My Primary School Autobiography (From When I Was 7 Years Old)

Glasgow, Scotland, UK • February 1998 • Length of Read: 12 Minutes

Whilst cleaning out my room this week I came across a box of old assignments I'd completed when in primary school. Most of it was rubbish, but amongst the scribbled jotters and scrunched paper, I found the autobiography which I'd written and annotated for one of my classes. I've translated this into the below unedited and unabridged version solely for myself, however, you may also find it really quite entertaining. Without further ado, I give you 7-year-old Crobs' half-glass-empty perspective of the world.

Introduction

I think my life has been quite worthwhile and I hope you will find my autobiography interesting. As well as all this I want people in other countries to know what a person in a different county’s life is like.

This book is about my life up till now from when I stood on a banana with bare feet to my holiday in Holland. I hope you will enjoy this book and I hope it will bring back memories from your past.

By Christopher Roberts (Aged 7)

Chapter One

On Tuesday 14th May 1991 I was born in Paisley Maternity Hospital and I was 6lb 15oz and my star sign is Taurus. I took a day and a half to be born and Mum lost so much blood she had to get two pints. I am very glad I am called Christopher because the other names I was to be called were Gareth or Ryan and I don’t fancy those names very much. My name was finally decided when my Mum and Dad both voted and Christopher was the name they liked best. It is very strange but I was baptised at the age of six with my brother at Broom Church on 28th January 1996. “Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, and Grandparents came to Broom Church for the Christening then came back to our house for lunch” Mum recalls.

“Close friends had their baby Christened at the same time which made it special” adds Mum. I was an all-right baby at night waking about every four hours for milk.

“Fortunately, Christopher slept well at night because I needed a rest having pushed the pram all day as this was the only time that Christopher didn’t cry,” says Mum.

“Christopher was the second child in the history of Nursery to be recommended to leave. This was because he was so miserable and cried most of the time” Mum also says.

I cut my first tooth at about four and a half months old round about the time of a normal baby. I started walking when I was eight and a half months old on 2nd February 1992 and my first shoes were blue and had clowns on the front. I am very accident prone as Gran says: “Poor Christopher has to be taken to A&E on three occasions as a toddler with severe cuts on his head.”

When I was about one and a half I started talking and my first words were ‘mum’ and ‘dada’. I had the Chicken Pox and some colds but apart from that I wasn’t ill.

Bananas and baked beans were my favourite solid food but I like yoghurts as well.

My favourite toy was a plastic tool box and I was always clutching a tool and my Gran said I even took it on holiday to Jersey with me.

Chapter Two: Earliest Memories

It was the night before Christmas and I couldn’t get to sleep. The next day was Christmas and I was getting my first games console. It was going to be a PlayStation and I couldn’t wait to get it plugged in and play it. My room was very dark and the only bit of light was coming through a crack in the door and there was an eerie feeling in the room. I lay in bed thinking about what games I was going to get for it when I dozed off to sleep. The next morning I woke up and switched the light on: “Oh no! It is 2 o’clock and I still have five whole hours to wait until I can wake up mum and dad, what should I do?” I tried to get to sleep again but I simply couldn’t I was too excited so I carefully tiptoed silently out into the landing to see if Santa had been. Yes, he had! My stocking was bulging with presents and my other small stocking was crammed full of sweets I couldn’t bear it. Looking at all those things and not being able to open any of them…. How disappointing! I walked back into my bedroom feeling very disappointed and jumped into my bed. I lay there for hours on end thinking about nothing but my presents until finally, finally, seven o’clock came. I flung off my bed covers and leapt out of bed, charged into my mum and dad’s room with my stockings and ran back for the presents that wouldn’t fit in the stockings. After I did all this I jumped about in a frenzy shouting: “It’s Christmas, it’s Christmas!” By doing this I woke up the whole household, even my brother which is very surprising as he could sleep through a tornado. Anyway, he was awake. After all this commotion and I had quietened down the only noise you could hear was the noise of wrapping paper being torn up and my brother shouting: “look what I’ve got, look what I’ve got!” until I found my PlayStation. I rushed up to my dad and heh came stumbling into my room and set it up, then I rummaged about for a game and popped it into the machine and I sat there for hours on end playing it. This was my best Christmas ever.

Talking about Christmas, I have also got another memory about when I went to Millport. It was a beautiful day and me, my mum, my dad, my brother, my friends, and my friends’ parents all stood at the harbour waiting for the ferry. My friends Kirstie and Martin and I had yo-yos with us and we played with them whilst looking at the bright yellow sun, the birds flying in the sky, and the green leave on the trees. Then the ferry arrived and we all jumped on, it was going to take us half an hour to get there so we told each other and looked at the waves splashing at the side of the boat. We finally made it to Millport, we got off the boat and walked onto the sandy beach and up onto the kerb and went to a bike shop to hire bikes to cycle around the island. After we had all got our bikes Kirstie and I went to ask when they were to be back and the man said in two hours and that was when I was run over. We were just going to cross the road back to our parents and because there were so many cars parked, we stood in a parking space that was empty when a taxi reversed into the space. The parents were all shouting so I jumped back and they all signed with relief. After that I crossed the road safely and we had a fine day cycling around the island.

Chapter Three: Earliest Memories at School

I remember my first day at school when I was in P1. I wore a shirt and tie but I hated it so much my mum let me wear the school polo shirt. I didn’t always like school and sometimes I didn’t want to go. I soon settled down though, once I got to know my teacher, Mrs Leslie, who was very nice. The classroom was about 12 meters long and wide, there were about 30 people in my class it was very stuffy and it didn’t smell of anything really but people. I remember sitting next to a boy called Ross Maitland who actually lived down the street from me. My worst subject was language because I didn’t like writing stories very much. I liked it when it came to reading though because I liked reading stories and the first book I read was ‘Robbie’s First Day at School’ and I liked this book because it was about his first day at school.

I also liked lunch, because I could see people from older classes I knew and I loved the jam sandwiches that I had for lunch. We were also allowed to have lunch outside when it was sunny, round the other side of the school at the benches. I also liked lunch because the next step was playtime.

In loved play time because I could run about, get fresh air, and see pals from other classes. I knew quite a lot of people from other classes and I began to like them even more when the classes were muddled up. I liked playtime most in the summer though because you were allowed to go on the grass and play. My favourite games in the playground were ‘tag’ and ‘wars’ where we pretended we were space ships and tried to blow each other up.

Sometimes though I don’t like being in the playground because one day I was playing tag with some girls that I took a run to school with when I tripped over somebody’s school bag that was lying on the ground, luckily though I had my school bag on otherwise it would have been really painful. Everyone was laughing at me, even some mums because it was before the bell had rung. I went red because I was so embarrassed. I ran over to the mum I was with and she gave me a hanky to rub my hand. Then the bell rang and I went into school feeling happy again.

Chapter Four: My Great Gran

My great gran, Nessie Arthur, had a very interesting life and this is part of it.

My great gran Nessie Arthur was born in May 1901 and lives most of her life in Perth, Scotland where she dies aged 93 (in 1994).

When she was 10 her mother died of influenza. Her father was too busy to look after her and there were no nurseries to go to so she went to stay with her Aunt Katie in Edinburgh. In early 1913 (when she was 12) Aunt Katie took her to Canada to live. There were no airports at that time so they crossed the North Atlantic on the Cunard Linear Mauretania, a journey that took almost 14 days. I was told it was very stormy and must have been scary for a young girl as it was only the year before that the Titanic had been sunk.

The start of the 1st World War in 1914 stopped Nessie returning home to visit her father and as there were no international telephone calls, the only way of communicating was by letter.

When the War ended, Nessie managed to come home in 1919. By now she was 18 and started to work in Jenner’s Department Store in Edinburgh.

Whilst she was working, Nessie met and married William Arthur in 1931. A few years later my Granny was born and then a son Sandy Arthur.

It must have been very hard to leave her dad and travel to a new country but she did and that was my great gran’s life.

Chapter Five: My Favourite Sweets

My favourite sweets are Blackjacks. They are a bit like the shape of a half-cube and are black in colour. They are rough on the side but smooth on the faces. The wrapper is also black and it has Basset’s & Beyond written on it. I prefer to open the wrapper by pulling up the tab and ripping it off but sometimes I open it carefully. The sweet doesn’t really smell of anything but if you smell it carefully it smells of liquorice and it feels squishy if you hold it for a long time in your hand. If you hold the sweet on your tongue it feels a bit stingy. The texture in your mouth feels hard to begin with but if you suck it, it will go smooth. The sweets don’t taste like any other sweets except Blackjack bars and they themselves taste like liquorice. You can suck the sweets or chew them but I prefer to chew them because it’s easier than sucking. I normally eat them when I come home from tennis and in my room I normally eat them once a week.

I also have another favourite sweet: Polo Mints. They are the shape of a circle and have a hole in the middle of them. They are white and rough on one side where the print saying ‘Polo’ is. The wrapper is blue, green, white and yellow and I prefer to open them by ripping off the paper at the top and picking them out. They smell of mint and are rough in your hand and if you place it on your tongue your tongue feels all minty and your mouth feels refreshed. The texture doesn’t change in your mouth and they taste of mint. They also like Soft-mints, another sweet, but that’s all. You can eat them by biting or sucking, I do both and I normally eat them twice a week

Chapter Six: When I Was Ill

I was 10 years old and I was at school. I couldn’t eat my lunch because I had a sore tummy and my head was in agony. I went outside and I found that I felt too sore even to play so I went into the bathroom and was sick in the toilet. I was going to go to the medical room when I felt fine again so I went out to play only to find I felt really bad and had another sore head. I dragged through a long playtime and finally the bell went. I went upstairs and into the classroom with the rest of the class to find my sore head was even sorer in the heat of the sun in the classroom. I was in the middle of my work when I was sick again, not too much but was sick so I told Miss Milne and I went down to the medical room and lay on the bed for a little while thinking about the bell for home-time and my house. I then felt better and went back up to the classroom sill thinking about home-time. I managed to last five minutes before the bell until I puked up and this was a lot of sickness. Then the bell rang and I went outside to see my mum because I wasn’t to go on the bus. I went home in the car and jumped onto the sofa and had a rest, my mum said to try and get to sleep but I couldn’t so I just say there thinking about nothing until I felt a bit better and was able to watch television. All I had for tea was tortillas and a drink of milk then it was time for bed. My mum gave me Calpol before I went to bed because I still had a sore head. I lay there in bed or hours on end because I couldn’t go to sleep, the bedroom looked quite scary because I thought objects in my room looked like other things and it looked like their shadows were moving. Then I finally got to sleep. I woke up in the morning feeling just as bad so my mum said I should stay off school and wait until I was better. My mum had a friend round called Jill and she brought me a comic which was very kind of her and that took up quite a bit of time as well as a Star Wars video. It was finally night time and I went to bed feeling much better and fit again. I woke up in the morning with the sun streaming through my window, the birds chirping and my brother jumping about the place. I was feeling much better now so I went to school feeling fit again, and that was my day sick off school.

Chapter Seven: Things I Love and Hate

These are the things I love.

I love my PlayStation because when my friends come round to play we have a lot of games to choose from and sometimes they even bring games of their own so we don’t get bored. I also like my PlayStation because I’d get a bit bored if I didn’t have it to play.

I love my Nike T-Shirt as well because it is blue and blue is my favourite colour. I also like it because I feel cool in it and it has a nice pattern with a tick for Nike on it and checked squares. It also makes me feel free because I don’t have any weight to carry. It is the most favourite t-shirt I have and I wear it all the time so my mum has to do quite a lot of washing at the end of the week.

The third and most final thing I like is my GameBoy because it is small and I can take it anywhere with me just by putting it in my pocket. I like this also because it gives me something to do when I go on a long, boring, journey. I also like it because I have a selection of games to play and I have a light to see in the dark so I can play it in my bed at night without anyone knowing.

Now I will tell you about the things I hate.

I will begin with my Adiadora jumper. It is too small for me but my mum insists I wear it when my other jumpers are in the wash. I don’t like it because it is a sort of grey and white colour and it is disgusting.

I also hate tomatoes because they look revolting inside with all the pips and they taste disgusting. They are red and there are so many of them on pizzas it is unbelievable. I also hate cucumber because it tastes all sour and revolting.

Finally, I hate nursery rhymes because every night I go to bed all I can hear from my brother’s room is nursery rhymes from his tape recorder and he turns it up so loud I can’t get to sleep. Luckily though the tape recorder broke and he hasn’t listened to it since.

Get High In Amsterdam (Bucket List #92)

Amsterdam, Netherlands • July 2015 • Length of Read: 8 Minutes

“You know that old cliché about falling in love with a stripper?” mumbled Jake as we awoke, sweating in the bunks of our houseboat cabin.

“Yes,” I replied ominously.

“Well, it’s not like that, but I think Nikki genuinely liked me.”

“Bullshit,” chimed Dave.

“No, seriously guys. Why don’t we go back today and I’ll prove it?”

“For two reasons,” I interjected. “One – she won’t even recognise you. Two – I don’t have another €60 to splash, and neither do you.”

“Fair enough,” he reasoned, coming to some sense.

Climbing up the flimsy staircase, and onto the deck, we could tell it was going to be a scorcher. Despite the sun yet to reach its highest point in the sky, the temperature was already well above 30 degrees Celsius. What better a day to lounge around and sample some of the city’s culinary delicacies then?

Hopping on a tram, we stole a ride to Vondelpark. Situated to the South-West of the city, this is the Dutch capital’s largest expanse of open space, and 10 million visitors per year use it to play sports, walk their animals around the nature trails, and relax on the grass next to grandiose water features. This chilled-out environment also makes it the ideal place to take a trip of the psychedelic variety as well.

Entering a nearby Smart Shop we were welcomed by a stereotypical Dutch guy, tall with slicked-back hair. The pristine white décor and sanitised smell gave the aura of a pharmacy, but we knew that most of the inventory on sale in this particular branch would likely lead to disciplinary action were they to be prescribed by a medical practitioner back home. Beneath the glass casing of the counter which the man stood behind were a plethora of hallucinogenic and psychedelic substances. A jubilee of drugs which would make any stoner think they had died and gone to stoner heaven.

“We are looking to get some magic truffles please,” requested Jake.

“Have you had a trip before?” asked the gentleman.

“No.”

“Okay. For you guys, I would recommend the Mexicana variety. This is known in South America as Flesh of the Gods and, although the mildest, still gives the user a vivid colour perception and intense laughter.”

Noticing that the next strength up was called Dragon Slayer, we nodded in agreement. I didn’t feel quite up for attempting to tame a mythical beast and save the princess just quite yet.

“Perfect. We’ll have three packets please.”

“No problem. Now, I always suggest that users eat them on an empty stomach and avoid alcohol consumption for the duration of their trip. Most will start to feel the effects within one hour of consuming the truffles, and an average trip lasts from four to six hours. If you do start to have a bad trip at any point, then just take some sugar. This will neutralise the effects and bring you back down.”

“Thanks, man,” we chimed in unison. Wandering out the air-conditioned shop, and back into the sun, it felt like we’d just gone through the process of purchasing a new phone than of a substance marked as illegal by the British Government.

Locating a supermarket, we stocked up on yoghurts, chewy candy, and electrolyte sports drinks, before heading through the park gates. Nearly every blade of grass was covered by picnic blankets and rugs, as every person and their dog (literally) seemed to have had the same idea as how best to take advantage of the glorious weather. We meandered along the crisscrossing pathways and around the park’s two main ponds, before eventually finding a secluded shady spot under a large oak tree. Taking in the surroundings, and making ourselves comfortable, the distinct smell of weed drifted across the breeze. Dave put on his holiday playlist, cracked open the packets of truffles, and we eyed them up with disgust.

I hadn’t had anything to eat since biting into a nuclear hot slice of pizza the prior night, but the tiny, hairy, brown roots in my hand were doing nothing to fulfil my appetite. I stirred them into the yoghurt, scooped up a large spoonful, shoved it in my mouth, and immediately started to gag.

It was what I imagine chewing mouldy tree bark to be like, mixed with the taste of raw cabbage. After just three mouthfuls Dave was vomiting into a nearby hedge, but by some miracle Jake and I managed to swallow them; grimaced expressions glued on our faces the entire process. Once each packet had eventually been consumed we chatted away in nervous anticipation, the intermittent gulps of water doing little to wash away the taste.

The first thing that struck me was the leaves on the trees bursting out in density and colour, zooming straight into focus like someone had just flicked on a ‘high definition’ switch in my retinas. My gaze then shifted upwards as the fluffy clouds puffed out like white paint bursting on a baby blue canvas. The grass under my body spiked up on its end, trying hopelessly to lift me up into the art show above, as the trees waved and clapped on their brave effort.

“Look at that,” Dave elated, pointing into the sky. “A lion’s face and mane.”

Sure enough, like daylight star-gazers, I too saw it formed by the clouds, until its roar was drowned out by a plane tearing through the misty mass and leaving nothing but a rippled jet-stream in its wake.

“How cool is it to think there are 300 or so people sat up there travelling at hundreds of miles an hour and heading thousands of miles away?” mused Jackie. He’d turned into a true modern day philosopher.

“Sick man. Holy shit, though, look at that pigeon.”

I had been lying flat on my back, but in re-adjusting my position I’d lifted up my head slightly and locked eyes with a suspicious looking bird. It glared back and refused to break the gaze as if it were saying ‘I know what you’re up to, and I approve.’ I immediately burst out into hysterics, the tears rolling down my face hidden behind my sunglasses. The ‘laughter’ trigger of the truffles had clearly been pulled. Whilst I attempted to subdue this uncontrollable laughter streak an old man walked his dog past and a grin rose on his face. A second round of the giggles started. “He knows what’s up,” I whispered indiscreetly to my pals. “He definitely knows.”

Around the time we were reaching our maximum highs, a group of stacked 6ft+ Dutch guys used their T-shirts to set up goal posts on the grassy clearing we were overlooking and challenged some other dudes to a game of football. With a large number of female on-lookers, the testosterone was running almost as high as we were. Bare-backed slaps were dished out for each well-timed tackle or pass, and group hugs were the norm every time there was a score.

“That guy is so built,” blurted out Jake. “I mean, just look. He’s massive. I’m going to start going to the gym again. That’s certainly some end goals right there.”

Dave and I looked at each other with genuine concern. Was Jake about to come out?

Before we could take this line of thought any further though we were again distracted. This time however so was everyone else in our part of the park, high or not. A woman came by walking the fattest dog imaginable. Its stomach hung so low that you couldn’t even see its legs, and she was pulling a stroller behind her. The dog was so heavy that it had to be wheeled to and from the park before and after its exercise. Satisfactorily amused we turned back to the game of football, and in the time it took them to play the whole second half the dog had still not waddled from sight.

Glancing at my phone I realised that three hours had elapsed since we’d first swallowed the truffles, and I was starting to need the toilet. There were some portable toilets only 100m away, but when I suggested to the boys that I was going to venture off they looked at me like I’d said I was about to attempt a summit of Mount Everest.

“There’s no way you are going to make it man,” said Jake. “Look how far away that tree is.”

“What, the tree right next to the toilet?”

“Yeah,” said Dave, pausing Don McLean’s American Pie, which had been on repeat since we sat down.

“God, you’re right actually,” I found myself agreeing. “That tree is pretty far away. I’m never going to make it.”

In the fear of wetting myself for the first time as a grown adult, however, try I did. I made it across no bother at all, and whilst taking a piss began to wonder what all the initial concern was about. Wanting to get back to our little haven under the tree as quickly as possible, I’d sprinted across the grass like I'd been racing against Usain Bolt. As I began my return journey, however, I became consciously aware of how high I actually was. Feeling like I was floating across the ground like a ghost, and anxious to act normal, I decided to copy the movements of the man next to me who was walking in the same direction. I mirrored his hasty footsteps until I reached the boys, delighted at how I managed to complete the journey with no issues.

“Please tell me you were doing that deliberately?” guffawed Jake through fits of laughter.

“Doing what?” I said, genuinely confused.

“Walking as slowly as possible and taking the piss out of that guy beside you who was clearly as high as a kite.”

“Shut up! I thought he was walking normally so I was matching his steps.”

“Oh dear…”

Four and a half hours after we first felt the effects, the truffle magic eventually wore off and we returned back to reality, with its greying skies and dim foliage. The entire experience was absolutely brilliant and provided me with a host of new perspectives and ideas. They say money can’t buy happiness. Well, for €12.50 I was the happiest person in the world on that Friday afternoon.

Amsterdamage (Bucket List #126)

Amsterdam, Netherlands • July 2015 • Length of Read 8 Minutes

Scotland’s climate in July 2015 had more resembled an Arctic winter than the fresh summer we’d spent the previous 11 months longing for, so I decided to head to Amsterdam for a boys weekend with my two pals, Dave and Jake. We convened in Edinburgh Airport, where it became apparent that, despite being a city break, Dave was going to be treating it like one would an Ibiza holiday. As Jake and I loitered about the check-in desk, our lanky musketeer pitched up wearing a cheap pair of kaleidoscopic sunglasses, a free promotional T-shirt he had acquired from a nightclub, a wicker fishing hat, some slip-on plimsolls, and a pair of maroon cargo shorts.

“Jesus Christ,” quaffed Jake as we headed through security. “We didn’t even set you the challenge of turning up looking like an idiot and you’ve still manage to exceed all expectations. How much did that total attire set you back?”

“£9.89,” grinned Dave, genuinely proud of himself at having fashioned together an outfit for less than the cost of the three pints we’d ordered upon reaching the departure lounge.

I spent the short flight intermittently reading some Hemmingway and humouring the middle-aged couple beside me, who were laying over in the Dutch capital before heading off to the wilderness of the Norwegian fjords. From the look on the woman’s face, I could tell that it was clearly her husband who had proposed, and then booked the trip. I was pretty jealous, but couldn’t figure out a way of asking whether I could trade my two nights on a canal boat for a week on their luxury cruise liner.

That’s right, the three of us were going to be staying on a barge for the weekend. We’d been extremely efficient in getting the flights arranged, but somehow booking accommodation had slipped all of our minds. Realising too late that, on a July weekend, Amsterdam was most likely going to be choc-a-bloc, we’d scoured travel websites for hours looking for somewhere to get our forty winks each night. When a canal houseboat had popped up for only €20 p/p per night we pounced on it immediately, thinking that, if nothing else, it would provide a bit of laughter along with the mild claustrophobia and sea-sickness.

Pier 4 was where the vessel was moored. A short stroll from the Central Train Station past the floating Chinese Restaurant and NEMO museum. It turned out that check-in was closed from 2pm-4pm, so we dumped our stuff on the deck and tried to strike up a conversation with the bikini-clad American girl stretched out on one of the sun loungers. Unfortunately, however, Melissa would have been shoe-in for first prize at the ‘Most Mundanely Boring, Plain-Vanilla, Humanoid on Planet Earth’ competition. We were relieved when Ursula, the manager of the barge, arrived back from her afternoon lunch break.

This woman was quite the sight to behold. Strikingly overweight with a du-rag bandana was wrapped around her thinning grey hair. Showcased on her arm, thanks to the cut-off tank top, was a large love heart tattoo with the words ‘Mom & Pop’ stencilled inside it. She was certainly not one to forget quickly... unlike whatshername up on deck.

The ventilation in our cabin consisted of a tiny porthole in the roof. With Jake’s farts renowned as being some of the smelliest in town, this brought up the dilemma of whether we kept it shut and suffocated to death, or left it open and risked likely theft. As Jake left Dave and I deliberating whilst he used the toilet, however, it was quickly agreed upon that the rest of the guests looked trustworthy enough. Despite this decision, however, upon checking out, the aroma coming from our room definitely wouldn’t have been bottled for a new line of perfume anytime soon.

Already in desperate need of some fresh air, we wandered into the hub of the city and took seats at a canal-side burger restaurant outside the Bulldog Hostel. This chain has expanded into cafes, bars, coffee shops, and clubs; cornering the twentysomething-tourist-stoner-party scene in the process. The girls entering and exiting the venue were dressed as provocatively as possible, appearing as if they were attempting to challenge those hidden behind the doors illuminated by red lights further along the street for sluttiness. The lads were all tensing their egos and ripped torsos, which were bursting out from under beer-stained tank tops. It had been three years since I used to live in The Netherlands and frequent Amsterdam at the weekends, and nothing had changed.

This included the calibre of talent. There was so much fucking talent. Wherever I looked there were heavenly blessed beauties roaming along the pavements. Then they started appearing not only on land but on the water as well. One of the boats actually obtained a round of applause as it weaved its way slowly between canal bridges, the 15 blondes on board wearing short, billowing dresses and flowered headbands a real sight to behold. And they knew alright. It was a surprise then when their thunder was stolen by the lonesome bald bloke cruising along about 10 metres behind them. One hand operating the rudder of his shitty little rust bucket, and the other clasping a beer, he was so laid back that he was almost horizontal. An absolute boss. Whether he’d started out on his cruise with a bucket of fucks or not, we didn’t know, but it was evident that there were absolutely none left to be given.

Finishing our food, we moved down the street to the Old Sailor Bar for more beers, taking up a bench by the open window. I went to the bar to order the first round and got chatting to the cute little blonde girl who squeezed in line beside me. Charlie was Romanian, and I could see her travelling companion eyeing us up from a nearby table.

“Feel free to come over and join us,” I said, nodding towards where Jake and Dave were sitting.

“Perhaps,” she winked back.

I paid for our drinks and headed back to the table. Dave and Jake were in deliberation with an Aussie guy called Ryan as to whether or not the uniformed policewoman across the street was an actual on-duty cop or just a role-playing sex worker. I admitted that it looked like she had fitted herself from the wardrobe of a softcore porn photo shoot, but when she whipped out a set of handcuffs and arrested two guys for throwing fists at each other we erred with caution as to what was further said.

Like clockwork, the Romanian pair then slid onto the bench beside us. The brunette was absolutely gorgeous, although when she started telling us crazy stories about her mother it was this more senior female in her family we were wishing we’d met. When Alina was just fifteen years old, her mum had forced her to get high and drunk so as to ‘get the inevitable out of her system’ and sounded like she’d had an even wilder upbringing herself. Unfortunately, Alina also had a boyfriend, and despite her blonde sidekick’s best efforts to get her to loosen up, she was remaining loyal. As Dave proceeded to pour a glass of white wine all over her lap, we thought it be a good time to part ways. Interest lost.

Following this, we started to do what we do when in any bar, regardless of where about in the world. That is: troll others, fuck about, act like morons, and set our companions stupid challenges. Spotting a woman entering the bar with a broken arm, I set Jake the task of having to sign a stranger’s cast. All failures were punishable by a slap across the face. Fearless, he immediately rose and marched over to a girl at the bar with a bright pink cast around her wrist, oblivious to the fact that she was surrounded by an ominous group of less-than-friendly-looking butch males.

“Can I sign your cast?” he sheepishly asked?

“You can fuck off,” was her curt reply, the locals clearly out for a quiet drink and fed up of constantly being harassed by drunk tourists.

“Yeah beat it,” added one of the entourage, leering over Jake in a menacing manner.

He scarpered back to the safety of our table as a timely tussle erupted between two even larger guys at the other side of the bar. Guys that were so big, even the bouncers decided to just let them resolve their differences for fear of receiving a beat down. Once the storm blew over, it became apparent that the pair were actually best friends who hailed from Scotland’s northern Orkney Islands. It is written in the law that, when abroad, Scottish compatriots must have at least one drink together. As the rest of the bars’ patrons stared at us gibbering away in nonsensical slang, we learned that Barry and Kev were best friends currently on a stag party. The groom was nowhere to be seen, but it was clear that the group has probably split when they decided to sample some of the local cocaine. Kev’s eyeballs looked like they were about to pop out of his skull, but with the girl in the cast and her posse still looking us up and down, we thought that having such allies might be quite useful in case something else kicked off.

Slamming back four Jaeger bombs, Barry decided that what we really needed to keep the game alive was a visit to the strippers. Three of the drinks had actually been bought for us, but we thought it best not to argue with, or upset, the bear of a human. We nodded in agreement and followed him along the street, down a seedy looking staircase, and to the entrance of an infamous haunt.

“It will be €60 for a 1-hour show,” said the ruffian at the door, “and that includes free drinks throughout the entire performance.”

“What a bargain,” yelled Kev. “That’s only about €1 per minute.”

It was clear that Kev’s formal education had likely stopped before he hit puberty. Which, from the look of him, could have been at about 7 years old. Jake, Dave, Barry and I forked out our cash, however, Kev had spent the last of his bank notes on the coke and was struggling to remember the pin code to his credit card. Numbers really weren’t his strong point. For their size, the islanders probably didn’t have a complete brain cell between them; lumbering ogres who did manual labour for a living.

“9-9-9-9,” Kev voiced out loud, as he bashed the keypad of the card reader.

*PIN NOT AUTHORISED*

“9-9-9-9,” he tried again, shouting even louder in the hope that the reader would feel empathetic towards his frustration. Again, however, the error message popped up.

*PIN NOT AUTHORISED*

“Fuck. I can’t for the life of me remember what the password is, and there’s only one chance left until it gets blocked.”

We thought for a couple of seconds that we might have to leave him at the entrance, which wouldn’t have been such a loss, but then it suddenly hit him. With an air of confidence and smugness, he plugged in his final attempt, again speaking them out loud in a rhythmic tone.

“4-4-1-4.”

*AUTHORISATION ACCEPTED*

“Fucking yes lads. I’ve got €1,000 on that bad boy. Tonight is going to get messy.”

“4-4-1-4,” we chanted, so loud that the entire street could hear. “4-4-1-4.”

As the man behind the till looked at us in amazement, it dawned on me that never in the history of the world would credit card theft have been easier than at that point. Kev’s joy was short-lived, however, as upon entering up the staircase he lasted only four minutes of the sixty before being kicked out for acting aggressively drunk towards the employees. The rest of us stayed for the remaining fifty-six minutes, telling the bartender to keep the drinks coming as pretty girls danced provocatively around.

Leaving Barry to his own devices, i.e. pissing in the canal and turning his anger towards us, we staggered into a bunch of Aussie girls who’d just experienced a similar ordeal – minus the unwelcome countrymen. Jake was starving, so we grabbed some pizza slices before attempting to find our way home. With its winding look-a-like cobbled streets, Amsterdam is not the easiest city to navigate, large quantities of alcohol in your belly or not. Stopping a couple of girls on bicycles to try and cheekily hitch a lift, however, backfired spectacularly when, mid-conversation, I bit into the spiciest piece of chicken pizza I’ve ever tasted. Immediately my mouth turned into an inferno and the remaining conversation involved them trying to interpret my gasping, tongue-waggling effort to cool down. They soon left. With no other options, we staggered through Dam Square and towards where we thought Central Station might, possibly, maybe, hopefully, be.

Our bearings were slightly shaky, but thankfully we made it to familiar surroundings with only a couple of wrong turns and pointed ourselves in the direction of the barge. Upon passing the floating Chinese restaurant, now gloriously lit up with lanterns, we noted a familiar looking body lying motionless in the gutter at the side of the road. Kev had clearly come down hard from his ‘roid rage’. Not willing to stir the beast and risk another streak of aggression, we stepped over him and continued on our way home. I wondered if his bank card was still in his pocket…

How to Sneak into the Vienna State Opera

Vienna, Austria • July 2016 • Length of Read: 10 Minutes

The following extract has been adapted from my self-published paperback travel book, We Ordered A Panda: Tales of City-Hopping Around Europe. If you enjoy this post, then please visit my online bookshop for more details.

Shaking off two large hangovers, the result of a night spent adhering to Vienna’s absurd drinking traditions, Lara and I met Lukas for a leisurely Saturday brunch at the Zweitbester Café in the Austrian capital’s 4th District. My old flat-mate had offered to act as a local tour guide for the weekend, and taking his self-appointed role very seriously, came strolling round the corner with a guidebook in hand; a proposed agenda for the day already mapped out in his head.

As I tucked into a lovely dish of eggs benedict, Lukas suggested that we first take a stroll into the Innere Stadt of Vienna, where the majority of sites and attractions are situated. Enclosed by a ring-road, one could briskly walk across the diameter of this 1st District in about 20 minutes, but the number of fascinating buildings and places within this map-dot means that it will more likely take you in the region of 4 hours to complete the trip. Between getting purposefully lost in the maze of back-alley cobbles; to the premium pedestrianised fashion avenues; to the museums, monuments, and cafes, this area is a cultural hub that showcases a well-preserved timeline of the city’s development and influences over the centuries.

The Habsburg Monarchy has been the most consistently influential power in the region since the signing of the Treaty of Vienna in 1515. Through marriage, this dynasty ruled a vast portion of Europe within the Holy Roman Empire, with the head of the Austrian branch of the House of Habsburg acting as Emperor. Vienna was their capital from 1526-1806, aside from a brief 28 year ousting to Prague, and their Swiss origins, at the turn of the 17th Century. Knowingly over-simplifying proceedings, and at the risk of deploring my own ignorance, there appears to be three prominent figures from this long line of descendants who have shaped the landscape more than any others, both politically and physically: Franz Joseph I; his wife, Empress Elizabeth (i.e. Sissi); and Rudolph IV. Okay, enough of the history lesson.

Think of Franz Joseph as the star of the show for our little journey, with Sissi as his leading lady. Both are buried in the Imperial Crypt, along with 145 members of their ancestry, and for €5.50 you can wander between the exorbitant sarcophagi and pay tribute to the deceased. As we would find out, this unusual price seemed to be the going rate of entry for nearly every tourist attraction in the city. The pair have been placed side-by-side in death, and the numerous fresh bouquets of flowers and token gestures littered around their headstone plaques signified how adored they still are, a whole century after their passing. Rudolph IV on the other hand, who lived a full 500 years before this power couple, is buried in a different crypt under St Stephen’s Cathedral. Now we have some background, let the tour truly commence…

Of Vienna’s top-5 architectural behemoths, the Cathedral stands out like a dagger in the heart of the city. The construction of this was initiated by Rudolph IV, but will sadly never be completed. One of the Cathedral’s two towers stands stump-like in contrast to its grandiose sibling, but that takes nothing away from the beauty and scale of this medieval place of worship.

After wandering through the catacombs of this structure, a well-to-do tour guide spitting facts at us for €5.50, we decided it might be a good idea to get some sunlight. Meandering around the tourist precinct we stumbled across a philosophy-centric book shop, before Lukas navigated us in the direction of his favourite hang-out, Klein’s Café. My other ex-flatmate Steffi joined us, having taken her 92 year-old grandmother out for a birthday lunch, and re-fueling with some Austrian sausage we caught up on the prior evening’s escapades. 'Now this is acting like locals', I thought to myself.

“Have you guys thought about going to the Vienna State Opera this weekend?” she asked, still giggling from my admission that the Dutch girl from the night before might have been more interested in her than myself.

“We were thinking about it, but it seems rather expensive for something we probably wouldn’t enjoy.”

“It’s only expensive for those who don’t know a few local tricks,” she grinned in response. “Let’s go and see if we can sneak in the back door.”

We headed down the street and past Hotel Sacher, the residence where the world famous Sacher Torte chocolate cake was born. Seffi explained that when tours of the Opera hall are in progress, or a concert is taking place, the outside doors to the building are all unlocked so that the staff members can move freely throughout. This means that you just have to time your entrance as being directly after one of these instances has gotten underway, and you are free to wander around the entire place. Sure, you’re not going to get front row seats for a five hour Mozart symphony, but you will be able to take in the atmosphere without spending the €50 entrance fee.

Unfortunately for us, Steffi’s timing was slightly awry, and when we eventually arrived the final tours had finished for the day. Unperturbed by this, or the rain which had started to beat down, she decided instead to take us to the Hofburg Palace. This would have been Franz and Sissi’s winter home, with their summer home being the enormous Schönbrunn Palace to the West of the city. Schönbrunn has over 1,400 rooms, and was where Franz Joseph was both brought into the world, and taken from it. Lara and I explored the mesmerising grounds of this estate the following day, the vastness of them allowing for ample peace and quiet, despite the thousands of tourists filtering through the grand entrance way that makes it the most visited attraction in the whole of Vienna.

As with the Opera, Steffi was convinced that if she tried enough of Hofburg Palace’s external door handles we would be able to get access to the Marble Hall and gold-tinted corridors. Alas, this was to no avail. Then it was the turn of the library enclosed within the University of Vienna to have its doors rattled, an establishment also founded under the guidance of Rudolph IV, followed by the storm gate of a house where Mozart once resided. The initial professionalism of Lukas’ tour guiding abilities was being shunned by this girl’s desire to break-and-enter into every building of prominence in her hometown. The only advice I can offer from our efforts however, is that cat burglars should consider pulling off jobs elsewhere. Apparently the Viennese people like to keep their properties rather tightly secure.

Hofburg has two primary gardens, and re-tracing our steps towards Café Landtmann, where we planned to get an early evening coffee and rest our weary legs, Steffi gave us the option of walking though one or the other.

“Volksgarten is the larger of the two, and is the one used by the more common people,” she half-joked. “Burggarten has a lovely little lake, and is where the more middle/upper class people tend to hang out. Each weekday morning, the horses from the Palace’s Spanish Riding School parade around this garden in a public display. Which one would you prefer?”

“The commoners' plot of dirt would be better suited to us," I acknowledged, glancing at Lukas who nodded in agreement.

We strode past a gallery, where a model of a naked man hunched over in a stranded rowing boat left us bewildered and confused. Contemporary art has always been a mysterious beast to me. I remember vising the Tate Modern in London once upon a time, and struggling to figure out whether the mop and bucket lying in the corner of one of the rooms was some form of creative statement, or simply the cleaner having failed to tidy up.

After some delicious cakes, served by waistcoat and bow-tied waiters, Lara and I bid farewell with a massive thanks to Steffi and Lukas. The pair had been the best aides we could have hoped for, and although orthodox in their actions could definitely have pulled off the guise of proper tour guides. Lukas was able to regurgitate facts and dates like he’d been studying for an exam, and Steffi added some personal flair to the proceedings that only someone who'd spent their whole life in the city could have. I just had one small peeve...

As we headed back towards the apartment, Lara noticed a tacky souvenir shop with a postcard reel outside. Twirling it round whilst looking for something suitable to send to our Russian friend Ksenia, she noticed one that had a close-up image of a bustling Klein’s Café. Our lunchtime pit stop, which Lukas had ensured was known only to the locals, appeared to be one of the trademark eateries in the whole city. I guess we'd been no more than typical tourists after all.

Vienna's Absurd Drinking Traditions

Vienna, Austria • July 2016 • Length of Read: 5 Minutes

The following extract has been adapted from my self-published paperback travel book, We Ordered A Panda: Tales of City-Hopping Around Europe. If you enjoy this post, then please visit my online bookshop for more details.

A 16 minute journey from Vienna International Airport on the City Airport Train (CAT) takes you directly to Wein Mitte Station, and the Landstraße U-Bahn. Here, one can hop on either the U3 line, which runs across the Austrian capital’s 1st District from the North-West to the South-East, or the U4, which comes down from the North before curving to the South-West and in the direction of Schönbrunn Palace. The Viennese public transport system of subways, trams, and trains, primarily operates on an honesty system. This means that it’s not only one of the most convenient and easy-to-navigate commuter service in Europe, but also one of the cheapest (i.e. it is free).

Fours stops along the orange coloured U3 line, I exited at Erdberg Station to find Lara waiting for me in a lonesome little café outside the Vienna International Bus Terminal (VIB). One of the stars of my book, we’d shared previous adventures in both Riga and London, however this was the first time we’d be exploring a brand new destination together. There’s nothing like that feeling of warmth that rises up through you when meeting an old friend. It really does tickle the heart. Upon seeing one another, you invariably end up bursting into coat-hanger wide smiles, before trying to squeeze a year’s worth of happiness into one almighty bear hug.  We only had one hour to get the keys for our apartment however, before a scheduled 9:30pm drinks session with a couple of very special local guides, so I grabbed her suitcase and we immediately hopped back onto the U-Bahn.

Serbian happens to be one of a mere eight languages that Lara speaks, my monolingual upbringing a pure embarrassment in comparison, and this was very handy considering our landlord for the long-weekend went by the name of Stonka. As the women ran through the rules and regulations attached to our visit, I tried my best to entertain the apartment owner’s young child, who was obediently heeling beside her mother’s leg like a puppy. Upon merely smiling at the little girl however, she burst into tears, like some monster had jumped out from being the front door and tried to eat her.

Stonka finished the tour of our abode and left us to unpack our stuff, the kid still looking shocked from the ordeal. After a quick change, we followed her right back out the door towards the Kettenbrückengasse U-Bahn Station. Here, four years after living together in Maastricht, The Netherlands, I was reunited with my Erasmus buddies Steffi and Lukas.

“You’ve not changed a bit Crobs,” beamed Steffi, as she rounded the corner. “Well… perhaps you’re a little bit skinner than before. Have you stopped going to the gym?”

“With no Julia around anymore, the motivation has kind of dwindled,” I laughed. Whilst in Maastricht, I’d developed such a severe crush on the German abs instructor that it led to me attending five classes per week just so I had an excuse to chat to her. Nothing ever came from these flirtatious gym sessions however, and after four months of chasing all I had to show for my vein efforts was a well-defined six-pack.

Lukas arrived, and we took a trip down memory lane whilst clinking glasses atop the skyline bar of the 25hr Hotel; a lit-up panorama of the cultured cityscape the backdrop to our nostalgic musings. He explained that we were currently in the city’s 7th District, of which there are 23 in total. The 1st District is the nucleus, and is where everything touristic is situated: from the Hofburg Imperial Palace and its spacious gardens; to the Opera; to the University, the City Hall, the Parliament Building, and the Sacher Hotel. A ring-road signifies the boundaries to this Old Town, with Districts 2-9 lining its circumference. Steffi joked that the gay scene was situated in the 5th District, which just so happened to be the same area in which Lara and myself were staying.

Wanting to make the most of my friends’ local knowledge, Lara and I asked Lukas and Steffi to take us to a ‘traditional’ Viennese bar. Twenty minutes later, we therefore found ourselves hunched around an antique table in a smoky haze; 70’s classics blaring out from the jukebox tucked in the corner. The décor of Café Bendl could be kindly described as ‘vintage’, and appeared to have not been updated since its doors first opened in 1884. As Lukas came back from the bar carrying a tray of shots, I felt like I’d not only gone back in time to my University days, but back to a place that time forgot. The type of place you would pop in to have ‘one more drink for the road’; the type of place you could get into a heated but amicable philosophical discussion; the type of place where you are admired for being unashamedly yourself, and ridiculed for trying to ‘fit in’. It was all we could ask for, and more.

“What on Earth have you got us?” I asked Lukas as he placed a glass in front of each of us, followed by a tray of sugar cubes and coffee beans.

“Ah, cocaine,” exclaimed Steffi. “Well, it’s not actually cocaine,” she continued, seeing the expressions of disbelief on our faces, “but that’s what these drinks roughly translate into English as, from the German word: koks. First, you take a sugar cube and dip it into the shot of red rum. Then you chew and swallow the sugar cube, followed by a handful of coffee beans. When you’re almost done, knock back the shot, and finish the remainder of what’s left in your mouth.”

“Sounds delightful,” I said, raising my glass for a toast. “Prost.”

“Prost,” chimed everyone at once, and we took the shots with grimaced faces.

Gulping at my pint like a goldfish in an attempt to chase away the taste, a beer mat then hit me square on the forehead. Looking to my right, I saw two guys and a girl giggling away in a corner booth. As I was distracted by this, another beer mat then hit me on the back of the head. I glanced in the opposite direction and a group of lads at the other side of the room were trying to hide their smirks at the bottom of their drinks. Had I become the subject of some local joke?

“We probably should have explained,” said Lukas, seeing the puzzled look on my face. “It’s tradition in Vienna to throw beer mats at other tables when in a bar or pub. A way of striking up a conversation if you will.”

I was about to call ‘bullshit’ on this when, in comedic timing, the octogenarian barmaid started to join in. I don’t know if I was more shocked by this act, or the fact that she’d abandoned her position behind the beer taps to sip tequila with some of her patrons. Apparently she’d been manning the bar for decades, and was quite a straight laced individual, but in this instance that façade was completely broken.

“Well, I wouldn’t be trying it in any other dive bar apart from here,” chipped in the German guy to my right, “unless you wish to be on the receiving end of a punch.” Ironically, he was in the midst of an Erasmus exchange program to Vienna with the Dutch girl and German guy who accompanied him. “It’s more a tradition set solely in this bar.”

Finding this the funniest thing in the world, Lara and I immediately joined in. Enrolling the help of the Erasmus lot, we entered into a full-blown battle with the lads at the other side of the room. Ducking and diving between sips of our drinks, like it were a game of dodgeball being played with ninja throwing stars, time ticked into the early hours of the morning. And for all my hours spent in the watering holes of the world, a better way of striking up conversations with strangers I’ve yet to come across.

Entering into the spirit of our surroundings, I soon found myself in a deep deliberation with Flora, the Dutch girl, over the meaning of travel and human beings' over-arching desire to explore the unknown. Like most other bar conversations of such nature and magnitude though, our concise and coherent points were soon crushed like the sugar cubes before us into a slur of sounds. The topic naturally progressed to more intimate affairs, and upon finding out details of Flora's liberal nature I couldn't help but blush.

As the shadows of drunkards slid past the window, heading home from the haunts they had been occupying that Friday night, the drinks kept flowing in Café Bendl until sunlight started to crack through the black sky. Operating under a ‘last orders is when the last person wishes to leave’ rule, it wasn’t until we’d then tried some of the kitchen’s fluffy Kaiserschmarr'n pancakes, and realised that we may have had one-too-many koks, did Lara and I bid a fond farewell to Lukas and Steffi.

Agreeing to meet them for a hungover brunch, we strolled back towards the apartment, passing a shop called Men for Men as we turned onto our street. Steffi clearly hadn’t been joking about it being situated in the gay district after all.

"I can't believe you spent half the night trying to chat up a lesbian," scoffed Lara. "Quite fitting, I suppose."