelling, but that’s the pronunciation). Not bad considering how wasted I was.

I think Friday night’s beers were ganging up with Saturday’s and punishing me. Not so much that I didn’t swap email addresses. I was pissed, not stupid. I’ve never been to Sweden and I know how expensive it is! Chance to crash at someone’s and be shown the good places is too good a one to pass up! Likewise, I’m always happy to have visitors over and show them a good time in the UK. Well, as good as Bradford allows. Hmm. Not a fair swap…

We staggered back off in the early hours via the sports bar again. The young lass working there was falling asleep. It turned out she works almost 21 hours in a shift. We gave her much spare money which seemed to surprise her – I guess they don’t tip much in the smaller bars – and headed back to the hotel.

That night, I just collapsed flat out and woke at 10:30, just too late for breakfast. Not that I was in the mood to eat anyway. I was so much hungover as just feeling rough. It was strange. No headache, but absolutely no appetite. I managed to make the big packet of crisps I’d bought on the Friday night last about 5 hours. This was a good thing as the lads going back to Newcastle were flying out 3 hours before Derek and I, so we had plenty of time in the airport to kill.

Needless to say, most of this was spent watching many (you guessed it) pretty ladies. Well, I was. Derek’s married so obviously he wasn’t even remotely interested.

The flight was uneventful – apart from the one bit of turbulence where the stewardess fell over and the woman next to Derek shrieked and almost pierced his arm with her fingernails. Oh, and the guy next to me with the World’s Worst Hangover Ever, who’s mate in the seat in front wouldn’t sit still so kept bumping him and getting death threats. The poor sod even managed to clout his skull on the “mind your head” sign on the way onto the plane. D’oh.

Derek’s wife and kids met us at the airport for the quick drive to theirs. Thank you to them for their help and hospitality!

Apparently Colin and his dad want to go back to Prague in October… Oh dear.

More (mis)adventures… and resigned suffering

Prague – part three (Return Of The Stag Party)

Amazingly, I didn’t wake up with a hangover. In fact, I was fairly chipper and was down for brekkie (in the original bar) by not long after 9:00. The weather was already glorious – predictions were for a high of almost 30 degree, which it came close to hitting later on.

We decided to split into groups and go do our own thing, while searching for a bar to watch the FA Cup Final in later in the day. Whoever found the best was to get in touch with the others and arrange to meet there before kickoff. Sound.

Not long after we got into the main town, I spotted a bookshop. Being a sad fanboy, I wandered in and located (almost) the entire works of Douglas Adams. In Czech. And bought the lot. Annoyingly, the only book they didn’t have was Hitchhiker’s. Ah well.

Back into the scorching sun to catch up with… bugger. They’d gone. So there’s me wandering in Prague, unaccompanied, telephoneless and without a key to get back into the hotel room to fetch my mobile. Hmm.

Colin had mentioned heading to the castle at some point, though, so I bumbled off in that direction. Actually, truth be told, I bumbled off in a direction. All the signs were in Czech and I have no idea what their word for “castle” is.

On the way, I passed a major number of tourist traps, some lovely buildings (pics taken, of course) and many fit women (more pics taken – this time more subtley). Eventually, I reached the Charles Bridge which was heaving.

The bridge is maybe 12 feet wide and crosses the river that runs through Prague. I’m guessing it’s the oldest of the several bridges and it’s used by artists to trade their work. At ludicrous prices. You also get a fair few beggars on there who are literally huddled up in a foetal position, face down, with their hands held out for cash. Subtle.

Over the bridge, astounded by the tiny woman who was expecting money to be thrown at her for miming along to a tape playing opera, and into the real tourist area near the castle. This is when I discovered that the hill up to our hotel was only a warm-up. The one on this side of the river really knew how to be a hill. It had obviously been practising for many years because it was bloody good at it.

Pretty much breathless, I got to the top by the castle just as they did a changing of the guard (at least, I think that’s what it was). The place was swarming with tourists so I couldn’t really see anything. I headed down the opposite route, narrowly avoided being run over by a very expensive-looking Ferrari and bumped into Colin and co again. As I’d planned to do all along.

Unfortunately, this meant climbing the bloody hill all the way back up again. At the summit, we bumped into about half the other lads who’d come up the other side. A wander round the gardens, some more ogling of stupidly attractive women and we descended back to something nearer sea level for a bevvie.

As we sat drinking – and staring at women (there’s a theme here) – some workmen started repainting a zebra crossing nearby. As a result, we ended up drinking beer and inhaling what smelled like industrial-strength Tippex fumes for half an hour. Psychadelic, man.

Around now, the rest of the lads got in touch from a pub just on this side of the Charles Bridge. 50p/pint, air conditioned, big screen and not full to the rafters. Ideal.

It was a little early, so again we broke into groups and wandered a bit. I stuck with Dean and we had a bloody long plodge around in a circle, over one of the other bridges and back to the Charles. We spotted a fine weaponry shop (from which I was tempted to buy a throwing star and hide it in Colin’s carry-on luggage) and possibly the most stunning woman known to all creation.

Such as is common in the UK, though, this 4′-long skirt-wearing beauty was accompanied by a boyfriend who looked about as greasy and untrustworthy as a fox coated in lard. Not that I was even remotely jealous.

Dinner at Subway (same prices as back home, more or less) and on to watch ManUre getting beaten by Arsenal on penalties. Sweet.

There were some other random people in the bar. Two lads were yelling “Souness!” at me – they turned out to be Rangers supporters so were among a very small group to actually like the miserable bastard. Then two Blackburn supporters thanked me for taking him off them. Like I’d have picked him to replace Bobby. Yeesh.

On the way back, we popped into one of the bars we’d stopped off at the previous night – a sports bar. As it happened, two of our number were also in there and had been accosted by a drunk (English) guy who was trying to convince them to go to a sex club. He had brochures and everything. Handing it to me, he said something like “get a load of those – they’re lovely”.

True enough, the flyer had about 40 passport pictures of very attractive women on, all numbered like some kind of pervert’s Chinese menu. Without him looking, I pointed at one at random. “I *know* her!”

Without skipping a beat, he replied, “Yes, she’s been in Coronation Street.”

*cough*BOLLOCKS!*cough* I returned the leaflet and two of us departed, leaving the other pair to deal with the drunk loony.

Back to the hotel for a shower and change (well, shorts off and combats on. I wore my NUFC top all weekend), then back to the local to meet up with everyone else.

Continued tomorrow/after the weekend…

Oh fuck. It’s that time again

I have been forewarned by a certain member of staff who sits opposite me. Every day for the next 11 weeks or so, she’s going to come in and talk about nothing apart from what time each of 13 people went for a shit.

Yes, folks. Big Brother starts again tonight. You, too, can stand round the water cooler and discuss how long you sat up late to watch some minger sleep in the vain hope one of her boobs appeared from under the cover, or how Stevie went to the toilet at 11:00 and how exciting it was. You sad fucks.

I’m all for the company that’s offering £70,000 (last 2 paragraphs of that page) to someone who gets on and doesn’t say a word until they’re kicked out.

I think a better idea would be for Al Quaeda to smuggle someone onto the show and blow themselves up during day one. That, I would watch.

“Well, it looks like Abdullah’s going to give everyone a welcoming group hug. What the other contestants didn’t know is that Abdullah’s one luxury product was a vest lined with Semtex.”

*BOOM*

“I guess we’ll have a hard time picking a winner this series.”

Prague – part two (The Stag Party Strikes Back)

OK, so we’d got to the hotel. Just. Bones shaken, internal organs rearranged and foreign nationals insulted.

First impressions were mixed. It was nice to see our security being a concern, but to find a big iron jailcell-style barred door blocking the entrance hallway was somewhat intimidating. I guess they also have different fire regulations over there.

The rooms themselves were OK, though. Ours wasn’t ready, so the (rather fetching) young lady in charge of the work said we could all move to her room if we wanted. I was all up for the invitation, until I realised she actually meant the one she’d just cleaned. Damn.

Keys were distributed, beds selected, showers had and bars headed for.

The hotel bar was down a few steps and into a dingy brick hovel. Fantastic. Gloomy, atmospheric and with prices ranging from 20Kr to 80Kr – Around 40p to £1.60 in British money. We all went for the cheap stuff. The best thing about the group was that nobody out of the lot of us smoked, so the pub stayed nice and smell-free while we enjoyed out first beer.

And our second.

Third.

Fourth.

Then someone mentioned food. Actually, there was a belching and farting competition in there somewhere, too, but food became a topic. I think it was just an excuse to get outside for some air you couldn’t chew.

We wandered down the road. Then back up to the first place we’d passed (isn’t that always the way) and filled out a small restaurant. The staff were friendly, the food good and the prices exceedingly cheap. A 12″ pizza and a beer was around 2 quid. I had a rather nice (and large) ham and cheese sandwich on what felt like freshly-baked and doughy bread. Lovely and rather filling.

Now – into Prague proper. We were only about a 15 minute walk from Wenceslas Square (apologies if I got the spelling wrong), which is the main tourist trap area. We’d decided to skirt this (though have a look) as the bars are apparently both expensive and rather crap. Prague’s quite small, so you don’t need to go far off the main bit to find the good places.

We plodged for ages trying to find some of the pubs on Colin’s “hit list” that he’d downloaded from the web. He’d spent about an hour poring over a map of the city, noting all the pubs by number so we had a plan. Then promptly lost the map. The berk.

So we wandered. And wandered. And finally popped into a random bar. Quite busy and very English-looking (aside from the prices). My misbehaving arse and myself was made to stand near the door for safety and health reasons.

Out of this one and round the corner to find another place. I happened to see a chalkboard indicating “BEER 25” – in other words “cheap”. Half of our group had already staggered 100 yards down the road so we yelled at them to come back.

“But it’s not on the list”

“Do you know where we are?”

“No”

“OK, so do you know where any of the places on the list are?”

“Erm… No”

“So we’re not going to find them and this one’s doing beer for 25K. We won’t get any cheaper”

It also, by some wild coincident, was filled with about 40 of the most stunning teenage girls I have ever clapped eyes on in my entire life. All wearing pink t-shirts, all chucking beer back like nobody’s business. I was in “dodgy old perv” heaven.

Aside from ourselves, there were only two other men in the place – one barman and one guy around 50 who seemed to be in charge of what I wanted to become my own personal harem. Maybe he was 25 and just knackered, but he looked 50.

There’s a law of averages which says that if you’ve got 40 girls in a room, then you’re likely to get maybe 5 who make your heart stop, 15 who you’d gnaw a minor limb off to have a go with, 15 who you’d not turn down and 5 who only hang around in bars in case the men drink themselves blind.

Not here. Oh no.

There were 2 who I’d have sold my mother 4 and 38 I’d have died to have the chance with. It was a very unreal experience.

Some of them were playing card games for forfeits. These included running outside and shoving their bare arse against the window, asking us to shout something at them in Czech (I still have no idea what it was), and removing their bras and wearing them on their heads (sadly the removing part was done in the toilet). They were so fit, you really couldn’t tell the bras had come off. Everything was so firm and yummy.

We stayed there for a while. The beer was good. Though I know what I’d rather have been lapping at.

All good things must come to an end and some of us were flagging after the early start to catch the plane – the ones who flew from Newcastle had been up since pre-dawn as their flight was earlier. So saying our goodbyes and shuffling awkwardly out to hide the bulges in our trousers, we made our way back to the hotel.

Colin, myself, and two of the other lads headed back down to a rock club we’d spotted earlier. It turned out to be more of a bar with decent music. And cheap beer. And a guy with a Rotweiller which was very friendly. This proved a problem as it turned out that one of our number suffers from caninophobia. Whoops.

The bar also sold the best-names energy drink of all time ever: Semtex. Oh, how I wish I’d picked some up and put the cans in my luggage. I can see the airport scenes now:

*beep beep*

“What’s in your bag, sir?”

“Semtex”

*sound of a hundred guns being cocked and aimed in my direction*

On the way back, we stopped for munchies in an all-night supermarket. Of course, in the age-old munchie tradition, these remained uneaten and most are currently sat on my desk at home.

I did, however, wake up Dean (who’d had to head back early with a dodgy stomach) and tell him all about the busty youngsters and make him feel even worse about leaving. What a bastard, eh?

And that was the end of the first day. More tomorrow!

Liverpool win FA Cup

Well, that’s what the guy covering the match for the ITV news bulletin said afterwards. I’d like to congratulate them on winning both this and the “proper” European Cup for the fifth time. On the same night. Impressive!

Prague stuff can wait for tomorrow. Tonight is for the red half of Liverpool. And for the people in the FA who I guarantee had their fingers crossed for an AC Milan win to get them out of the hole they’ve found themselves now in – you dozy fuckers! Should have decided to let the cup winners go through to the CL next season…