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.

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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.