The great Oktoberfest...

Having finally arrived in Germany after a seven-hour train, I was pretty ready to start drinking. I even found a place to shower in Munich station called, strangely, McClean (which I naturally added to with a McDump and a McToss) because after all, I had no accommodation (finding a place during Oktoberfest is like trying to find good-looking women in Croydon; if you're lucky enough to find any, they cost way too much) So I headed off down the main strasse towards where I thought all the people in lederhosen were going. Only they weren't. After following a load of them for about half an hour I realised I'd been duped when they bundled into a taxi and shot away into the distance. Shit!
You would have thought that Germany's biggest festival (much better than the hugely disappointing World Cup last year) would be better signposted, but it took me a further thirty minutes figuring out what tube to take, only to be confronted with one of the biggest let-downs of my life.
Oktoberfest is, obviously, all about the beer. But what they don't tell you is that if you turn up any time later than the day before it begins, it is actually impossible to get one. 28 tents all full of Germans singing along drunkenly to accordion music is not exactly my ideal night out, especially when the beer costs an embarrasing 8 euro (admittedly for nearly two pints; but then who wants to down Lowenbrau?). Added with the cheesy and decrepit carnival rides that spattered the piss-and-sweat-soaked arena, Oktoberfest is basically Dartford Fair on a huge scale. With Germans. Would anyone like to envisage a worse possible evening?
So, after twenty minutes of enduring this hellish situation (I was half-expecting some Dartford pikey to come up and try to rob my hat) I found my way back to the tube and out into the real world again.
Except that Munich during Oktoberfest hasn't really got any whiff of reality in it at all. Imagine a city with more than a million people filling its streets, every one of them totally shitfaced, and you'd probably be underestimating a little. At about 11pm when the tents turned off their faux-tiffany lamps and stomping folk music, the centre of town looked like a comedically-dressed battlefield, thousands of men having lost their brutal war with sobriety and found solice in the tarmac on the roads. Sick and piss flowed like water around them (again, the allusion to Dartford after Zens isn't far off) and not one of the twenty or so people I asked even knew what a train was, let alone when the one to Venice was arriving:
- Venice...Ven...Oh yeah! Venice! You fucked man? I'm fucked as hell, steamed one Canadian before hitting the deck. Others struggled to open their mouths at all. Not so the Italians unfortunately, and those of us patiently waiting on the platform were treated to an hour-long rendition of 'Campiones del Mundo' (to the theme of 'Seven Nation Army' for those who haven't had the misfortune).
So I was getting the night train, having spent a grand total of six hours in Munich, and ever in Germany for that. No worries, I'd rather bend over in my own shit in a room with Gary Glitter than spend a night in one of those tents. Besides today's Friday night, and the women are Italian and aren't sporting an entire cow for evening-wear.
Thankfully I found a cool Canadian guy on the train (all the good guys are Canadian- they seem to have all the confidence and energy of the Yanks without the arrogance or the racism) so we chatted away, and even managed to get some sleep. Which, on a night train, is the equivalent of trying to sleep with someone spitting in your face every two seconds (and in Bulgaria this is invariably the truth).
Money saved for Venice, which cannae be a bad thing, vindicated on arrival this morning. The place is seriously beautiful. But unlike Prague where no-one actually lives in the nice bit, but are instead herded into tower blocks which would make Brockley blush, everyone actually lives here, in the cute little flats by the water, the islands separated by stunning canals. It's great, if you can find your way round anywhere. It's a tiny place in truth, but without a map, it would take you longer to cross this city than the entire circumference of the Moon.
But anyway less shit from me. Although earlier I got a great soundbite from an American (I really don't hate them, they just continue to amaze me!) when walking round some of Marco Polo's huge maps on the walls of the Palace here.
- Guy managed to sail round the world, can't even spell California right.
I wish, in my heart of hearts that he was joking but I seriously don't think so. Food for thought...

It begins (or at least, it continues)...

I´ve been travelling across Europe on my own (I´ve got some mates, honest) for nearly two whole months before today, when I should be downing litres of Stella with some energetically useless American windbag at Oktoberfest in Munich that I finally decide to get my brain in gear and start a blog. Not that anyone in the known universe (and that includes Millwall fans, unfortunately) gives the proverbial toss (an interesting concept, I´m sure you´ll agree) about what I do to smear the already slightly dubitable stereotype of the ´Brit Abroad´. I just want to write, so I have something else to do daily aside from looking at another fucking church, or guzzling the local brew with a racist scouser or a desperately boring German. Plus I know that, as most of you who read this are currently working in shit part-time office jobs, it will at least dictate a few minutes of your day, in between sneaking looks at Danielle Lloyd´s tits and reading about Owen´s banjo-string imitating hamstrings.
Anyway I feel like a rant so here we go. Why is it impossible for me to go to these ryanair-serviced cities in Europe (Amsterdam; Krakow et al) and have a quiet beer on my own, happily watching Chelsea v Hull in some shitty Irish bar? Last night I emerged from the hostel in Prague with a smile on my face, knowing that, probably for the first time in nearly a month, there was footy on the telly and no prerequisite to end the night slumped prostrate in a pool of my own (and a good few others´) piss.
Half an hour in, Chelsea are one-up, the Coke and coffees are flowing in my sad little lonersville at the end of the bar and I´m actually content not to tip half my own weight in chemically enhanced eastern European ditchwater down my sore throat. For the first time in weeks the fresher´s flu is losing its battle against my not inconsiderably compromised immune system and I don´t feel like a Jeremy Kyle episode where all the contestants have had pre-ordered labotomies. Then Brett arrives.
Brett (a name which, incidentally, should be the sole property of fop-haired surfer ´dudes´from Sydney who won´t stop talking about Thai fucking prostitutes) is a 23st skinhead from Birmingham on his 28th birthday piss-up, it is revealed, who could well be Vanessa Feltz with a haircut. Except with bigger tits. He´s got about 5 teeth in total- and probably as many fingers too if there´s any justice in genetics. Why in God´s name, when he had about two-dozen paralytic Chelsea heahdhunters screaming at the players on the screen, does he choose to accost the only bloke in the pub with hair longer than a chihuahua´s and skinny jeans?
- I fooking hate footbawl mayte, don´t yaow?
Yeah so do I. That´s why I´m sat in a bar full of blokes who would make Darwin cry with joy, drinking Coke and staring intently at the screen.
- My coosin´s passed awt in the hotew, sank 10 fooking pints in the airport.
Fuck. And so it begins. Now I can wave Avram Grant goodbye (as surely Roman will in time) and look forward to conversations festooned with sentimental jabbering about mates who bare-knuckle fight, ´fucking´immigrants and the like. I´d normally just politely leave, but then I look down and see a nice big pint of Budvar looming threateningly over my sorry little coffee cup.
- Fook it eh? Yao´re awnly 28 oonce!
Yeah, sod the football! Especially when, three hours later, me and the human wrecking ball have notched up about eight pints each, my wallet having been left wonderfully untouched since that innocent little coffee during the game. Still can´t bring myself to agree with any of the tosser´s pseudo-nazi politik, but if the pints are being pointed my way then I can put up with another BNP borefest. The night´s striking mix of irritation and inebriation, however, tilts towards the former when our Laurel and Hardy act is suddenly acquainted by ´Mick´, a Texan who pretty much looks like he ate the Malboro man.
- Don´t ever go to fucking Kuwait man, is the first thing he says to me, -it´s full of fucking towel-headed freaks.
And so I make my excuses (a trip to the bogs is both a great cover and desperately needed seeing as it now appears I´m now pissing every three seconds) and head of, wobbling incongruously into the Prague nightime to wake up yet again feeling like someone not dissimilar to Brett had spent the previous night sitting on me.
And now I´m in Germany. Western Europe! The home of Bratwurst and Bayern, Beck´s and Bavarian excess! But then it is home to Oliver Khan, so not all great.
Still, I´m sure the one night here will be fun, tipping as much Bieralkohol down my gullet as possible...

Speak to you all later...

PSI'll also use this blog to highlight new bands and tunes I think are good. This isn't really for all you mugs; it'll just look good on my CV when I get offered the editor's position at Q...