After the 2^nd match I was to make my way home to Katowice and I got into a row with OLT Express, a Polish airline operator that had been established a wee while before the football started. I lost, but they went out of business, and so too did the ‘bank’ that was behind it, Amber Gold. Amber Gold, set up by some upstart called Marcin Plichta wasn’t really a bank though. You deposited money and they invested it for you in metal, ore, gold etc. The blind leading the blind. They were later found to be laundering money, faking documentation and more besides. He still alludes a prison sentence though……so, yea, I suppose he is a proper banker so.

OLT fucked me over, so I wrote a letter to them, I was going to write a proper post about this, but sure why not just publish the letter and let you see what kind of stark, raving looney bin I really am. My tribute to Letters from a Nut.

Hello.

Hope you are well and good. I’d suggest you go make yourself a nice cup of tea or coffee. This is going to take a while because I’ve got some ranting to do and you’re the unlucky one who is going to have to sort it out. Apologies in advance. Kind of.

What would you do if you called a company looking for some info and then they give you the info you asked for and then when you go to check in at the airport with the said info the company had changed their tune, moved the goalposts so to speak, went back on the info they provided?

Here’s a story for you, hope you enjoy your coffee.

Enjoy.....

Wasn’t I only over the moon and jumping for joy when I heard about your company OLT? Why yes, of course I was. I could come to pass that instead of using the crappy, slow & useless Polish rail system I could actually take internal flights to other cities within Polish borders. Wow-wee, what times we live in. And then I was given tickets to some Euro 2012 matches, oh my Jesus/Allah/God/Buddah etc., what times, what joys.

It was a match made in Heaven, (if you’re inclined to believe such a place exists, it doesn’t by the way, but that’s not the issue at hand) we could get to the matches faster than the other ass-clowns who’d be stuck like suckers on trains or even worse, dicing with death on Polish roads. I’m sure you’re aware that Polish roads are the 2nd most dangerous thing in Poland, the 1st being old Polish women. But I’m sure you’re well aware of that fact already.

Right so, we were fecked for after the first match (Ireland vs Croatia), no flight available from Poznan to Gdansk, OK so we’ll have to stomach it and get the blasted train, unlucky I bet you are saying and you’d be right. It stank and it was slow and we had to share our cabin with some alcoholics you were cracking into their 3rd bottle of sliwowice by the time we tumbled into their piss and ass and wank smelling cabin. The looks of death that they gave us as we entered the cabin, they were like 3 bear men, big Tatra animals so they were but they soon lapsed into a booze filled sleep when I sang a lovely Irish lullaby to them. Music does indeed heal the savage beast.

Fear not good sir/madam, we made it to Gdansk, Sopot indeed and what a wonderful time was had. Low and behold didn’t I suddenly realise on either the Monday (11th of June) of the Tuesday (the following date) that I had left my passport in Katowice. Yea, shock I know, I’m an Irish man living in Katowice. Why the hell would a foreigner live in Katowice I bet you’re wondering, well, didn’t I only go and fall in love with a Silesian beauty and came to make a living over here. Luckily to date I’ve avoided being sent down a mine pit, although if I’m made become a coal-miner then finally I’ll have the chance to grow a super sexy moustache that seems to be the uniform for coalminers around these parts.

……….We’re getting there, please hold on, you should only be half way through your coffee anyway…….

So, I called my Slaski dziołcha and asked her if she could she get my passport to me in Sopot posthaste before I was set to travel with your fine flight company. “Of course my Irish kochanie, my green man, of course, but maybe call them and see if you need it, maybe you are only required normal identification to fly with OLT” Be-gods lads, what a wonderful woman I have! She’s even smarter than she is gorgeous, what a lucky fat paddy I am.

So, I did, I called you, well obviously not you, but some chap working on your info line. And sure wasn’t I only delighted when I was told on the Monday (or Tuesday) when I called that I could use my Polish driving license to board the place. I was told in no uncertain terms that it was OK, nay, better than simply OK, that I didn’t have my passport, as I’m a resident of Poland with a Polish driving license I would be allowed travel.

Wow! Magic! Now I didn’t have to get my girl to DHL my passport to Sopot, this meant I had more money to drink that sweet nectar Tyskie, but not be force to drink cheap crap like Zubr, that’s a terrible beer, have you had it? It’s not good, Warka is even worse.

Let’s fast forward to Friday, the day of my flight. As we make our way to the airport I take solace in the fact that even though Ireland were terrible we sang our merry hearts out and had a right auld time of it and also that I’d be seeing my lovely girl again in just 90minutes. 90mins to fly from Gdansk to Kato, as I said earlier what times we do live in. And thank God we don’t have to take the train, which would take us at least 9 bone-rattling hours of torture to get back to the heartland of Silesia.

What Gdansk Airport looked like on that day

Now, let’s set the scene so you understand the mayhem at Gdansk airport. A flight from Poznan had been moved without telling patrons, so there were quite a few angry, hungover paddies around the place and the queues for your company were a mess. How long does it take a person to check in people on an internal flight? Well, here was me thinking it would be a simple check in, bag drop and head to departures, not so with OLT, I’ve been to masses that were faster, honest to Buddah, I’ve been to church and it didn’t take this long.

Finally we get to the check-in desk. I was with my travelling partner, Noel B, just travelling partners I’ll have you know, no hanky-panky stuff at all at all, he’s settled with a fine Norwegian woman back in Ireland. Irish lads are mad for foreign women probably because Irish women are mostly troll monsters. Anyway when I handed in my Polish driving license as identification I was informed by the lovely assistant that this is somehow not actually identification.

Allow me a question at this point if you will. Reach into your pocket/jacket/purse and take out your driving license. Maybe mine is different to yours but mine has my full name, my permanent Polish address, my date of birth. And also as it’s a legal driving license issued by the Polish government it is as such a form of identification. Isn’t it? Isn’t it? How could it not be? Sure it has all the relevant details doesn’t it? What am I missing here?

She adored that shaggin' thing

Anyway, my friend checked in and I did everything I could in the airport to sort out my issue. However, your supervisor was an awful gowl. God, she had a face on her like a long wet Sunday (she wasn’t ugly or anything, she just looked like she hated every single person in that airport, except for the chap on the other end of her walkie-talkie). When I asked her for some help she hopped away from me on her crutch and kept whispering sweet nothings into her walkie-talkie. I became suspicious that she was actually a bit mad, she just kept hopping along speaking into that walkie-talkie in the same way that a homeless person talks to himself in a park while walking in circles. She wasn’t helpful, she said she’d help me but she hopped off and never returned. Doubtless she ran off into the sunset with whomever she was speaking to on the other end of that blasted walkie-talkie.

So, again I called your info line and this time, finally, I was allowed to speak to the actual person in your company who had been gifted with a fully functioning human brain. She was wonderful, an absolute delight, patient with me and understanding, unlike Hop-along Cassidy and her trusted walkie-talkie. Give that girl a raise, she deserves it.

She admitted that it was wrong of the ass-clown from Monday, or Tuesday, to inform me that a Polish driving license was good enough to travel with.

Now you see the problem here, I had plenty of time to get my passport sent to me, but your worker told me I didn’t need it.

Not only do I want my money back, I want you to pay for that god-awful train I had to take. 9 hours, thanks guys. 9 long hours, where my nuts were so shaken up that I’m only finally producing sperm again now. So that’s 99zl (flight cost) + 69zl = 168zl. I think it would only be fair too if you threw in an extra few bob for the inconvenience, y’know, we had to drink some crappy Warka in the pub before we could take the train, so ye should chip in for them as well. And I want to fly somewhere with your flight company for free, how about Katowice to Poznan return, I’d love to bring my Silesian beauty to Poznan, she’s never been, imagine that? I find it especially weird that a Silesian wouldn’t have visited a half German city before now. Wonderful city so it was, you should be proud, even though it was built by the Germans, like Wrocław too & Gdansk. Actually most of the best Polish cities are really German I suppose. Like in Ireland, Dublin’s a Scandinavian city. Cork’s a proper Irish city, but Cork’s full of Cork people.

Then there’s my travelling companion, Noel B. Now you could be heartless, and I doubt a large company like you, financed by a company that invests in gold and metal ore are indeed heartless, and not refund his fare or pay for his train. Becasue you see, Noel is a horse of a man (an Irish compliment) he’s pure gold so he is. I told him to leave me and I’d travel to Katowice alone on the bone-rattler train for 9 hours, but Noel being the cool cucumber that he is, simply said to me “Never leave a man behind Paddy boy” What a friend. It was a real Chuck Norris/Steven Seagal moment. But don’t get confused and think it was a Brokeback Mountain kind of moment, because it wasn’t, it was really kick-ass. Like Clint Eastwood in those man-with-no-name movies. Cool as cats, I bet you all wish you had friends as bangin’ cool as Noel.

Still heartbroken I never got to meet these

I don’t want revenge on the chap that gave me the wrong info, sure don’t we all make mistakes….well maybe a little revenge. Please though don’t fire him, jobs are difficult enough to get at the moment and I don’t want the poor eejit fired. If you could instead take a video of a co-worker boxing, or kicking, him in the groin and send it to me that would be more than enough.

You’re probably finished your coffee by now, I hope you enjoyed it and this letter too, I’ve tried to not be too much of a dingbat. I look forward to your response, to my refund and the money for my extra travel and the video I’ve asked for.

All the best,

Paddy

However, the ticket inspectors are as bent as S-hooks and you can bribe them to let you go first class….the difference between 1^st and 2^nd class? Sweet fuck all. More leg room, I think. The travelling was made easier by the fact that we travelled with my dziołcha’s sister and her Scot fiancée. We were like William Wallace and that demented Irish character, Stephen from Braveheart.

We arrived in Lubaczów at God knows what time, all sweat and piss and irritated to be met by my future father-in-law, Ryszard (pronounced “Ri-shard”). Think Super Mario, but shorter. The 8 hours and 3 train changes it took to travel 340km had left us in no fit mood for any chit-chat. The two Celts here wanted beer and to be quick smart about it. “Sure, we’ll head to the pub won’t we?” I says to herself. “I doubt it, the pubs here are full of rednecks and it’s late, we’ve a wedding tomorrow,” was the answer. Wish I’d stayed in Ireland.

But my longing for Ireland was soon washed away amid a deluge of vodka and bigos (hours-long stewed cabbage & bacon), and pickled herrings and smalec (homemade lard). Uncle Zbyszek (pronounced “z-bish-ek’) entered my world. A mountain of a man, a horse in a man suit. Our Polish hero, the man who saved the Celts stranded in Eastern Poland. No sooner had we walked into his house but he had a bottle of beer in one of my hands, a shot of vodka in another and a plate of pickled herring balancing on my noggin. Good times.

Then, a blur.

I awoke the next morning to find myself beneath a rug, on the floor. How’d I gotten here? Someone was beside me, I was afraid to look………it was herself thank Jaysus. It turned out later that myself and my Celtic brother-in-arms had stayed up long after all the womenfolk had hit the hay and polished off more vodka and beer. Not a word of English did uncle Zbyszek speak, nor a syllable of Polish came from myself nor Al, but we apparently got on like a house on fire. Then a knock on the door….. “Patryku kochana (Which roughly means Paddy, my darling)….piwo (which means beer)…..?” Fuck! What was I supposed to do, you’ll remember last week I told you that you cannot refuse a drink from a Polish man. It was 8 a.m. and I was still fair pished (Scots for pissed). “Ja…tak (yes), OK, Zbyszek, spoko (OK)” Darting bad looks from the boss woman. Fuck me, 8 a.m. It was only going to go one way from then.

Polish tradition is varied and no two wedding are alike. Indeed it’s quite common all over the country that not only do different regions practice different traditions at times of Christmas, Easter, weddings etc., but indeed, different households on the same street could have completely different customs for these times. Down here in bear country, it’s normal for the groom to visit the home of his future wife on the morning of the wedding and we were to be there to witness this custom. Mighty, I thought to myself, a bit of tradition.

We got there and all was good. I wasn’t hungover, the 2 beers I’d had for breakfast had me in quite a jovial mood and people were more than delighted to look and stare and point at the two pasty-pale Westerners. I felt like a gorilla in a cage, loads of attention and none of the bullshit small talk, I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it. Anyway, after an hour of us being on show a car rocked up to the front gate which for some reason had been closed and a wee table had been put on our side of it. Suddenly, from amidst the buses a quartet emerged. How long had they been there? Why were they hiding? All trumpets and accordions, it was fantastic.

A suited man emerged from the car and barked at us all. I later found out he said something akin to “Yo fuckers, my brother, who’s too lazy to get out of the car on his wedding day, is gonna marry the daughter of this gaff.” To which up stepped my new best friend Zbyszek “Shag off ya loser, get back on the horse ya rode in on. Begone heathen and never return.” Polish is a wonderfully Baroque language.

I'm aware there's an extra person here, but you try searching for "Polish brass quartet wedding band"

“Woah man hold your horses, maybe we can negotiate?”

“….maybe….whatever, ya feckin’ clown…..”

Immediately he ran back to his car and produced a bottle of vodka. Oh no, I though, this does not bode well for me and Al. Zbyszek & Ryszard beckoned for us to approach. “They need all the men of the house,” my dziołcha whispered to me. “Good luck.”

So, we all downed a shot of lukewarm vodka. “Now, what do you think, can my brother marry the daughter of this household?”

“Naw, like I told ya,” says Zbyszek “You’re about as welcome here as Stalin and you’re as ugly to boot, get out of here with your Penny’s suit.”

“Rightio, old chum, another vodka.”

My heart sank…this toing and froing went on for 4 more shots. All from new bottles for some reason before finally Zbyszek and Ryszard caved and allowed the chap to tell his brother he could marry the young one.

I’d taken 2 beers and five shots of lukewarm vodka and it was barely noon. I wasn’t sure whether I loved Poland or detested it. But one thing could not be denied, the hospitality of Polish people knows no bounds. I don’t really remember the wedding. Although in fairness, how many times have you gone to a church and actually paid attention to what goes one. I usually count stuff, like the mosaic tiles, or else I argue with the priest in my head. Sometimes I even let them win. I was told later though that myself and Al were singing the Polish hymns during the service. I know this is true because it was Al who told me.

By now I was in desperate need of sobering up, but we just kept meeting more and more people all with loads of questions,

“Do you like Poland, is this your first wedding,” etc. etc.? There’s another tradition when after the service you stand in an orderly queue (Polish people love a good queue) and wait your turn to hand over envelopes full of cash to the happy couple. I recited in my head a million times what I was supposed to say. But the vodka was playing tricks on my human brain and lord knows what I actually said, but my missus was laughing about it for a good 15 minutes after I’d said my bit. I gave the groom two big smooches on each cheek too. Everyone else was doing it, so ya know why not? I’d never kissed a man without tongues before. It’s not nice is it? Men have too much stubble. I don’t get why chicks kiss us at all.

Another tradition was completed before we entered the reception, the couple downed a shot of vodka and smashed the glass on the floor. Who doesn’t love smashing glasses for the craic? Deadly banter.

As we stumbled into the reception we were handed more booze, some champers this time and a speech was given before we downed it. Somebody didn’t tell the Poles that champagne is for sipping, but y’know, who am I to tell a nation it’s doing something wrong. See also how Poles peel bananas.

The next 12 hours were a struggle I won’t lie or sugar coat it. It was hardcore, it was some of the most hardcore drinking I’ve ever had to experience. You hear tales of forgotten times of the era of early-house post-club adventures, but this blew all of them away. Every time I was offered a vodka I took it. Still for fear that I would insult someone. Eventually, my dziołcha turned to me and said something like “I think you’re getting drunk.”

“Oh God, woman, please for the love of Jaysus help me. Jaro back in Ireland told me that I had to take a drink off a Polish man when it’s offered, otherwise he’ll be insulted and I don’t want to insult any of your family, especially on their home turf.”

“You’re an idiot………….”

“Wha…..?”

“Do you not think he was bullshitting you…………?”

“No, sure, why would he do that?”
“Probably, coz you’re a fuckin’ eejit.”

My world crumbled, the one person I had turned to for advice had make a complete and utter gobshite out of me. I would’ve plotted revenge against Jaro, but the synapses in my head had long since stopped connecting.

There’s two easy ways though to fight the drunkenness of a Polish wedding. Dancing and games. I’ve got two left feet as I said before, but by Jaysus did I dance like one of those gleeful heterosexual dudes from Glee that day. Plus, every woman in the place wanted to dance with the two pasty Celts anyway so it was pure handy.

There was a moment though when I was stood in the middle of the dance floor, all man-boobs and tattoos and intimate piercings.  Polish weddings have games, probably aimed at keeping people sober. Basically, most of the games involve a type of musical chairs. When the music stops, do something. I found myself in this state as for three parts of a certain game I was attacked by a group of young women screeching at me to remove a black sock, then a few minutes later for a black tie and then finally a white shirt. It’s a weird feeling being half naked in front of your future family-in-law. As under the influence as I felt I knew it couldn’t possibly get much worse for me. I resolved with myself to see the bright side, the only way was up.

Another one involved a rolling pin and a ring of men and women. The women formed an inner circle and danced clockwise, while the men went in the opposite direction. When the music stops a rolling pin is passed to the person opposite you. The rolling pin, however, was placed between your legs and it had to be transferred by using the thrusts of your pelvis. Nice! Were the foreigners picked on? Of course we were. You haven’t lived until you’ve had middle-ages Polka spreading their legs for you waiting to receive your rolling pin.

The food was relentless, 9 courses in all, all the cakes you could imagine, vodka, beer, whisky, bimber (Polish poitin), meats, smoked, boiled, fried – of all types of native animals, except bison (unfortunately). Pickled foods, fish and vegetables. I’d never seen such an orgy of food. In my Western ignorance I’d always believed that Poland was kind of poor. Well this could’ve been the reason. They waste so much money on booze and grub. How could they every get rich when a wedding costs around 50,000zl and the monthly wage is less than 3000zl?

Gimme back my feckin' shoe

The following morning was round two, back to the house of the bride. More vodka. Yea, I know, relentless. I hadn’t been well that morning, indeed I was quite sick. But I was flying the flag for Ireland so I couldn’t let the side down. I struggled on downing more shots. And, it being my birthday that day, they all wished me happy birthday, sang the Polish and English, and for some reason, the German versions of the songs and I was handed more shots.

We left that night and returned by train to Katowice, where we met some of our missus’ mates and anther session ensued. I remember complaining I felt bad to someone and they produced a ‘special vodka for when your stomach is sick.’ Gotta tell ya, it was beautiful and seemed to do the job……..until we got the bus home. I’d to make an emergency exist a stop before the proper one to remove the contents of my stomach. I needed a hospital, but it wasn’t going to happen until the next day.

The first hospital wouldn’t take me because I was a foreigner. No Polish PPS number or some bullshit like that. We got to another one and was confronted by a character who belonged in a Dickens book. A huge lump of a nurse, she would’ve been at home working in Auschwitz. I think she was smoking as well. She was having none of it, my missus pleading for someone to help me. Finally she asked, “Have you got any travel insurance, it’s your only hope?”

My nurse looked a bit like this chap

“Yea, of course I do, d’ya think I’m the type of idiot that’d travel to Eastern Europe (I know Poland is Central Europe, but at the time I didn’t know that) and not have travel insurance, I even got some for you…”

When she told this ‘nurse’ her eyes lit up. All her Christmases and Easters had come together. The foreigner had travel insurance, let’s rip these fuckers off. I’ve never received such treatment in a hospital, I got the works. Two drips, an ECG, there was even talk of an MRI, but the pièce de résistance was the ultrasound. “Wow, sure I can’t be preggers,” I said to the new nurse who was taking care of me. “It matters not young man, we must test everything, soon will test man’s prostate………”

That hospital fleeced my travel insurance that day, Bupa Ireland stopped trading a few weeks later. Just sayin’.

Let this be a lesson to all foreigners attending Polish weddings in the future, accept drinks when you only want to drink, enjoy the different customs and food and drink, bring pants that stretch and if you overdo it like me for the love of God, buy travel insurance before you head here and enjoy it. An Irish wedding will never look the same again.

Let me regale you with a spiel, a two-part spiel that is. I hadn’t long being going out with my dziołcha (pronounced like – joe-ha) when she asked me to a wedding. Wahoo, a Polish wedding. Where is it, says I, Warsaw, Krakow, Wrocław….? Pretending that I knew where any of them actually were on the map. Nope, says she to me, it’s in a place called Lubaczów…it’s in the East of Poland, near the border with Ukraine. Banjo music plays in my head. Squeal like a pig boy. East Poland is wild country, it’s feckin’ bear country. Honestly, bear attacks aren’t uncommon. Wolves and lynx roam free and the people are suspiciously pale-skinned and cross-eyed. Think Leitrim, but better looking.

During Communism the Polish government forcible encouraged people to move to the cities to work in assembly-line factories, coalmines and other soul-destroying jobs. As we all know, donkeys everywhere will follow carrots on sticks and the border regions that Poland shared with Czechoslovakia, Ukraine, Belarus and East Germany became similar to ghost towns. Bears, wolves, lynx and wild hippies flourished. Indeed, these parts of the country were where criminals moved to because they knew the govt. wouldn’t be bothered following them. Hippies moved there for the same reason. And without people to hunt them, animals went at it like…err…..well, wild animals l guess.

The Poles even had a bear in their army

So, I’m off to East Poland for a wedding. To say I was looking forward to it was an understatement. I’d been to Poland only once before at that time and had been to Krakow and Katowice and while the Poles will be the first to admit that they aren’t the most warm or friendly of people to strangers, once you cross their thresholds (it’s a bit like that vampire rule) the hospitality they show cannot be compared to any of Poland’s European neighbours. I was in my future mother-in-law’s house one evening when her neighbour came running in all flustered and breathless and asked for vodka, bread, sugar and milk as she’d run out herself and had guests over. The mother-in-law didn’t blink and literally emptied the fridge for her puffing and panting asthmatic neighbour. I need to ask her why she keeps sugar in her fridge next time I meet her though. Would that happen at home? Probably, but not in Dublin and no feckin way in Karwk where you’d be expected to pay back for a bag of sugar twofold plus a liquid ounce of angel tears and a horse steak.

I’d only heard rumours of what the goings-on at Polish wedding entailed. I’d heard a vicious untruth (at least I thought at the time it was one) that a bottle of vodka is bought for every single guest who attends, including the wee ‘uns. Gasp! I’ll drink pints till I can’t see, but back in those easy-breezy days of my mid-twenties a sniff of vodka would induce a fit of puking that Princess Diana or Kate Moss would’ve been proud of. Another one I’d heard was called ‘the bedding’ but I think the guy who told me had been reading Game of Thrones before it was cool to tell people they were reading Game of Thrones because they wanted to be the cool cats among fantasy nerds before the TV show was announced. Basically, at the end of the night the men surround the bride and the women surround the groom. The happy, drunk couple are hoisted into the air on some wicker seats and are lifted up to their spousal bedroom to exchange bodily fluids so as to, under the various made up gods, legalise the marriage. Along the way, people are encouraged to try to take items of clothing off them and sing some rude songs. Book hipsters are the worst kind of hipsters man. I’d almost believed him.

I found myself in a lock-in session one night in Searson’s pub on Baggot Street a few weeks before we were due to head off for the wedding. I cornered the only Polish man working there so I could find out some info about what was in store for me in Lubaczów. He told me to expect food, tons and tons and tons of the stuff. Meats, pickled herring, all manner of breads, roasted and smoked meat, cheeses, mad wild mushrooms, boar and homemade lard (magic stuff). More cakes than a baker’s orgy. And vodka, truckloads of that vile witch piss and something called bimber too, a Polish poitin but made from fruit instead of spuds, crazy eh? Seven different meals will be served during the day and you’ll have to go to the church, he says, they aren’t like Irish weddings, you’ll never want to go to another Irish wedding again.

Book hipsters are the worst hipster

At Polish weddings they play some party games, and for no reason at all people will burst into song and the whole room joins in. People can get a chant going and the couple have to kiss. You’ll eat and drink and dance. I’ve to dance? I asked. I’ve got a better left foot than James McClean, but it’s on my right side. I used to like dancing, but I remember as a young lad seeing people in their thirties and forties dancing and always thought they looked like day-release patients that were coming off their medication. It wasn’t for me, so as soon as my hair started thinning I ceased to dance. I wouldn’t want some jumped-up kid with high opinions thinking I’m some kind of crazed, balding lunatic.

“Man,” says my new Polish amigo to me putting his hand on my shoulder, “you gotta make sure of one thing at the wedding…..” My ears pricked like a dog had heard a bitch farting in the next room. “It’s a huge insult in Poland for a man to refuse a drink from another man. It’s huge man, whatever about the dancing and eating and everything else at the wedding, if you refuse a drink from someone you could find yourself in the deepest cesspool of shit, especially out in some backwater in the East, those people are wilder than the bears they wrestle with.” He looked me dead in the eyes when he said it. It was the most serious thing I’d ever heard from anyone up to that point in my life. I knew then I was in already in a deep cesspool.

Oliver the musical, a much better laugh than that miserable book by Dickens. Actually, everything Dickins ever wrote was pretty shagging miserable. Back in my school days of yore we had to read “Hard Times” and by Jaysus, if there’s one book that’s likely to send a lonely teenager even closer to thoughts of self-harming then we’ve found our winner here boys! Hip-hurrah.

There’s a saying here in Poland, it goes something like “A hungry Pole is an angry Pole.” And while I do honestly think that male Poles are certainly angry about everything all the time, a hungry one has the power to unleash wrath akin to when Genghis Khan had his cup robbed off him by the dumbest eagle in the history of all accipitriformes. The Poles do love their grub, apparently every country loves their cuisine. That simply cannot be true though, even the English don’t like their food. They hate it so much they put mint sauce on everything so their breath doesn’t stink after eating it.

Well, at least the male Poles love their food. Female Poles do not eat, well, they do but just not in public. They are known to consume a stick of celery, a small beetroot and the heart of a baby rabbit in the bathroom once per day. However, once the sustenance has been taken from the food in their stomachs they vomit it all up. Polish girls don’t poop either, they don’t need to. Their butts are only for two things: it’s where the sun shines out of………..and something ruder.

For a Polish woman eating is a sacred ritual that must not be shared with members of the opposite sex. You’ll never have the chance to see a Polish woman devour a sausage or a banana the way our lovely cailins do it back home. No way, Jose. In Catholic Poland that would warrant a sentence of 12 Hail Marys, 3 Our Fathers and a month of Opus Dei-like self-flagellation. However, I’ve come into some information that I fell must be shared with the world. Polish females are known for being incredibly good looking and skinny, the reason being is they have found the secret to living simply on air and water…..and frustration.

Frustration here is the key. Their frustration powers their hearts, it keeps the blood flowing around the body. You see, Polish women hate men, Polish men in particular. Because they know that they are fitter, smarter, better looking and more intelligent, they know they can pretty much get away with murder and treat men how they want to. Polish men are quite simple. As the statement says, give him food and he’s grand. Polish women know that a Polish man’s greatest and most troubling challenge lies in preparing meals, so they know full-well that they hold the keys to ruling oven their men-folk with iron-fists. I firmly believe that somewhere in Maggie Thatcher’s bloodline there’s a whole heap of Polski DNA.

Why do they hate men? Polkas look at us as being nothing more than stupid baboons, in their eyes we’re nothing but walking, grumbling, sweating, sperm-producers. It breaks their hearts to need us men for sperm. If they ever find a way to produce it without us, then men in Poland will be as dead as disco baby. Dead as flare-wearing dodos at a delightfully decadent disco hosted by Donna Summer.

The thing is, the Polish man knows that he can’t compete. He’s lived with this crap all his life from an over-powering mother and now he’s gonna get the same crap from what’s supposed to be the love of his life. They’re doomed from the outset. Why do you think so many move away and shack up with the first foreign female that looks at them? Or even better, they suddenly discover they’re gay and can live happily ever after safe in the knowledge that no bad woman-type will abuse him mentally again.

Be Afraid Boys, Be Very Afraid

It’s astonishing to see the power that a Polish girl can wield over her man. I don’t know how many house parties I’ve been to where the super skinny waifs will sit long-lipped with a face like a wet Sunday, giving darting, disapproving looks to their menfolk because they smiled at a half-rude joke. Women rule the roost here boys, so have a good long-hard think about it before getting involved with a Polka. The best places where the abuse can be see is in the holiest theatres in Poland.

Churches? No, don’t be silly, shopping centres. I always do my shopping in shopping centres, because in shopping centres, assistants don’t help you, in smaller shops people try and help and then they freak out when I speak in pigeon Polish and they retreat to the back of the shop and begin throwing holy water at me, chanting in the Gregorian style ashamed that a foreigner has graced the steps of their fine food emporium. If you ever want a laugh when in Poland, head to a shopping centre and just stand around. Within 30 seconds you’ll see at least one couple arguing like crazy, well, a woman shouting at her man anyway. He’ll be carrying all the shopping bags and she’s giving him some shit for nodding suggestively to a female shop assistant while she was handing back his credit card to him. They’re like military leaders I’m telling ya, step out of line at all and there’s no grub coming that night. And sex!….. sex is bit different.

The frustration that powers the heart of a Polish women must be worked out some way. And the sex life of a typical Polka is something akin to that of a wild mamma-bear in heat. It’s fine for the first few years, but as you keep making a mess of things by smiling at people and generally being nice to other females, your food allowance diminishes by the scale of the golden ratio. The mind is willing, but the body unable. Death by starvation followed by snu-snu our collective graves will read.

Here’s the opener:

Shoes off, shake hands, women first, kiss both cheeks, but three if you know them well. Shake hands with every man, even if you’ve met 100 times before. Say your name as you shake if it’s the first meeting, he’ll say his too and neither of you will remember each other’s names.

Pickled Herring

This is the mantra I repeat to myself every time I go to someone’s house since I’ve moved to Poland. All mighty important stuff. Even if you forget the handshaking and kissing, for the love of Jaysus don’t forget to take off your shoes. No worries, you’ll be provided with slippers, Polish households have more slippers than electricity sockets. ‘Tis a fact so it is. And don’t wear odd socks with a hole in one of the toes. I always wore odd socks in Ireland. Now, not so. Poland has changed me, man (but for the better?)

It’s been a few years since I left Ireland…..oh no another tale of woe about one of Ireland’s Celtic Cubs forced to leave because of the economy….Naw, not really, I could’ve stayed in Ireland, I do miss it like Hell, but I left for love. Oh yes, the old romantic is me. Too old to be a Celtic Cub anyway. I think I’m one of those Pope’s Children that ginger chap who sounds like he knows a ton about the economy wrote about. Drunk on love and sick to the teeth of Irish rain, I immigrated with my Polish girl to her home city of Katowice. Kato-what-ca?

Never heard of it says you, don’t blame ya. I presume here that you’ve seen at least one UK film set in the times of Conservative Thatcherism, well think Manchester/Sheffield in the 80s, that’s a bit like Katowice, but with better weather and beautiful Polish women. It’s grand so it is. My brother was here not so long ago and described it as…. “it’s got the charm of an ugly baby.” Well, y’know yourself, ugly babies are always far and away cooler than the good looking ones. Is it OK to say that babies can be good looking? Ireland’s gone a bit PC mad since I left, don’t want ye thinking I fancy babies y’know.

“Do you like Poland?” That’s the first thing I’m asked when I meet someone new here. Poles are really interested in knowing what foreigners think of their country. That blows my mind, really amazes me. I don’t think us Irish give two fiddler’s fucks about what immigrants think of Ireland. At first I used to give nice MOR answers, ‘Yes, of course, I like the food, the beer, the weather and Polish women are the most beautiful in the world.” Poles are well aware they have Europe’s hottest women, they’re not so lucky with the menfolk though. The also think their weather is terrible…ha! Try coming from Ireland where it’s gray one day and grayer the next. Poland has four season, four real, proper seasons.

Fine Day in Ireland

A real, full-on proper weather cycle. It’s mad. My first winter though, I’ll admit to enjoying quite a few suicidal thoughts. I remember checking the temperature before taking the hound for his nightly stroll one night, it was -33 degrees. I damn near picked poor Rambo up to hold over the balcony to squeeze a steamer out of him. I decided against it for fear that a flying dog turd would freeze and solidify midair and kill one of my elderly neighbours while she smokes on her balcony.

Now though I’ve graduated to less MOR answers. “Why yes, of course, I like the way Poland is the first country to have a transgender member of Parliament.” That gets funny looks, or “I love the way queues work in Poland, you guys love a good queue.” “Pickled Herring” or “I love driving here, I’m hepped up on adrenaline and testosterone every morning when I get into work.” “Beer is sold everywhere at any time of the day, wonderful…and I love the way every house you go into has slippers ready for you when you get there.” “Kebabs, zapiekanka and krupniok, (blood pudding) love it, flaki’s (intestines) nasty though.” “Everything can be pickled, it’s an amazing talent you guys have.”

Jooooooooooeeeeeeee Dufffffyyyyyyyy

It’s only right to feel homesick from time to time though. And with Paddy’s Day almost upon us I’m ripe for some. Irish pubs, Wexford cheddar – love those awesome farmers on the packets, Taytos, Lucozade. Ann Doyle reading the news. Whelan’s. I’ve found a cure for it though. I go to the RTE website and listen to Joooooooooooe Duffyyyyyyy. The callers on that show instill a sense of gratitude in me that I don’t have to be on the same rain-sodden island as them. It’s immense and if ever feeling homesick it’s the best cure. But I do tune into RTE’s Champions League coverage still and I devour podcasts from Ireland,
I miss our wonderful range of accents.

So, yes, Paddy’s is almost here and what to do? I’m sure I’ll be doing something patriotic, I’ll watch the Dublin parade online and go to a friend’s house and watch the GAA finals…who’s playing? Does it matter? Guinness will be drank, along with car-bombs and maybe we’ll hunt down a lamb or a goat from a mountain and make a stew. Teach some locals some rebel songs….not that I actually know the full words to any, maybe some Thin Lizzy or Kerbdog lyrics instead, or Declan Nerney or Daniel O’Donnell. One of my best friends here knows all the words to the Wolftones/Eire Og’s Go on Home British Soldiers. That’s a story for another time I’m afraid. I don’t even know the words, I’d to look up there who even sang it, so it’s pretty funny to hear a Polish man sing them with delight at 4am in the centre of Katowice. A house party will be had and we’ll introduce our Polish mates to a quintessential Irish tradition. It’ll either blow their minds or lead to an all out freakout of mammoth proportions. If you hear of Katowice on the news come Monday morning then you’ll know what’s to blame. Shoes on, inside.

…….The next article will appear on Drop-d.ie in the coming days and I’ll add it to the blog after that.

A new survey was published with some interesting figures concerning the sex lives of Poles. Makes for some interesting reading so it does. If you like black comedy. Jesus, I’m from a backward Catholic country, nothing only a wee rock alone in the far East of the Atlantic, but this is Poland. A central European country. Back at home we were told that those lucky enough to live on the continental mainland were absolute animals for sex. Every man had a mistress, a wife and a girlfriend. Every woman had a husband and a male concubine to do with what she wished. And sure isn’t Poland right slap bang in the centre of Europe? You’d think they’d be mad at it like rabbits.

Well, it doesn’t look like it. It seems that the Poles aren’t getting or being poled enough.

There are some ok figures, 75% of those surveyed said they were happy with their sex life, only 9% were unhappy. Although that doesn’t really tot up. That would mean that there’s a 16% who are totally meh about their sex life. Well, surely this means they too are unhappy. If you felt indifferent to your activity between sheets then surely you’re either doing something wrong (maybe you’ve been having sex with the neighbour’s labrador?) or you’re lying in the survey and you’re really as miserable as the other 9%. So in reality, 25% of Poles are unhappy with their sex life.

A quarter of the population is unhappy with their sex life? That would be ok back in Ireland, coz about 25% of our population are dog ugly heffers, but in Poland? Poland has some of the most beautiful women on the planet. What’s going on?

Well, the answer could be one of two things. You see the survey also says that 43% of men enjoy, on average, sex 2-3 times per week. 38% of women however,  give the same figure. It seems that this missing 5% must mean that there’s a significant amount of men who are cheating on their women with men. It’s the only logical conclusion. Who are these men? Well, they are the far-right of course.

This week the far-right scum went to Warsaw to get a logo ok’ed. This is the logo. It’s quite obvious that anyone who is in a group of shaven-headed men and who hate gays are repressing their own homoerotic feelings for each other. The only problem with shaven-headed gay couples is how do they tell the difference between their heads and their asses when they’re boning each other? And anyway take a look at that position, who doesn’t like a bit of doggy style? I thought it was a favourite for women. Ok the bent over one has a willy, but at least the figure behind him is doing the decent thing and giving a reach-around. Sure ’tis only fair. So, one of the reasons for the difference in figures are the homophobic homosexual members of the far-right.

The second reason for the differing figures is prostitution. One fifth of Polish male students admit to using the services of a lady of the night. Every man can see the advantage of doing it with a hooker, no boring pillow talk afterwards, no having to pretend to be interested in her boring hobbies (I had a missus once who collected those freaky porcelain dolls, they’d be staring at me while she slept). Just give her some money, blow your load and back to studying about medicine or law or dentistry or whatever it is. Of course what the survey didn’t mention is that only the richer students can afford hookers to it’s obviously going to be the lads from the higher classes availing of the services of these hard-working ladies.

Another amazing figure was that 35% of people believe that homosexuals should do everything to change their preference. Seriously wtf? If you’re a deer and you like other deers how in the name of St Ursula are you going to chage your preference to hedgehogs? I was once at a meeting of GA (Gays Anonymous, I was there for purely research purposes) and I heard this…..”Speaking as a former gorilla, I’m now a reformed lover of your species, I did at first find it hard to stop liking other gorillas, but the word of Jesus put me on track and now I only entertain the thoughts of mating with fellow Gdynians. But I will be married before I dare consumate the relationship”. True as Jaysus that did happen. Gdynia, the place to be, I’m telling you.

There was some good news for the gay community though. Even if the government doesn’t want to do it, 53% of people believe that gay couples should have the same legal entitlements as married couples.

There was nothing in the survey about favourite positions, whether the wife likes having her hair pulled (just a little), best time of day for the auld snoo-snoo, whether their women spit or swallow, how many orgasms are achieved by both parties. There was nothing about orgies, threesomes, y’know the kinky stuff.

Here’s another figure, the average age that a Pole pops his/her cherry is a shameful 18. Those poor poor teenagers, they need some place to go to have sex. I say convert every local community centre once a month into a gangbang area for the teens. 18 is too old for your first time, it implies that you’re drinking now and you’re gonna get banged by some redneck called Adam who has filled you so full of Sliwowice that you’re contemplating invading Russia to shoot down Putin’s next plane in revenge for Smolnsk. Don’t wait till you’re 18, do it when you’re young and in love and at one of those god awful summer camps that Polish parents send their teenage kids too. They only send you there so they can get all filthy at home, as your Dad can’t have sex while you’re under his roof. Anyway, fall in love quickly, made a ton of love and let it all end beautifully when on the final day you return to your swank pad in Poznan and Artur must return to work in his father’s gym in Chorzow before the school year begins again. Those memories will last forever….provided you don’t get alzheimer’s, or the like. At least you’ll have memories, unlike if you end up down an alley with Adam, the pride of Bieszszady grunting over you until the bear of a man finally comes to a stop.

Then there’s the figure that Poles on average go through life with only 4 sexual partners. Ha-hahahahaha! Losers. I have to admit I did a proper lol when I read it first. Jesus, priests in Ireland have more female sexual partners that that. True they may have many underage male sexual partners too but that’s not why we are here. Seriously, 4! People of Poland, here is the easiest way to have more sexual partners….are you ready?

Move out of your parents house. It’s like being in Italy, only the weather isn’t as good and the football is a whole lot worse. How do you expect to have a ton of sex if you still live with the auld pair. Once you’re 18 get out of the family home and learn to live alone. Have parties, fall in love, meet people, enjoy your final years in education because god knowns once you join the rat race and get married then you’ll be having fuck all sex.

One final thing before I go. City Guards in Gdansk are sending letters to parents of minors who they find smoking in public places. City Guards are basically cops but losers. They have no guns & cannot arrest you. They are usually jumped up rednecks too dumb to join the cops. So thankfully we know that there are actually some people dumb enough to not be able to use a gun. Anyway, what a ridiculous thing to do, not a million miles from the moral police you hear of in Saudi Arabia & Tehran.

See you next week.

Anyway here’s the first part of a two, maybe three part gallery. Click on the images to see a bigger size.

I get some really cool shades and colours so I’ll probably have more up so enough.