Trap's the Man

Tomorrow's the day boys. I can feel it in my waters. We are going to stuff those Cypriots. In fairness now, Big Kev is a cert for doing the business.

Let's put our last trip to Nicosia out of the heads - shameful Stan, absolutely shameful - and stand in behind Gio, wearing a whole mess of green.

Watch out for the triangle passes now, d'ya hear, Glenn/Darren? And I want you getting stuck in Keitho. Put yourself about, right?

I'm thinking lots of running from the start. Early pressing. Corner inside the first 10 min, easy header from Sheazer. 1-0. Nice one. Given to be on top of his game, rescuing us once or twice in the first half. Keano to settle the nerves on fifty-something, slotting home nicely, maybe a pen? And then see it out. 5-2 what? Yeah, up yours...

Not too much to ask, eh Traps?

Krakow FTW

Right, I think it's probably time for the first 'tale of hilarity'. Hmmmm... choices choices.

So it's my last night in Krakow, I've got a flight out of that glorious pool of happy at 10.oo in the morning. Being the responsible traveller that I am, I ask the hostel guy what getting to the airport entails. The friendly chap sorts me out quickly enough - there's a train from the station to the airport, takes fifteen min, there's one at 07.30 and you can buy your ticket on it. Nice one. So off I pop up to my room, get into my onesie and clamber into bed, bag packed and all.

Next morning I amble up to the train station, arriving at 07.25. On noting my train is at Platform 1, I make my way outside, Logically enough, I hop on the train next to the sign with the big '1' on it. It being 07.26, and me being at the end of a somewhat exhausting few weeks, I start to doze. I awake. at 08.00. Shit. Why is the train still moving??

The limited english of a nearby passenger informs me that I am in fact on a train to the Polish mountains - Zakopane to be precise. Lovely. Always wanted to visit the mountains. Probably not two hours before my flight though...

So I hop off at the next stop. Imagine Borat's hometown and you wouldn't be too far wrong. Only less populated. There are 5 trains passing through the station that day, one going back to Krakow, and not til 08.57 at that. Right Howard, you need to get yourself a taxi son. Thankfully, there's a taxi sign outside. I follow it. To a phonebox. Wonderful.

It's now 08.12, my flight is in an hour and forty-eight minutes, and I'm somewhere in the middle of Poland, in a deserted town.

So I spot this amicable looking gent strolling down the road, and I approach him. Pointing to the taxi sign I try vainly to convey my plight. He looks at me. He nods. He points to the phone box. I die a little inside.

Somehow I get him to try call the taxi for me. There's no number for it in the phonebox. Awesome. I see a second soul approach from the squalor, a woman this time. The two of them become embroiled in a sea of polish language, that I only assume was in relation to my predicament.

At 08.22, she beckons me toward her. "Sprecken deutsch?", she ventures. I shake my head. She proceeds to walk me down to the town 'centre' where there is an old Mercedes, a brute of a taxi, parked at the side of the road. Gesturing with my arms, I convince the taxi man that I need to get to the airport. He cocks his head, staring at me quizically for a few seconds, before slowly nodding. I have no choice. I put my bag in the boot, hop in, and off we go.

I'm pretty sure he knows where I want to go, but not certain. And I have no idea how far I'd gone on the train. At about 08.50, I saee a sign for Belice airport. My heart soars. I'm going to make it. Moments later, I'm thanking the man, paying him with my few remaining zilchos and running into the terminal.

Krakow is the greatest city in the world.

Remember Me?

As the dust settles on my travels about Europe, I suddenly recall poor old Chocolate Salad. Oh how you've been neglected...

So yes, it is with renewed vigour that I begin posting again. With ruined vigour indeed.

It's been a dramatic few months - filled with goats, Australians, planes, concentration camps, schoolgirls, a Belgian couple, a gay friendly club in Krakow, cheap beer, expensive hostels, airport frustrations, a Bar-Bicycle, an accidental trip to the Polish mountains and a group of Scots on a football trip - and I fully intend to document at least some of it.

But alas, not tonight, for I am weary. Soon though. Soon my lovelies.

I asked for a haircut...

So I got up this morning with a thirst for impulse. Checked my watch: eleven o' clock. The Grafton Barber do a €9 student cut before twelve. After dwaddling for a bit watching One Tree Hill, I set off.

The walk into town proved the perfect length to a) convince myself to get a short and sharp skinhead cut; b) observe how utterly thugish a skinhead looks, and contemplate how ridiculous it could prove; c) worry about the complications of a lumpy head; and d) decide screw it, the beauty about hair is that it grows back.

So I reach the good barber at 11.57. I head down the stairs and, seeing a waiting room of about 12 unchopped heads, tentatively ask would I still be able to get the student cut. She replied in the affirmative, and I took it as a positive omen, in favour of the load-lightening.

So I take my seat, eventually getting my hands on an Irish Times. After about 20 minutes, a young guy comes over, tattoos all the way up both arms and enquires who's next. It's me. So I sit down in the squishy chair and commence the idle chitchat. I tell him I'm off labouring in the sun for the summer, so I wanted a proper, value-for-money, haircut, and suggested a four. He seemed to think this was a wonderful idea.

So after doing the back and sides, I piped up and asked 'Would you go for the four again on top, or maybe a bit longer?'
'Jaysis!' he replied, 'I wouldn't do that. Sure that'd look shite, and it'd grow out all crap. But sure, if that's what you want...?'

Kinda didn't give me much a of choice there, Jeremiah, did you now?

Needless to say, I took the business end of his razor to the max...


... but just on the back and sides. I mean, I'd hate to look 'shite'.

Hello...

I’ve wanted to start a blog for years. But aside from the one I had to write in French about Claude Monet for an assignment, I just haven’t had the time. And I say haven’t had the time, more because of the fact that I haven’t made the time, or I haven’t spent the time I’ve had writing a blog. But this all changes right now...

Well my first nugget of wisdom folks, is to always be wary of the bane that is Instant Messaging, for nothing good can come of it. That’s a lie, IM is perfect for those lazy evenings where you log on to see who’s online, and indulge yourself in a bit of mindless banter. But for conversations of real substance, for the love of God, steer clear.

One is always left, particularly if they haven’t (as is usually the case) gone well, wondering how they came across. Most of the time, the ‘self’ that they’ve presented hasn’t been the ‘self’ they’ve intended to present, and hasn’t been the ‘self’ they were trying to present. But alas, the situation has been lost. For all intent and purpose, the conversation you’ve wanted to have, has been had, just in a wholly inadequate medium. You can’t readdress the situation, because as far as the other person is concerned, you’ve had your chance to say what you think. Basically, you’re up shit creek in a big way, and have been left with a bitter taste on your lips, that smacks of injustice.

Gah, the same appears to be true for blogs...