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...