With the best will in the world to rise early and see something of the city, I’m still in bed by mid afternoon. Sleep when you’re tired I guess. I also convince myself that it’s a horrible day outside anyway, and useless for taking decent photographs. Instead I take a brief walk to a MacDonald’s, then get ready to go out. Of course I’ve once again forgotten it’s the football, and as a result start drinking around 2pm. I’m a man on a mission. A mission to totally destroy what little liver I have left. I’m getting pretty damn good at it too.
I’ve also woken up to find myself in a room with a load of children. Three twenty something “ya” girls have taken over my home. I’m subjected to descriptions of “B.F’s” as “a bit UG”, while using ‘words’ like “ledge” and “facey”; with overly long end of sentence syllables. “Oh my god I remember what I did last niiiiighhhht”. “Oh Nick is such a sweeetiie”. “Does my bum look big in thiiiis?” Horrendous. I trust I will be forgiven for their shortly forthcoming violent, bloody murders.
It isn’t long before I’ve made some new hostel buddies, and I’m out on the lash. There is an enormous amount of English here, all with that posh English twat accent. Does anyone North of Oxford go traveling? Where are the salt of the earth Yorkshire men, whose dulcet tones I know and love so well? Where are the Geordie lads and the Scousers? Everyone here is on their gap yah. Everyone here is going to perish in their beds with a pillow over their faces.
To be fair I’ve been a bit harsh on a few of them, they’re not all silver spoon, clueless, wouldn’t know arse from elbow fucktards. Just the vast majority. However this is what I’ve got to work with, so out we venture for the evenings entertainment. As luck would have it, I end up speaking to and buying drinks for an Irish couple on their honeymoon. The whole night. As an after thought I desperately lob the gob on the head of a pretty Scottish girl, who has clearly come halfway around the world to pull a guy in a kilt. I don’t get very far. “Let me give you my facebook details” I slur towards the end of my capabilities of speech. “I’ll remember your name” comes the response, before she disappears out the door. The taxi driver then swaps my real hundred for a fake on the way home. Perhaps if I stopped hating people they would like me more?
Slagging people off
With the best will in the world to rise early and see something of the city, I’m still in bed by mid afternoon. Sleep when you’re tired I guess. I also convince myself that it’s a horrible day outside anyway, and useless for taking decent photographs. Instead I take a brief walk to a MacDonald’s, then get ready to go out. Of course I’ve once again forgotten it’s the football, and as a result start drinking around 2pm. I’m a man on a mission. A mission to totally destroy what little liver I have left. I’m getting pretty damn good at it too.
I’ve also woken up to find myself in a room with a load of children. Three twenty something “ya” girls have taken over my home. I’m subjected to descriptions of “B.F’s” as “a bit UG”, while using ‘words’ like “ledge” and “facey”; with overly long end of sentence syllables. “Oh my god I remember what I did last niiiiighhhht”. “Oh Nick is such a sweeetiie”. “Does my bum look big in thiiiis?” Horrendous. I trust I will be forgiven for their shortly forthcoming violent, bloody murders.
It isn’t long before I’ve made some new hostel buddies, and I’m out on the lash. There is an enormous amount of English here, all with that posh English twat accent. Does anyone North of Oxford go traveling? Where are the salt of the earth Yorkshire men, whose dulcet tones I know and love so well? Where are the Geordie lads and the Scousers? Everyone here is on their gap yah. Everyone here is going to perish in their beds with a pillow over their faces.
To be fair I’ve been a bit harsh on a few of them, they’re not all silver spoon, clueless, wouldn’t know arse from elbow fucktards. Just the vast majority. However this is what I’ve got to work with, so out we venture for the evenings entertainment. As luck would have it, I end up speaking to and buying drinks for an Irish couple on their honeymoon. The whole night. As an after thought I desperately lob the gob on the head of a pretty Scottish girl, who has clearly come halfway around the world to pull a guy in a kilt. I don’t get very far. “Let me give you my facebook details” I slur towards the end of my capabilities of speech. “I’ll remember your name” comes the response, before she disappears out the door. The taxi driver then swaps my real hundred for a fake on the way home. Perhaps if I stopped hating people they would like me more?