Alright, this is getting ridiculous. A few weeks ago I had arrived back in Belgrade to spend a weekend seeing friends and getting up to mischief with (a) hot Serbian woma(e)n. I’ll only stay a couple of days thought I, adamant that a return to Sofia would be imminent and I would be into Turkey before you could say doner kebab. Alas dear readers, I once again never factored in the black hole of Belgrade. You would have thought I would have learned by now.
It is my third time in this den of lascivious iniquity, and on each and every occasion it has this annoying habit of keeping you lashed to the wall of dissipation. And try as you might, you will not break free until you’re dragged kicking and screaming to some kind of clinic. Take that how you will.
I have destroyed my immune system with such wanton abandon that Bacchus himself would have been impressed. This is a direct result of the peer pressure I’ve endured from new hostel buddies; including – but not limited to – French deviants, super cute American cheerleaders, Serbian sexual predators, fellow crack addicts, and locals who drink paint-stripping Rakija as if there’s a decorating job in their stomach. Friends have hit on the idea to create a (classy) sunset booze cruise on the swirling waters of the Danube and Sava, and so far be it from us to turn down the chance to be the guinea pigs. A selection of pre-rapture photographs can be viewed below.
And so I find myself flat on my back following 72 hours or carnage, sunburn and…other stuff. I’m subjecting myself to the apple only diet/detox, I’m on day two, and apples can go fuck themselves. How can anyone actually do this? I long for a steak. Or an egg. For the love of god just an egg! I’ve introduced low-fat yogurt, lemon water and raw garlic for some variety. I smell divine. Seriously someone should fry me in butter.
Unfortunately all of this necessity has been due to my regular change-of-season fever blister arriving with four of his big, well ‘ard mates. I’m hiding away until I’m back on my feet, which shouldn’t be too long, and then the games begin again. In the interim, I reminisce on those recent heady days which have brought me to my knees. That Belgrade baseness that few cities in the Balkans can rival, and indeed you have to return to Budapest to even come close to the Serbian capitals’ penchant for party. They know how to throw down here.
But feareth not my dearest readers, for soon I must away, and steal through the night to seek out new worlds. Or just back to Sofia. I must leave the curse of the Green Studio Hostel (and all who sail in her) behind once and for all. Ahhh but would we want to have it any other way? Who could forgo such friendship and merriment? Such drunken debauchery? Such weeping lip sores? Not I said the fly, as once again he passed precariously parlous to the spider’s web.