age

I have realised that for the first time I am feeling a little bit older. Not in any big way, I mean I'm only 23, but tiny reminders that tell me I am not 18 anymore.

I travelled round Europe a few years ago and I took it in my stride. I drank like a fish, slept little and travelled thousands of miles. Now I need an afternoon nap to get by.

Jalapeno chilli peppers are a perfect illustration of my slide out of youth. Once I could devour these by the mouthful, their burning taste feeling great as they slipped down, one after the next. Now it's a 20 minute gut-wrenching roller coaster of pain in the morning if I try and tackle the spiciest of chillis. This might be that no one should eat bucket loads of spicy peppers, and that that much chilli should leave you humming that infamous Johnny Cash song after 15 minutes on the toilet. But it might also mean that my body is fighting back.

I used to be able to drink 12 pints when I was 18. I even went through a brief stage where I didn't even get hangovers. I had toned my liver and kidneys to be able to handle the workload, my brain had come to enjoy that much alcohol in my system. Last night I had 4 beers and this morning I didn't feel great. When I was 18, 4 beers was warming up - it's a sad day when you realise you have had your peak. My days of excess are getting shorter.

I groan when I sit up. I don't know when it started, but I was alone in a room the other day and as I sat up I heard a low grunt. It was me. I groan when I stand as well. It's a sobering though to think that from now on, all my life, sitting up is only going to get harder and louder. It will also only get slower, more painful and eventually impossible - and the first reminder of this inevitability? That groan.

I also tire easier, seek out more comfortable situations like sofas (a quick sit down has become a regular phrase. how many times did I need a 'quick sit down' when I was 17??) and teenagers bug me. But that's for a whole other, bile-filled blog.

Anyway, I hope not to depress all you people who are older than me. I must go for my nap now, anyway.

an open letter to australian backpackers

Dear Australian Backpacker,

first of all, be quiet. Shhhh. Shut up.

Good, now I have your attention.

I have a question for you. How are you here? Europe isn't that cheap, especially the central-student areas you prowl. You don't have jobs, and you seem to be massively under-qualified for anything above bar-keeping but still you have the money to be able to go from cheap hostel to cheap hostel, being loud. I know you don't spend a lot while you are here, only splashing out on cheap hostels, kebabs and beer, but it adds up. And I know, I know you save on toiletries and grooming but still, how do you afford it?

Are the Australian government funding these ventures? Is this a cock-eyed way of spreading Australianism round the world? Because if it is, it's not doing that well. Europe is now sick of loud people who sound sort of English in flip-flops.

That's a point. Take off the flip-flops and put on some footwear suitable for long-distance travelling. Like, oooh I don't know, shoes?

Aren't you bored of Europe? there are only so many bars to frequent, only so many naive student girls to impress and so many bad t shirts to wear. Australia is beautiful, hot and clean - so go home. And have a shave.

And when are you leaving? You seem to get older and older, but still seem to infest our tourist hotspots with cries of 'I don't know mate, I was wassssstttteeeeedd!' and 'OI, get us a laaaaaaaager'. I fear for the day when Australia is inundated with late 20 somethings with great travel experience looking for office entry level jobs. 

So Australian backpacker, just tone it down a bit. We all know who you are, you don't need to wear the Aussie flag shorts to prove your nationality. The tan and the burping do that for you.

Love, Lee xxx

culture shock

Leaving Hungary has been a culture shock. We have arrived in beautiful Slovenia and I have forgotten what it is like to be in the western world. People dress nicely, everything smells nice, there are no corrugated shanty homes and there are people speaking English.

We left Hungary early, because we were sick to fucking death of the country. It culminated in having to wait an hour for a bad breakfast (Hungarian table service is like British train services. Shit). So we hopped on a train for Ljubljana, the capital of little Slovenia. Slovenia may sound like yet another Eastern Europe shit hole, but in fact it's delightful. Clean, modern, green and friendly, it's halfway between Austria and Italy in geography and atmosphere. Coming into it's rolling dark mountains, covered in fog was like the Hogwarts' Express. But with less owls.

And there are lots of English people here. People from Manchester, Bristol, Birmingham and London - and it's weird. For those of you reading this in England, or the US, you have taken for granted hearing English all day. I haven't heard accents, or fast speakers for a year. And it hurts my ears. The man behind me with the Bristol accent sounded hilarious, and I had forgotten that around English people I am privy to the fact that people are stupid. All the time.

I am sure there were Hungarians round me all year saying, in Hungarian: "oooh what's that's bread with seeds and bits in it?" but I didn't have the language capacity to shout back: "it's called fucking wholegrain, you moron". So when you finally do have that capacity, standing behind a dimwit at breakfast, it's hard to resist.

But Slovenia is awesome. Everyone has perfect English and they all work hard, something else I haven't seen in a year because the Hungarians are anything but industrious. Lazy, yes, industrious, no. I saw a waiter sweating earlier, I thought he was sick. I'd forgotten what exertion looked like.

So the first night was great. It rains a lot so high up in Slovenia, so we stayed in. We have TV, which is novel after a year of no TV. Although it was Predator, dubbed in german.....Arnie dubbed in german - how fantastically post-modern is that?

And it's raining again, but that's OK because it's so pretty here (i'll post some pics later). Maybe they will have more Austrians on TV, speaking English, dubbed into German.

britwatch

So i have left Szerencs forever. No more blogging about old ladies on roofs* and tractor fairs. I am now going on a summer jaunt round a few hotspots of Central and Western Europe. And while I do this I shall be forever Britwatching. It begins here, in beautiful Budapest.

Britwatching - to seek out and survey British tourists.

It's not hard. In fact it's so easy anyone can do it! All you need to do is look out for any of these people or this behaviour and they will undoubtedly be Brits. Britwatch - search out the scum on your holiday!**

Some hints of Brits abroad - 

The sunburn: We British do not cope in the sun well. We also do not bother with such frivolities like sun cream. So we go a bright red after the first day. Female Brits will have deep red cleavage (because it must be on show ALL the time) while Male Brits usually show off their pink paunches.

The football shirt: It's a fashion classic: garish colours and polyester. Most Male Brits will show off their tribe by wearing said tribe's colours. Usually a large size, colours vary, as does the shorts/trainers combo. The shirt wearing is also accompanied with a loud vocal display for said tribe. Because Male Brits think people give a shit about how great said tribe are, when they don't. If you are not familiar with football shirts, if you spot an obnoxious fat man wearing children's sportswear, it's a Brit in a football shirt.

The tiny skirt: Worn by the Female Brit, the mini skirt is a must. Rarely will Brits travel alone, so the tiny skirt is usually worn en masse by several Females, drunk on cheap wine, singing 'It's raining men'. The tiny skirt will mostly be inappropriate, and will often come with a fat arse and a belly, hanging over the skirt. It acts as a beacon for local men, telling them subtly that the Female is 'up for it' and 'will go almost all the way, but not all the way'. Other variations on 'slutwear UK' include plunging neckline, comedy Playboy bunny outfit or the classic tight black T (larger Female Brits think this hides the years of alcohol abuse. It doesn't, tubby.)

Public drinking: The Brits are on holiday, so they think this means a holiday from public laws also. Even though the Brit will consume 15-20 units of alcohol in the local bars, it is necessary to 'warm up' on the street with a few cans of local beer or a bottle of local wine. Public drinking may occur alongside public urination, public displays of grotesque sexual affection and public displays of falling over and laughing. After 2am, The Brit will resort to fighting. This will at worst mean a scuffle between unfit men who cannot fight, at best a crying, tiny-skirted Female Brit screaming 'WHAT THE FUCK YOU LOOKIN' AT, AY?!!!'.

The loud voice: Brits are under the illusion that foreigners do not understand English only because they are hard of hearing. So Brits remedy this language divide by shouting the English phrase a few decibels higher than the usual bellow. Never, repeat never, will the local language be used. Brits try to help their position by adding an -o suffix to their words, the occasional Spainish/French word remembered from remedial language classes and flailing arms. example: "WHEREO IS THE PUBO POUR FAVOR?' (gestures drinking motion, followed by pointing in all directions with exasperated look of desperation).

Other signs of a Brit are shocking displays of disrespect, an aura of superiority and reckless spending (Brits understand correctly that their currency is fiscally superior to most others in the world right now. This correct assumption is coupled with a total disregard for basic numeracy skills). Also no Brits will be found at cultural attractions.

*(why isn't it rooves?) 

** when spotting these acts, be careful to avoid confusing the Australian with Brits. Although the cousin of Brits in genetics, misguided self confidence and a disgusting contempt for the rest of the world, the Australian tends to be louder and will not have the sunburn. If you are on Aussiewatch, look out for summer wear all year round no matter how cold, a deep tan and even more profuse swearing.

case of the crazies

Szerencs entertained us during our very last weekend with a sort of fair. It was mainly a tractor sale, but out here that's a day out.

So lots of tractors, combine harvesters, and other vehicles which did stuff to plants and the ground. The kids enjoyed themselves, sitting on said tractors. I didn't. It was set to be a boring, Hungarian, crappy afternoon. That is until we wandered up to the Scientologists.

Scientologists in Szerencs. Scientologists at a tractor fair. Hungarian Scientologists.

I thought these loons were saved for LA and to a lesser extent, London. There are lots of people in those places who are prime scientologist bait - vain, insecure, feelings of self-importance, self-deluded. I thought it was just a c*** (see below) for people who looked in the mirror a lot. And that's OK, I mean we already have Kabbalah, what harm will another c*** do?

But it seems they are pushing further afield. They got Cruise, got Travolta and it seems like they got Will Smith too. But now they want the backward, rural Hungarians too.

Why?

There were about 10 helpers, all with their Dianetics polo shirts, giving the famous stress test (hold some metal rods!) and trying to sell their bad cheesy literature. Confused, simple Szerencians sat at the tables and looked as though they were truly terrified. It wasn't washing with them, at all. 

They came to sit on tractors, eat breaded goods and watch the wholly inappropriate afternoon teenage lingerie show. They didn't want to be told about L. Ron Hubbard and his bad sci-fi. The Dad probably wanted a weed whacker and mum just wanted to be out the kitchen. Then before they know it, they are tied to a stress test and asked if they are thetans. 

It's tough enough explaining to a Hungarian that they are not the grand old masters of central Europe, let alone tell them they have come from the souls of aliens who were trapped in a volcano. 

Scientology works on the wack jobs in the western world, so eaten up with guilt, consumerism and the media shit storm, they attach themselves to alien stories. But people who live here, literally the edge of Europe, are just not so easily swayed by the crazies are they? Actually, I suppose they were convinced by the Nazis, the Communists and the anti-fashion police. Maybe they are gullible enough to become scientologists.

----------

c*** - noun, a system of religious veneration and devotion directed towards a particular figure or object. (I have heard they take offense to being called a c***, so I have blanked it out for fear of a law suit via google searches). I am shit scared of scientologists. 

If you haven't got it, it rhymes with Kult.

ants, the war continues

Day 3: Morale is low. The sun is beating down from the midday sky. The smell is unbearable.

The ants in my kitchen are having a tough time too.

Stragglers pace between the bit of cheese and the smudge of peanut butter. Stores are depleted and hoovering is a constant fear.

Ant #2564890 bought it while nibbling on a bit of brown crap near the fridge. What a waste. The hollow futility of war is not lost on the ants of the kitchen skirting board.

Latest count: Ants, 9. Lee is still in the accedence.

ants

It's hot here in Hungoland, so the insects are out in force. I have been eaten alive by mosquitoes, and have discovered a new bug outside my flat (it looks like the flesh eating things on The Mummy) and we have ants. Lots of ants.

We have had one or two scouting parties into the flat in the last few weeks, just sniffing out the place. They were brutally, promptly murdered at the massacre of the big giant adidas trainer. The scouting holes were then made redundant thanks to piles of the finest Hungarian paprika. We thought the war had been won. But that first skirmish was just the start of the vicious war.

It seems the main attack route for the ant army is under the skirting board in the kitchen. The first troops found some gunk on the counter top, but a second wave thoroughly tucked into the crap that has accumulated down the side of the oven. By the end of the weekend a full force had eaten through the dirty dishes, many had drowned bravely eating some cereal, but all in all it had been a successful campaign. 

Returning home and finding the enemy flaunting their gains, I got mad. They had to die, these bastards thought they had won, sitting there so cocky. It was like when Bush declared an untimely victory on that carrier in 2001. After realising the previous execution method of stomping would take forever, I found one of my new, more perverse joys in life - vacuuming up battalions of ants. None survived the second massacre of the war, simply referred to as 'the hoovering'.

By monday they had come back, many ants deciding the shit at the bottom of the oven grating being worth the risk of another vacuuming. I wonder if they are now ruing their decision, at the bottom of the vacuum bag.

I made a tactical move yesterday, taping up the entire skirting board. The genius of my move came to me while on the toilet. I hope other great military tactics were created on the bog. I bet Nelson came up with Waterloo just after dropping a log.

I digress. Anyway, the tape was a partial success. Some ants got though the sticky, I can only assume choking wilds of tape and got back to munching on a bit of stuff near the sink. Their last memory was a deafening noise and a dark, dark tube from which there is no return. 

Jesus, I am really enjoying sucking up ants, so much I am creating prose about it. I am messed up.

Well the war is still being waged, I added tape at some of the weaker parts of the tape line and sucked up some vagrants. I can only hope their forces are depleted. Tomorrow the war continues.

bank accounts

As I edge closer to marriage, the details are being discussed. Little details we didn't think about, but will inevitably need addressing. Like Nicole having to call me 'sir'. Haha, I joke. She will only speak once spoken to, addressing me as 'your liege', 'm'lord' or 'your majesty'.

Anyway, we were talking about money and I realised we need to share a bank account. And seeing as we will be living and working in England, we will have to share MY bank account. That was weird.

Your bank account is sacrosanct, like your diary or your porn collection. It's your business and yours alone, no one is to touch it nor is anyone allowed to take from it. Like your porn collection. Passwords, codes and statements are just for your eyes only, like your porn collection. And it works well that way - until you are getting married.

But as my wife, Nicole will be privvy to all my monies. My money is her money, so she is as free to spend it as I am. My hard earned money, mine, being spent on colourful scarves and public radio, Cuban cocktails and donations to uber-liberal MidWestern Democrats. Am I OK with that?

My money is usually spent solely on me. I earn it, it's mine. Beer, is the main outgoing. But also stylish foreign t shirts, hair wax, contact lenses and the occasional eBay purchase (always hasty, nearly always regretted) do pop up now and again. But that's OK, because that's what I like.

I have never wanted to share my money. Not even with my closest friends and family (when it's my turn to buy a round, I usually fake cramps and run out the bar). It's my money. Not anyone else's. But after I am married it will be, it will be as much hers as it is mine. And in the same vein, her money will be as much mine as it is hers.

And I thought about it, and I'm OK with it. I want her to have it. She will be my partner and we will share everything. And I want to share everything with her. My money is her money. I mean what would I do with it without her anyway? 

Well, I suppose my statement would show a few more late night £20 being taken out (when you are alone and sad and have had enough beers, walking 3 miles to an ATM for money for drugs is NEVER a bad idea) and I guess there might be a few more £2.99 payments to that innocuous, harmless web company (porn is so discrete these days). But nothing else. No weekends away, no holidays, no savings, no gifts - nothing worth while.

So after august 1st, bank account number 5******5 (you thought I would be dumb enough to give you my, nay our account number?) will be the bank account of both of us. And I for one am looking forward to that.

szerencs vs. mars

I just spent a while perusing the shots of the Phoenix mission and it got me thinking:

1. It's difficult to get to

2. It's barren

3. There isn't a cinema or a Pizza Hut

4. There are a lot of rocks

5. I would be quite bored if I was there

Yep. Szerencs is a lot like Mars. 

a new tribulation

I have big news. Maybe the biggest news of my life. I am going to be getting married to Ms Nicole Robinson, my girlfriend of 18 months (the shorter one in the photo). This blog entry is my version of one of those creepy announcements in the local paper. 

It's not something I have not run head first into like those sad old guys that 'find love' in the Philippines or the Ukraine. We have been friends for nearly six years and most of you know our romantic tale. We met, I fell in love, she didn't, we lived apart for years, she caught up and fell in love, we crossed the Atlantic a few times and now we find ourselves in Szerencs. Phew.

And we aren't getting married to prove our funky international love to the world. Thanks to an age of Terror and a few very powerful moronic Americans, I can't live in the USA as a single UK citizen any time soon. And Nicole can't live in London thanks to equally moronic powerful British officials. So we either split up, do the long-distance thing or marry. Marry it is, then. Really, spend a few minutes perusing the immigration websites for either the UK or the US - as someone on a forum so eloquently put it "We are supposedly cousins, but a British person trying to gain access to the USA is suddenly demoted to the international level of an illiterate Palestinian goat herder".

So we are becoming Mr and Mrs Jones this August. From there we have free access to either shores whenever we like - all it takes is a lifetime agreement, thousands of pounds and millions of forms, copied and verified. Piece of cake.

And neither Nicole or myself like attention. We shy away from any form of focus upon ourselves, we don't like shouting from the rooftops and we don't have egos. So the idea of a big, white wedding terrifies us. As a result, we decided not to have a big deal - just our immediate families in a registry office in my home town, Watford. Essentially signing a bit of paper in a crappy office in a crappy town. It's no Charles/Diana fairytale, put it that way. 

Then it's to 'Old Orleans Family BBQ Restaurant' for the lunch afterwards. Previously 'Quinceys', Old Orleans is an American-themed restaurant that I enjoyed throughout my childhood where one can get sticky ribs, shakes and huge burgers. The walls are adorned with Hollywood stars, license plates and baseball bats (and a canoe). It's as tacky a restaurant as anyone could find, but it is a perfect homage to our Anglo-American situation. And the father of the groom can eat ribs. He likes ribs ("I just like food you can get involved with")

I am leaving Szerencs in a matter of weeks, so this blog will cease to document the Hungarian world I find myself in. Instead it will document my life as one half of an international relationship, and our lives in London and Minneapolis. Lots more tribulations and lots more muffins, of both the American and English variety.

queuing

This is by far and away the touchiest subject for me when it comes to Hungary. It makes my blood boil, it makes me want to hurt people and it makes me want to stamp up and down in the middle of the supermarket. People in this country can't fucking queue up*. At all.

British people can pride themselves on few things: Our language for one, that bunch of German incestuous slugs we call the Royal family second and of course our capacity for drinking gallons of cheap lager while abroad. But nothing says Rule Britannia like a good line. No matter your age, your creed or your colour, if there is a queue anywhere in Britain you get to the back and wait your turn. There is no exception - why the Queen herself might one day fancy a 99 with a flake** and if she came upon a line in front of the ice cream van, by God she would get to the back of it. Queuing - it's what separates us from the animals. It's our art form.

It's not hard to master - first come, first serve. First to cometh upon the establishment, the first to be serveth by the establishment. If I have finished my shopping before someone, logic and politeness dictates that I should be able to pay for my shopping before that person. If we didn't have this startling simple system it would be anarchy - why without the order of queues we may as well throw our shopping basket down, rip off our clothes, sling some shit against the wall and start mating with whatever we can get our hands on. 

But for Hungarians it's just not that simple. It's more first come, 'better keep your wits about and stand as close to the shop assistant as possible' served. You have to have eyes in the back of your head. Standing in the queue....standing in the queue....turn around for one billi-second...BAM! An old lady has shoved past you and begun placing her various sandwich meats on the conveyor. And does she have remorse? Is she wracked with guilt? No, she just stands there counting out her coins with a 'I have had a hard life' grimace on her face.

I have been in situations where there have been 10 to 15 people in a line waiting to be served, bustling for position like it was the start of the Olympic marathon, when out of the blue a man just waltzed in front of me. Then, then he smiled at me! Smiled! The nerve! The bastard took my place in the line....and smiled! I didn't know what to do. Should I smile back? Is the V sign a gesture of anger here? Is it OK to hit a man in his sixties?

The post office is the worst. It's so bad that I am not going to regale you with the heinous tales. Just think of the most hideously unjust situation you have ever been the victim of, add the stench of a lot of unwashed old women and gypsies and you are close to what it's like to try and post a letter from Hungary. 

But it's something they have grown accustomed to. Like the smells, or the unerring sense of doom. It's not impolite here, it's just the done thing. 

I must finish as my blood pressure is rising to dangerous levels for a young non-smoker of 23. There are many things that shock me in this country; acts of sheer stupidity or lack of foresight that make you want to cry - but nothing, nothing beggars belief like experiencing Hungarians waiting to be served.

*For all you Americans, queuing is "standing in line"

** Again for the johnny foreigners - a 99 with a flake is a soft ice cream, usually costing 99p, with a Cadbury's flake stuck in it, sold by an immigrant in a van. It's a British summertime tradition, like socks and sandals or donkey rides.

writer's block

I know my blogs have become quite sporadic, and for all those who are fans of my musings (and there are many of you) I am sorry. It's just right now I am having some writer's block.

'But how Lee?' I hear you all shout, 'you are so good at writing, so funny and witty, how can it be difficult for you, this century's Oscar Wilde, to come up with regular posts of unequalled genius?'

First, thank you fans, you are too kind. But it's because right now I am working two jobs and it's tough to keep up the dynamic creative flow that you have got so used to. My first as you all know, is to be a babysitter for classes of Hungarian teenagers. This isn't the best job in the world, but I don't work hard and I don't think I really do my job properly (I have a new lesson plan, it's called 'playing outside'). My second job is more demanding - I am a copywriter for an online mortgage brokerage. I know, glamourous right?

I have to churn out hundreds and hundreds of 500-word articles about how great self-cert mortgages, offset mortgages, adverse mortgages and buy-to-let mortgages are. It pays the bills but it doesn't fire up my soul exactly.

And it's a good job. The guys who run the site are good guys, and I can essentially work in my underwear, which is living the dream. But it does mean at the end of the day the last thing I want to do is write more. I want to sit, eat and fall asleep. In that order. As a precocious artist I need to be constantly sucking the teat of creativity, not writing things like "with some good advice and some prudent saving you could find yourself the perfect mortgage".

But I will persevere. I have a few dazzling bon mots left before I pack up for a whistle-stop tour of Europe so stay tuned. Next time: Hungarians doing stupid things and looking miserable while they do it.