This all happaned in 2006.

I’d been teaching English for a month or so by myself. It was good fun. Houssam and I had always tried to teach together, but something or other always got in the way.

He called me one day to say that Paul was looking for an extra person. I shot off a couple of emails, called a few people and we were both booked in. One week in Frascati, Italy; the other in Tulln, Austria. Frascati was 30 minutes from Rome, Tuln was 30 minutes from Vienna. lovely.

That’s Houssam above. He’s half Indian and half Arab I think. I’m Yellow. They’d paid for English teachers to travel from England to their respective countries. Instead, they got two wide eyed 19 year old chumps who’d just left school and didn’t even look like they could speak English.

The day I left, my ear got infected. It looked disgusting. I felt dirty.

Teaching:

English teachers are an odd bunch. I’ve met ex strippers, ex actors, ex actresses, ex witches and plain alcoholics. The rest are usually a little insane. To live your life hopscotching from one place to another at a moments notice without being paid much usually does that to you. I was paid roughly £130~ plus 270~ Euros subsistence(which was tax free) a week.

Frascati:

I couldn’t believe our luck. Frascati is a small holiday town next to Rome where the rich like to head off during the weekends. The town was on a hill that overlooked Rome and Vineyards. We were put up in a grand hotel at the top of the hill. This was the view from my window.

The teaching was your bog standard affair. Italian children are notoriuosly bad at learning languages. They’re therefore loud and obnoxious. The day’s are spent on crowd control. The teacher I was paired with, struggled a little. I just sat back and laughed at the mayhem. Being a young teacher; only 19 at the time, the children love you. They adored me more than Houssam. I think he was a little jealous.

The teaching set up was 2 classes of 15 children. Teach each class for 3 hours a day for 5 days. I actually enjoyed the early starts. School ended at midday. Now, i’m not a fan of drinking midday, but Houssam was adament. He had decided he was all things Russians. We cracked open the Vodka and chased it down with apple juice. I believe we even had pickles.

At the end of the week, we had to conduct a play for all the parents to watch. My play was the bestest. I believe it was a re adaptation of pinocchio. There wasn’t much talking involved.

On the last night two of the teachers shacked up. Another teacher told us how she was kept up all night by something sounding like a squeling pig. The male teacher involved in said copulation, suggested he was already married to a peruvian he’d just met, but that she’d understand. Teachers.

Tulln:

My pair teacher was Houssam. I was dreading it.

The children were amiable. They all loved Houssam. I was jealous. We took it in turns to turn the children against each other. If I recall correctly, Houssam walked into the room and the children started chanting “Jafner”, “Jafner”. I then walked into his room and was greeted by a full length chalk drawing of me with various armaments. He’d created a whole lesson on armaments and guerilla terrorism, with me as the effigy.

When the children are uncreative, which they were this week, you have to veer them towards a play. I usually veer them towards a blood bath. The children just run around and shoot each other.

Houssam did the oldest trick in the book, a fashion show.

What the idiot didn’t do though, was check their outfits. On the day, his children were all dressed in skimpy tops and bikini’s. They were ELEVEN. (You might be able to see some flesh behind me)

I laughed so hard. Houssam wasn’t amused. I looked at the other teachers we were teaching with. They shook their heads in disbelief.

The teachers were a little crazy. One of them used to be a witch, she also used to be a fundamental christian. Another was a staunch vegan. We were invited out for a meal one time. I bought the veal and watched her squirm as I ate in the most unceremonious fashion.

I wrote this last year but forgot to press publish. Dear oh dear.

My mother’s sister is rebuilding the family house. A two story building with a width of 8.60m and built with a European facade. This house isn’t built to European standards however, as this morning shows. I awoke to news that 2 builders had fallen off the second floor. We got there and the site was a tip, 13 men and women were living, sleeping, eating and building in the same space.

The two builders were balancing on two planks when they fell. Luckily they fell onto the neighbours house, whereby the ramshack tin metal roof gave way and they landed on the bed. Unlucky but lucky as the Vietnamese say.

I’m living with my brother in law at the moment. They have over 100m2 in the burbs of Saigon. The tax is over $90k a year for the land alone. The house has 20 odd rooms and a batch of servents. It’s pretty comfortable. They have about 6 apparently house trained dogs which they twat over the head with a stick when mayhem erupts. I’m a little weary having not had any rabies shots nor insurance. I would say I didn’t buy insurance because I don’t believe in gambling but I went to a Casino yesterday.

One of the dogs, the prize of the brood is a dalmation. An adorable girl that is obviously the envy of all the other dogs. She’s allowed in the house. Anyway, she’s on heat so they decide to take her for an “interview”. She’s bleeding all over the taxi and it gets rather messy. When we get to another in laws house, she’s transferred onto a motorbike. She’s balancing for her dear life as we make our way to the meeting point. The dog is brought upstairs whereby a much larger male dalmation has his way with her. We watch rather tentively as he does his thing. Our dog is left there overnight just to make sure. Total cost, a fiver.

That was 2 days ago.

Yesterday

After having a good night sleep, we decide to head to the border of Cambodia. As Vietnam is a modern communist country there’s a dichotomy of different streams of ideologies. Gambling is prohibited in Vietnam so everyone jumps the border on the weekend to gamble in Cambodia. My in law has business over there, he’s loaned over $100k to the various Casinos on the border. We decide to go over there to collect the interest.

I don’t have a Visa for Cambodia and my Visa for Vietnam is a single entry only Visa. I therefore can’t enter Cambodia and then re enter Vietnam. We decide the most sensible thing to do is for them to go over and for me to hitch a ride on the back of a bike and cross the border through a forest. It seems odd that previously the only time i’d ever been in a foreign country without a passport was also Cambodia.

The trip is a nice dirt track around the border patrol, paying off various peasants, police and border guards along the way.

We arrived in Vinh; mother, her friend, her children and I. Something was immediately suspicious. Vinh is a shitty city in the middle of Vietnam, it’s small dusty and close to the border with Cambodia. Everyone is poor. We pull up to a large house. A mansion.

At the front of the house was a large bar and restaurant decked out with expensive furniture. The same was true for the hotel next door. A mid sized hotel which was nicely furnished. The problem with it all was, it was deserted. The bar and restaurant was closed, the hotel was closed. It was as if someone with more money than sense thought it would be a good idea one summer to open up a bar and a hotel, only to get bored by the whole thing.

When we got into the house proper, everything was ornate. There were two of those china vases that were 2m high adorning the entrance and lots of shiny swords adorning the walls. I flicked on the 52 inch TV and watched BBC World rather nervously in the living room.

I quizzed my mother as to why we were there. She said it was because her friend had to visit someone. That night I overheard a few people speaking. My mother’s friend couldn’t visit. There were problems with the paper work. The prison wouldn’t allow it at such short notice.

The prison. I confronted mother and she came out with it. Her friend was to meet the stabber of Vinh; The stabber of Vinh?

The story goes like this:

The stabber of Vinh was part of a triad, based in Vinh. In Vietnamese we don’t use the word triad, it translates closer to the “black society”. Anyway, the black society traffics Heroin from Cambodia into Vietnam. With Vinh being situated in the centre of Vietnam, and its transport links to Hanoi and Saigon, it made perfect sense for the trade. So this gentleman imported Heroin. One day, he got into an argument with his “brother,” and stabbed him, hence, the name “The stabber of Vinh”. Fearing prosecution he fled to England.

Once he got to England, under a fake name, he set to work doing what all Vietnamese people without legal status do. He started growing weed. Weed houses.

The authorities have been pretty good at closing down weed houses. They use infrared cameras attached to helicopters and track houses with a lil too much infrared leaking out of them. This was how he was caught. Once in prison, the stabber of Vinh came up with a master plan. Seek asylum. The fool tried to convince the British authorities that he was in fact the stabber of Vinh. He couldn’t be sent back to Vietnam or else he’d be executed.

The British authorities at first didn’t believe him. Why on earth would you admit to being a murderer. The stabber of Vinh was rather persuasive though, proudly producing newspaper clippings of him and the event. He was promptly sent back to Vietnam. The extradition was a big thing. The story goes that 9 police cars flanked the car he was in, fearing the black society would attack. My mother knew him, because she was hired to act as a translator for the extradition.

That’s the aside. So here I was, sitting in the house of the head of the black society. She was a Cambodian woman who spoke perfect Vietnamese. She drove a brand new BMW as her pride and joy, a lovely Lexus was getting some work done. As she drove us around she would stop at green lights and go at red lights. Seriously. She was high on Ice. Ice being the aka of crystal meth in Asia.

The next day I was sitting in the house. Within the next hour I saw about 15 people enter the house. They all entered rooms and vanished from sight. 2 hours later everyone emerged. They all looked a lil spaced out.

We ate grilled Goat’s breast and drank Goat’s breast vodka. That isn’t just a funky name. The lurid drink is white in colour and does indeed contain Goat’s breast.

As we were leaving, the woman gave my mother a black block. She said it was a chinese medicine made out of tigers in Cambodia. Really expensive and very much against the WWF. I was so happy to get back to Saigon.

In Saigon, my mother’s friend introduced me to a pretty girl. She was the daughter of one of those unsavory men we met in Vinh. She had studied the hotel industry in Geneva while her father sold vast sums of heroin. The vacant hotel next door may have been hers. She tipified the sweet girl next door and was pretty. She only wore dresses. I caught her stealing a few glances at me.

Casinos are a wondrous thing. They spring up in the most desolate places and cater to all of mans vices. This is a tale of how my uncles make money. Moc Bai is located on the Vietnamese-Cambodian border. As Vietnam used to have quite strict gambling laws, and Cambodia didn’t, Vietnamese people would flock to the border to gamble. Asians love gambling.

Jumping the border

I entered Vietnam on a one entry Visa. To enter Cambodia and get to Moc Bai I would have to apply for a Cambodian Visa. To re enter Vietnam I would then have to re apply for another visa. Lacking the time involved to get the said visas and the money, I decided to jump the border. My uncle arranged the fiasco.

We all drove to the border. Me, my two uncles and cousin. As we got to the border, we parked up and I jumped out. Waiting for me was a motorcycle. I left all valuables with my uncle and jumped on. The motorcycle veered down a dirt road and pelted it, full throttle, through a field. We met up with a peasant who maintained a track made of sticks across a marsh and paid the toll. The motorcycle then drove to a hole in the wall of the great casino complex. Just before we entered, the man called ahead. He called the military to confirm that we could bend the rules. It took 20 minutes.

I would say that the journey was a fantastical experience, full of soldiers shooting at me, but it really wasn’t. The journey felt like racing around a dirt track. The scariest thing was being in a third world country without my passport – could they think I was trafficking drugs?

Money lending to the money lenders

My uncle wanted me to see Moc Bai. Where he made his money. It wasn’t through gambling, but rather lending money to the gamblers.

In Asia, gambling is in the blood. People would go to the casinos, spend all their money and then fret. If they played just a little longer, then surely they could at least recoup their losses casino. The classic gamblers psycosis.

Upon entering into that psycosis, they would turn to anyone and borrow money. This is where the money lenders step in. They’ll do a credit check. They’ll ask you what property you have. Then they’ll lend you inordinate amounts of money for silly amounts of interest. The interest can be calculated per day or per week.

If you win, then you’ll pay back the money lenders, take your profits and trundle home. If you lose then, you’re, fucked. They’ll literally follow you home and demand the money.

So where does my uncle fit into all this. He lends money to the money lenders. As a money lender, you’ll be charging interest rates unheard of in this country. As long as a money lender is able to keep his money working for him, then he can afford to borrow money. The rate for lending money to the money lenders of Moc Bai: 8%. 8% each fucking month. That’s 96% per annum.

Terms & Conditions

The minimum amount to lend is $10,000. Paid in cash. Interest is to be paid in cash per month. It is your responsibility to collect the interest. The interest will be paid each month until you need the principle back or I run away.

Just to recap

I lend $10 000 to you. Each month I have to go to Moc Bai and collect the interest of $800. This occurs indefinatly until I need the principle back. This is then paid back to me. If this works for 12 months then:

$10 000 + ($800 * 12) = $19 600

To put this into comparison, the you’d be lucky with 12% per annum on the US and UK stock markets.

The eighth wonder of the world
Compound Interest

1st Year: $10 000 + ($800 * 12) = $19 600
2nd Year: $19 600 + $18 816 = $38 416
3rd Year: $38 416 + $36 879.36 = $75295.36

By year three you’d turn $10 000 into $70 000.

Everything that sounds too good to be true, is.

I’m a cynical cunt. This can’t work. There are two possible outcomes:

• It’s an out and out scam. They run with your money.
• It’s a long scam. They wait till you have a ridiculous amount of money invested and run.

We can rule out the first option as my uncle has been doing this for over a year. He’s recouped his capital. The second option however, is a lot more plausable. My uncle has over $100 000 invested. He’s mitigated his risk somewhat in the fact that he’s lent to quite a few people. When they seem untrustworthy, he’ll ask for his principle back and reinvest it.

The other option

This can work indefinatly. As long as the money lenders can screw other people, then your money’s relatively safe.

Links

New World Casino

Most people don’t know where or what the fuck Macau is. It’s an island; a former Portugese colony just off Hong Kong.

Most recently it’s become famous for being the largest gambling resort in the world. Yeah, larger than Los Vegas. A haven of drugs, whores and gambling.

Chris or “concept” as he now likes to be called, was booked in for a 2 month set at the Sands.

I know Chris looks mean, but I asked him and he said he was just posing.

Ayi looking really happy. I suppose you can’t tell but that’s a television screen behind her. It’s about 3 stories high with her picture on.

So Concept the rapper and his merry band set off to Macau. 6 people went in total:

• Eagle E – Manager
• Rachel – PR and Concepts girlfriend
• Ayi – A singer
• Christopher Leslie Evernden AKA CONCEPT – A Rapper
• A generic young blonde Spanish dancer
• Another generic young blonde Spanish dancer

I was pretty impressed when I got there. They’d been living in a 5 star hotel for 2 months. It’s actually a 4.5 star hotel, but still pretty fancy.

We took funny Asian pictures at the local mall and watched Ayi perform. Next on stage was a white guy from Liverpool singing Chinese. I’ll repeat that:

Liverpudlian in Macau singing Chinese? WTF.

And then it struck. He sounded good; really good, but then I had no clue what he was singing. In the same vein, Chris obviously sounded really good to an audience that couldn’t understand him. As much as I knock Chris down, he is actually pretty good.

They signed the Liverpudlian that sang in Chinese to their record label.

That night we got really drunk. Chris, Rachel and I went to Hong Kong. We got to the tourist area and ordered shot after shot. I introduced them to the continental way of drinking tequila. Orange and cinnamon instead of the Lemon and salt.

We drank so much so fast that the manager of that fine establishment bought us a round. An Irish car bomb. He grew up in London. We got his business card and then went to a fine club which he took us to.

Hong Kong is fun.

aside

Chris flew in on Oasis Hong Kong. He left on the midnight flight on the 9th. Oasis Hong Kong filed for bankruptcy on the 10th – Stranding thousands. Lucky fucker.

links

Concept the rapper – Listen?

Ayi the singer – listen?

Barry the Liverpudlian – list?!

In case you’re not a planespotter

CX – Cathey Pacific
BA – British Airways
HKG – Hong Kong
SGN – Saigon
LHR -London

I landed in Saigon last night. After hitting the hay for what seems like an eternity, I believe i’ve beaten the jet lag and am back to normal.

The trip here was quite uneventful. The BA25 flight was delayed by 1 hr at LHR, but the plane made up some time overnight so I was able to make that short connection in HKG. I asked the gentleman at checkin to seat me where he’d sit. He promptly chose a seat next to an empty one and told me in all likelihood I would have a spare seat next to me. He also said that he was pretty sure a cute girl would be sitting next to me.

I gave him the obligatory cheers mate, thumbs up salute and headed to the flight. He was right on both counts. I got an empty seat beside me and a cute girl next to me. The dilemma began. Do I start talking to said girl, as if I did, the odds were i’d be stuck between empty place and a 12hr flight with a dull wittering girl. I chose to chance it. Thankfully she was rather amiable and we had a nice congenial chat.

Her name was Regina, a daughter of those bygone colonial days of Hong Kong. British passport in hand; her family had obviously done well for themselves, able to send 2 children off to a boarding school in Bath and her off to a University in Geneva – studying hospitality?!.

What struck me was her well mannared groomed appearance and a lack of aspirations. The all too common characteristics of children sent to study in foreign lands. Her ideal job would be a receptionist in a 5 star hotel and onward to management; maybe even an events coordinator.

What happaned to being an; actress, singer, ballerina or writer. Where did the dreams go.

This theme of bumping into children of famalies who’d lived off of the fat of the land continued. The next flight was CX725 HKG – SGN. BA vs CX, CX wins hands down. Their staff are chosen on appearance first; I had 4 amazingly attractive girls scampering around daintily doing the odd chores; this was juxtaposed to the family friendly BA staff who had a lot of nous albeit not much grace.

I land in Vietnam. I’d only bought the tickets 10 days ago so didn’t have time to prepare. It hits me. I’m here in a dusty developing country, the taxi’s are all into bartering and the population are all seemingly out bartering everything from fried fish to lottery tickets.

This could possibly have been one of the craziest nights i’ll live to remember, although the night happaned many months ago and i can’t remember it all to clearly i’ll try my best. Was rummaging around my room and found the card, Music on the rocks – Positano numero 10888. I guess i’ve got to set the scene a tad, we’d stayed in Amalfi or a town next to Amalfi for a good few days and today was our last day. The towns name to fame was apparently that it was the “smallest commune in Europe”. I was quite annoyed at this stage through our trip, Matko was getting to me and i needed a night to relieve myself of all this stress.

Back in Rome, we’d tried to go out at night, only to find the only place open was a massive club full of pretty girls, booze, drugs and a bunch of poofs. One of those is a lie but i’m embarresed to say which, thats for another story though. Anyway, it turns out that in Italy at this time of year everybody departs for the sun and sand of the beaches, the great Amalfi coast. The vision in our head was headonistic ritual sacrfices of nubile teen princesses and well, debauchery. I slowly stewed in Rome, waiting for Amalfi to really have some fun. When we finally got there, the scene was very different from what we expected. Familys spending their holidays with their children, roughly our age covorting with their opposite sex with the absence of alcohol. Now i know i’m going to sound like an alcoholic, or that i’ve been brought up on good old British values but this scene struck me as odd. They do say when in Rome, however, i really needed a couple of drinks down me. Mike, recently admitting to only being “interesting” when he’s drunk probably had the same sentiments.

This was our last day in Amalfi. Matko and Graham had gone to Bari to secure our ferry tickets as they seemed to have screwed up along the way, this gave me Dave, Max and Mike the perfect oppurtunity to go crazy. Although the night life along the coast was dire, we heard rumours of a club up in Positano, some 18km from Amalfi. That was the word on the “beach” any how. Think two girls by the name of Noah and Cleo who apparently go to Richmond College perpetrated the rumours but my memory is a tad hazy.

So off to Positano we would go, a quick walk to Amalfi and a rather long bus ride ensued. We made idle chit chat with other tourises, apparently Positano wasn’t quite the hippist town we’d been envisioning although some vile pink wine was consumed and we soon started chatting to a pretty girl. We had however, commited a rather school boy error, the girl being roughly 14 and her dad sitting on the opposite side of the bus. We gave the man with the funny hat and the daughter a wave and made our way to the club. The club took roughly 30min to find and seemed like a restuarant but on closer inspection it was indeed a club. Cerveza was consumed as we prepped ourselves for our great adventure. As we got to the door the burly bouncer promptly told us to fuck off in his own rather articulate body language. “ladies night, bring a fucking girl”, was a rough translation. Dave looks like a scared puppy, Mikes lost he’s enthusiasm and Max is indifferent. We pair off; Me and Max, Dave and Mike.

At this point we’re kinda pissed off, Dave being the pessimist thinks tonights gonna be shite and the group goes along with that thought. No chance am i gonna make a shite night of it however. Pride and dignity go out the window in situations like this and we approach random girls. Max, who seemed the quietest in our group, i had mentally labelled quite shy. This boy however, would later prove me wrong and he was more than willing to make a fool out of himself. Dave was just about to laugh at us as i knew he would but as luck would have it we bumped into two canadian girls. Names were quickly forgoten and they promised to get us in. Dave’s laugh had turned into distress as he realised him and Mike might not get in. Although the girl tried her best, the bouncer was a cunt but eventually let us in.

Once inside, the place was huge. The outside doesn’t particularly do it justice, with the latest bigger badder music and lighting systerm. The great thing about this club was, instead of paying in good old fashioned cash, cards were issued. Entry was a tenner with the first drink already purchased on the card for you. Just select a drink and pass the card. Somewhere along the way of coming to the club, we had spent so much time trying to get in that we’d forgoten to bring any money. I had 15euro and Max had none. We bought two drinks each and already were feeling a little happy. Somebody intelligent said we’d get away with just another. Another turned into another and we racked up a bill of atleast 90euro.

The girls who we came in with laughed, not exactly reassuring. They said they didn’t have enough and told us stories about how great the police were here, being so sympathetic. They said the bouncers also were quite kind and sympathetic, that they’d just keep us there till morning or roughen us up. The problem was that this was our last night! if we didn’t get that 9.00 bus from Amalfi to Bari we were screwed. Panic set in and we, being rather intelligent people, could obviously figure away off the damn thing. I say off, as the club started to resemble a castle, we being the imprisoned heroes who had to escape and rescue some damsel in distress. The club was circular in shape, with balconies running around the walls which overlooked a bit of the beach and the sea. This meant that if you jumped from the balcony, you’d hit the beach.

Of course the club owner wasn’t stupid, in fact he was apparently a really nice guy as we’d later hear, the club had positioned 1 bouncer to guard the balcony, two upstairs, 3 at the door and a few just wondering about. We weighed up our options, either along a ledge on the second floor and probably fall as we were drunk, own up and get boned up the ass, run out the door through a horde of bouncers or the balcony. Obviously we chose the balcony, although i had to be convinced to not do the ledge. I’m sure i could have done it, but being inebriated and watching Max look really worried, i didn’t risk it.

Although we’d been in the club for about 4 hours, atleast 1 of those was planning our escape. There we stood, next to the balcony, waiting, any minute now. It seemed like an eternity but the bouncer was distracted by a rather pretty girl. Max was first out, he seemed more desperate than me to flee that god forsaken place. The girls we were sitting next to looked on, rather stunned, “huh”, “what are you doing”, is what i presumed they were muttering in italian. As i jumped out, made a shh sound to the girl who smiled. Don’t think i’ll ever forget that moment.

We got onto the beach and scrambled as fast as we could and lowered ourselves under a deck chair. A bouncer patrols there every couple of minutes, or so our reconaisance told us. RUN, and off we went running as fast as we could by the sea until there was no chance they could follow. Although nobody was chasing us, it sure did seem like it and although the story would have been more interesting if we had been, it was still exhilerating. About 500m away we bumped into a couple of girls in the year below from England, fucking posh girls. Think they went to DLD on Bond St or High St Ken. They were summering it in Amalfi and slumming it with a bunch of Italian peasants. As we recounted the story they told us how great the guy who owned the club was and that we atleast return the cards. We bullshitted our way out and stumbled to the small pier.

Max and I fantasized about how great it would be if we could “borrow” a small boat and row back to our hostel. I being drunken, jumped in and we rowed a couple of metres out. No harm in that Max thought, we’d just row in circles a few metres off the beach and back again. Wrong. I by now had better ideas, being quite mischevious i managed to lower the engine and just for kicks started it. The fact that the motor wasn’t locked and the thing started surprised me, although i was mucking about, i would never have believed that it would actually work.

The boat spluttered and started, travelling at walking pace. I, not being in a small boat ever, had no clue what i was doing. The machine kept stopping and starting rather suddenly until i realised the throttle was the flipping handle. We revved the engine to full and was off on our merry way to Amalfi, some 18km away. Being rather intelligent people we steamed out so that no one could see us and followed the coast so that we wouldn’t get lost. 30 minutes of this ensued with us both starting to sober up and realising what we had done. Run out of a club without paying and stolen a boat while out in the middle of the sea with no where to run. We panicked for the rest of the way, that is until the engine cut out.

Now i realise why the boat wasn’t tied up, Italians trust each other and you can’t get far without much petrol. It was running on spoils. I thought we’d scream or cry, fantasizing that the policia would do us for 3 years and we’d be stuck in Italy being boned by a black man with an extremely large nose. Instead, we just looked at each other. Max sighed and said ” what now”, or something to that extent. We both took an oar each and rowed back in land. Max did some pretty useful rowing while i felt a tad emasculated. I think he let me row the last bit just to redeem myself.

Although we’d been sticking to the coast we had misjudged the distance, with me paranoid we’d never make it. Sure enough however, we got to land. It must have taken atleast 40min to get from Positano to wherever we were. We snuck up this small pier and ran up the stairs. There were a lot of stairs. Infact we were climbing up a fucking cliff, we were both sweating and stinking of oil for some strange reason.

As we reached the top, panting we stuck out our arm for a hitchhike, half laughing as we’d tried for 30min to Positano without much luck. About 10 seconds into our hitchiking attempt a white renault clio stopped. We both smiled. Clamboring in we made small talk with a dude and a girl he’d picked up in the club, they’d been to the same club (seeing as it was the one and only) and were happy to give us a ride. I think it was the girls idea with the guy being rather ambivalent or trying to impress. We made small talk, remembering not to tell our story. A sign proclaiming 8km to Amalfi past us by, we’d been in that boat for 10km. We quickly arrived back to Amalfi. The 15m walk back to our hostel was spent recollecting our thoughts. As we snuck in we laughed at Mike and Dave. Not being able to sleep we waited til the sandwich shop opened, bought lunch and took that 9.00 bus to Bari.

To those who reached the end, wow.

I’€™ve written this before, it’€™s in Italy on the floor in a dirty dank hostel with a Rasta for a manager:

It’€™s 4 in the morning and I’€™m sitting here, in the middle of Roma, 4 min from Termini. We’€™re sitting on a table for a shut coffee shop. I’€™m with Dave, who’€™s drunk out of his mind. I was drunk 1hr ago, for that reason I twatted him round the head with a pool ball.

The events of tonight start with a pub crawl. Roma is dead in the summer; all the locals have gone to the coast. For this reason no clubs are open, (apart from Gay Village in Pyrimide obviously) a pub crawl is however organised by some guy from Chile as a way to extort money off the tourists.

We start at Spagna the great Spanish steps, there we have 15 Euro extracted from us and all the free beer we can drink. That is, four horses beer mind you. The most disgusting beer one could ever consume. Two beers are lovingly downed before heading off to the first place. Not to sure what the place is called but we have a shot of lemonchella on the house and buy a tequila for 2.50 Euro. Not bad, we can’€™t wait for the Old Bell however, shots being 1Euro when the bell tolls.

On the way we meet some rather attractive American girls, they laugh at how pathetic we are. American bozo starts talking about how he fought a wild boar with his bare hands and received a tattoo from a tribe who had never seen a white man before. They buy the bullshit. Another American by the name of Gregg befriends us, he seems nice enough. Tries to tell us the O.C isn’€™t actually like it is in the series, we don’€™t believe him.

The old bell lives up to its name, tequila is consumed quite readily. We’€™re drunk. Dancing occurs, or what can only be described as dancing. Mike gets to know some German girls, still no French girls about.


Here’€™s where my memory begins to get fuzzy and things get fucked up:

At our penultimate place (5? In total) I’€™m on the prowl with Mike. We’€™re having a laugh. At some point, the largest Italian guy pinches Mike’€™s wallet, he sees the guy, the guy drops it and walks out. Some confrontation occurs, I’€™m screaming ‘€œwhere the fuck is the wallet’€?, he runs. We’€™re legging after him, 4 staff pursue with us. We get two blocks down and the police join the pursuit, get hold of him and nick the guy. For some reason the police station is next door, meaning the guy ran straight past the station.

The mans big fat girlfriend has by now entered the station crying her eyes out, we’€™re swearing the shit out of her. The scene is apparently all to common. Here’€™s the catch 22. The man can only be prosecuted if Mike appears in court in a month, he can’€™t. If the man is let free and we spark the fucker, we have to appear in court in a month, we can’€™t.

The police, being owned apparently by the mafia give us their word he won’€™t do it again. Me and Mike (FUCK YOU) head to the club where everyone has headed to but he’€™s to drunk and pissed off to enjoy it. I have one key to the hostal while Matko has the other, I go inside and tell Matko to get Max Dave and Graham home safely because he has the last remaining key, he agrees.

Mike and I (Yeah yeah) arrive safely at the apartment while Matko and Graham arrive shortly after, Graham falls asleep in the toilet. Mike and I go back to the club to fetch Dave and Max, I’€™m such an altruist, did I mention self effacing too. Got that good ass feeling that you get when you give money to beggars, knowing it’€™ll go to their next fix.

Looking after drunken people is the most frustrating thing, they proceed to have a competition of press-ups and sit ups. Dave is so drunk every time he goes down for a press up he hits his head. I laugh for 5 minutes and tell them to be good quiet drunks in the hostel. This doesn’€™t happen, as I’€™m drunk and pissed off about the Mike incident I grab my newly acquired pool ball and twat Dave round the head. Shuts him up for 5 then he starts up. There’€™s only one last option, I drag Dave out of the room only to find white Rasta dude staring at me. Take a piece of paper, a book(the dog book) and forget my shoes. Half way down the road I regret forgetting the latter. We meet up with some Irish people who say they know a place for food. They don’€™t. We end up sitting her, 1 min from the club and opposite a fountain in the middle of a square, its quite picturesque.

As I write this I think of all the great people I’€™ve met ( Margaret Manveen and Brenda come to mind) but also who I’€™d like to be here with me now. We cross the road and sit on the fountain steps. Drunken tourists are playing the guitar, Hallelujahs playing, with fairly decent vocals. Not the original Leonard Cohen, but Jeff Buckley which sends shivers down my spine. Reminds me of a girl I like and I decide to start to write a love letter. I suddenly realise why I’€™m so scared of her, I can see myself in love with her.

On the way back, after walking in filth and dried up piss we walk past a black hooker, she says in a pseudo coy lecherous voice ‘€œhello children’€?, think that sums up my thoughts for the day

Our hostal was holding a good game of bingo followed by a quick bar crawl, visiting one of the cheapest bars in Barcelona. Trapetos. The start of the evening was pretty timid. Nobody turned up to the bingo, of the 47 in the hostal only a dozen played. Matko won twice, gaining a Saint Jordi Tshirt and 11 euros.

By this time Matko Graham and Max were pretty pissed, drinking 18 beers and home made sangria between them. Home made sangria being 1L of 1 euro red wine mixed with 1L of lemon fanta. Theres only one thing worse than a whisky alky, a red wine alky.

We departed from the hostal at midnight or so and took a taxi to a bar where if you flip a coin and guess right, your drink is free. I lost. Our next port of call was a crowded bar but Matkos drunken antics meant we had to leave pretty soon. Apparently swearing at the pussy spaniards which were bigger than him wasn’t a good idea.

Margeret then had the useful idea of taking us to a salsa club. Us being boys and drunk, garenteed some suspect dancing. Matko and Graham were wearing shorts and their said won tshirts had trouble getting in but were eventually let in.

Somehow Matko hurts his leg, so badly that he can’t walk. Graham drags him back to the hostal and we all meet up to pack up. It now being 3 in the morning and our bus leaving at 5. The scene looks pretty grim. Matko can’t walk, Graham’s lost his Barcelona bus card and i’m pretty drunk. Drinking tequila with a Mexican probably isn’t the best way to stay sober.

I try to write this post, am to drunk. Decide to read Margerets instead, pretty funny reading mundane events. She

In reply to Matko´s account :

The pictures of Matko shall be up shortly

I wasn´t after Mike´s girl, don´t think Mike was after her to, her being quite an old german girl.

I didn´t want to be seen next to matko

So thats sorted, i shall not for the purpose of this account add anything more to aggrivate the situation. I believe the further away from an all out bitching session the better.

So here´s what happaned yesterday. The evening started out how Matko had planned it, i was indeed looking forward to playing a few games of pool. Wasn´t drinking as there wasn´t much point and i guess my liver deserves a break.

After the pool we got to talking. Now i´m with my best mates but constant drivel which you can´t get away from really does do my head in. Matko threw some low verbal blows, so did i. It was eventually going to happen and i´m glad it was pretty sedate and civil.

Matko at this point went to the hostal back by himself and we stayed at the pool hall. Talked for another half hour and then went to the hostal for a hefty bitching session. A Mexican girl which we met on the first night chatted to us, inebriated. Her friend looked even worse. She´d heard absynth was illegal in America so just had to try it.

We got a smart idea about watching the sunrise from the beach so the 5 of us headed down. When we got there it was pitch black but surprisingly warm. Had a dip in the freezing cold sea for quite a while, saw some lightning strike the sea. We ran.


I´m glad we went down, it eased the tension which had been building for quite a while and i really did want to see the beaches. It´s also one of those things i´d like to say i´ve done, watch the sunrise from the beach and have an impromtu midnight dip.