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.
The whole trip sounds Moshtastic…!
I’d heard a lot about Prague and the Czech Republic but have never managed to get there myself. Yet.
Had a Czech mate (!) who came over and used to come into the pub…worked in the local school, teaching English of all things…and he enlightened us all to the wonderful ways of the Czechs. He came from Brno, so frowned upon the centralised metropolis that is Prague.
Must admit, I think I would have rather visited the place before it became tourist-icated, though.
But one day, I’ll get there. I might even take The Wife….