It would be rude not to go out on a Saturday night, but as there isn’t a soul around in the hostel up for it, it appears I’m going to be on my own. As I’ll be heading to bars by myself, I think it wise to utilise some extra help in the form of a kilt. Don’t have any mates? Wear a kilt. Need a girlfriend? Wear a kilt. There is nothing better for starting a conversation, getting new drinking buddies, or attracting good looking women. Around 11pm I set off into town.
Usually my head is high and my confidence is following suit when the glad rags are on. Tonight it feels a little different, literally all dressed up with no place to go. Olomoucs’ streets are dead without the students here, and even for the ‘busiest’ night of the social week, it’s more of the village local vibe than a throbbing club metropolis it is during Uni time. Consequently I feel a little dumb. Think a tuxedo at a pub quiz night. Westwood at Walkabout. Boss down the baths. I spy a gang of drunk lads falling out a tram ahead and wish the world would swallow me up.
Now as I mentioned I usually have no problem with this, striding confidently past, ready for the wolf whistles, cat calls and dogs abuse. Sometimes it never comes because they’re more in awe, fear and surprise which confuses their male bravado. I try to look ‘hard’, which is difficult for me because I’m not. Yes I’m wearing what looks like a skirt to you boys and I have a plastic knife down my sock. Don’t you dare mess with me. I’m dangerous.
I contemplate turning the corner like the downtrodden kid who spots his bullying tormentors yards up the road. I stop, pause, turn and panic as I walk into a wall. I realise now if I’ve been spotted then it’s going to be fairly obvious I’m trying to avoid being noticed, which leaves me little choice but to man up and power on through. I’m braced for the inevitable barrage of hilarity but it never comes, at least not until I’m sinking onto a bar stool some five minutes later.
I’ve managed to find a bachelor party. As I walk in, there is a large, naked, hairy man standing on a table and swinging his shirt round his head. The bar is small, but the relatively few number of punters are making up for it by the wall of noise they’re creating from 90’s Czech rock ‘classics.’ It’s not long before I’m invited to join in and I’m knocking back the beers with a mix of English and native speakers, the night taking a turn for the hilarious as 80’s power ballads take over. I’m up on the table playing air drums to Starship’s Nothin’s gonna stop us now (the first record I ever bought), and it gets a little emotional when they play one of my mums favourites; The power of love by Jennifer Rush. When the DJ, barman and all round nice bloke throws on some Sex Pistols, the place is torn up, with a load of guys kicking and jumping on the freestanding bin/astray thing, and throwing themselves around a space no bigger than an under the stairs toilet cubicle.
The guy who’s getting married is hammered. He is totally out of his gord, much to the wild amusement of all his friends. He doesn’t speak any English, but someone is telling him phrases to repeat to me.
“What are you doing in this country? Fuck off back to America”. (Howls of laughter).
“Do you like boys?” (Cheers of agreement).
“Give us a kiss.” (Hysterical screams).
He hasn’t a scooby what he’s talking about, but both myself and his mates are bent over in tears laughing, with many a photo snapped as we’re up on the table arm in arm dancing to Stayin’ Alive. I can say hand on heart a more bizarre night you will rarely see.
Czech stag do
It would be rude not to go out on a Saturday night, but as there isn’t a soul around in the hostel up for it, it appears I’m going to be on my own. As I’ll be heading to bars by myself, I think it wise to utilise some extra help in the form of a kilt. Don’t have any mates? Wear a kilt. Need a girlfriend? Wear a kilt. There is nothing better for starting a conversation, getting new drinking buddies, or attracting good looking women. Around 11pm I set off into town.
Usually my head is high and my confidence is following suit when the glad rags are on. Tonight it feels a little different, literally all dressed up with no place to go. Olomoucs’ streets are dead without the students here, and even for the ‘busiest’ night of the social week, it’s more of the village local vibe than a throbbing club metropolis it is during Uni time. Consequently I feel a little dumb. Think a tuxedo at a pub quiz night. Westwood at Walkabout. Boss down the baths. I spy a gang of drunk lads falling out a tram ahead and wish the world would swallow me up.
Now as I mentioned I usually have no problem with this, striding confidently past, ready for the wolf whistles, cat calls and dogs abuse. Sometimes it never comes because they’re more in awe, fear and surprise which confuses their male bravado. I try to look ‘hard’, which is difficult for me because I’m not. Yes I’m wearing what looks like a skirt to you boys and I have a plastic knife down my sock. Don’t you dare mess with me. I’m dangerous.
I contemplate turning the corner like the downtrodden kid who spots his bullying tormentors yards up the road. I stop, pause, turn and panic as I walk into a wall. I realise now if I’ve been spotted then it’s going to be fairly obvious I’m trying to avoid being noticed, which leaves me little choice but to man up and power on through. I’m braced for the inevitable barrage of hilarity but it never comes, at least not until I’m sinking onto a bar stool some five minutes later.
I’ve managed to find a bachelor party. As I walk in, there is a large, naked, hairy man standing on a table and swinging his shirt round his head. The bar is small, but the relatively few number of punters are making up for it by the wall of noise they’re creating from 90’s Czech rock ‘classics.’ It’s not long before I’m invited to join in and I’m knocking back the beers with a mix of English and native speakers, the night taking a turn for the hilarious as 80’s power ballads take over. I’m up on the table playing air drums to Starship’s Nothin’s gonna stop us now (the first record I ever bought), and it gets a little emotional when they play one of my mums favourites; The power of love by Jennifer Rush. When the DJ, barman and all round nice bloke throws on some Sex Pistols, the place is torn up, with a load of guys kicking and jumping on the freestanding bin/astray thing, and throwing themselves around a space no bigger than an under the stairs toilet cubicle.
The guy who’s getting married is hammered. He is totally out of his gord, much to the wild amusement of all his friends. He doesn’t speak any English, but someone is telling him phrases to repeat to me.
“What are you doing in this country? Fuck off back to America”. (Howls of laughter).
“Do you like boys?” (Cheers of agreement).
“Give us a kiss.” (Hysterical screams).
He hasn’t a scooby what he’s talking about, but both myself and his mates are bent over in tears laughing, with many a photo snapped as we’re up on the table arm in arm dancing to Stayin’ Alive. I can say hand on heart a more bizarre night you will rarely see.