Liver required; apply within.

Wednesday 20 March

Hello dear readers.  It’s been an interesting couple of weeks.  By interesting I mean delightful, debaucherous, disturbing, disappointing, and downright  deviant.  I really don’t know where to begin, but let’s start with passing my CELTA course with a B grade.  This pleases me.  That means I’m in the top 23% of trainees in the world who achieve that mark.  Of course that means fuck all when it comes to teaching, it just shows I can graft when I need to and spin a good yarn with the written work.  I still haven’t the foggiest about tenses.  Disclaimer for future employers: I will learn.  I promise.

With that out of the way I’ve once more been left to my own devices, which as you might expect has encouraged me to return to my over-indulgent hedonistic lifestyle.  This resulted in a string of boozy nights out, a flurry of girls (including a promised three-some; that story is for the book), an as ever anti-climatic St Paddy’s day, an unfortunate incident with a BBW, having a lovely girl stolen from me by a German (REALLY?!), being blamed for the loss of a credit card/visa combo and getting a harsh knock back from someone I actually quite liked.  In between I’ve been handed a selection of girls numbers, all of which coincidentally don’t appear to work.  A guy with a neck bigger than my waist has threatened to break me if I continued talking (quite innocently) to his girlfriend.  Somewhere in all this I’ve visited the dermatologist, been incorrectly diagnosed, spent a fortune on treatments which have made it worse and approached an online UK specialist who has thus ordered me to go for a liver enzyme test.  Tomorrow I visit a hospital to get needles stuck in me.

So here it is then.  The beginning of the end.  the first prognosis towards my untimely demise at the hands of alcoholism.  For years I’ve apparently had Rosacea, which I’ve been inflaming with my appetite for the sauce.  Now I need to have a series of liver tests ASAP, as the resulting WC Fields redness on my face may indicate problems.  I’ve been put on antibiotics, and a beta blocker to lower my blood pressure and take away the lobster head.  This could be an issue, because I already have a lower than normal BP, so they “need to keep an eye” on my progress.  As I arrived home, I found my Ecuadorian scarf which I thought I’d lost again.  Swings and roundabouts.  I take a walk to Margaret Island in the afternoon Budapest sun.

I’m lost down the rabbit hole of a world of joggers.  People are stretching on benches.  The latest trainers flash past in a blur of neon and reflective tape.  Tight asses (men and women) wiggle in a defiant show of how much effort it took to obtain.  I don’t belong here.  The seedy closed down bar with the Heineken sign is as out-of-place as I am.  It mocks me.  Or maybe it was a knowing nod, as we both understand our time is up.  Those days are going if not gone, but  as yet another picture-of-health Venus gazelles on by, I wonder if I’ve been in the wrong lane all along.  Perhaps my life is actually just about to begin.

 

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Played it till my fingers bled…

Monday 11 March

Last night I witnessed more evidence of the debaucherous, neanderthalic shenanigans of the Budapest party hostels.  Now for the most part, my experience of these heathens has been somewhat tainted with idiocy.  It has usually consisted of lots of tall morons wearing wife beaters emblazoned with Fluer De Cana or some other such unoriginal shite.  While I attempt to look semi respectable, everyone else has gone out looking like a tramp, and you can spot several nipple rings if you stand next to these people at a certain angle.  There’s usually so many tattoos you wonder where the skin starts, and I’m concerned as to when they last came into contact with soap.  However, they know how to throw a party.  They’re not a bad bunch really…

I’ve woken up with blisters on my fingers, and my right hand has dried blood all over the nails.  For the first time in my life, I was playing open mic with a full band, and on the odd occasion I had that rarest of feelings that this was what it was like to be rock star.  Now I’m not saying was any good, far from it – several vodka red bulls saw to that – but for the briefest of moments, superstardom beckoned.  Strange then that I look across to my right and only see a cushion.  I must have been really shit.  Delusions of grandeur.   It was nice while it lasted.

The odd thing with these aussie types is that it’s actually quite warm under the wing of the dragon.  I had a blast.  If you can’t beat em, join em; but I won’t be downing cupfuls of salt, mayonnaise and cold soup any time soon.  I might consider a tattoo though, if only I could take my shirt off on a beach.

My time in Budapest is drawing to a end.  One door closes, and…um…another one…wait…any second now…no.  Another door remains closed.  Oh no there we are it’s opened.  Potential employment as an English teacher.  That is if I passed the course.  I find out tomorrow.  So the door is actually still closed.  I’m rambling.  I shouldn’t update my blog when I’m hungover.  I’m away to get chocolate milk.  Seriously that stuff could cure anything.

 

 

 

 

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