Poland trip PART ONE - Travelling with limey lads.
2007-06-24

I’ve been working on a website for a guy who organises all-inclusive trips to Poland. As part of the deal, I got to go down with a number of other English guys to test out his stag party package.

I despise stag parties. One of the big bonuses about eloping is that not only do you escape the wedding party nonsense, but you also get an ejector seat from the stag as well. If you are currently thinking of eloping, let me be the first to say go for it. I’ve never regretted it for one second.

Don’t get me wrong, I like booze and paintball as much as the next guy, but I’ve never understood the appeal of strippers. The last thing I want to see when I’m eating, is some scabby hooker shaking her greasy cooter in my face, it doesn’t exactly aid in the digestion process. Ok, let me apologise for that, that might be the most foul thing I’ve written in this blog, but, seriously, how ridiculous are strippers? Or in particular, silicone stripper boobs? Big googely looking things, with nipples pointing in two different directions. Watching them rattle around is like watching Sammy Davis Jr’s peepers at a ping pong match. It’s not exactly what I would call sexy.

Having said that, I was still excited by the trip, I’ve always wanted to go to Poland so I was willing to put up with the strip joints in order to see the museums and war memorial stuff. And yes, I know what you are thinking, I am in fact that boring.

In Canada, a stag party starts with drinking heavily, moves to a manly activity of some sort and finishes in a bar with the groom passed out with an inflatable sheep duct taped to his crotch. English stags are similar except that as anyone who has been to Prague lately will tell you, they destroy a European city in the process.

I had heard about English stags but I really had no idea what English lads are like when they’re travelling. I’ve never laughed so hard and been so embarrassed at the same time in my entire life.

Now before I slag the Limeys any further, in the interest of equal opportunity, I must say that Canadians are fucking geeks when they travel in Europe. You can spot a Canadian a mile away. Backpack, Roots sweater, khaki shorts with 1800 pockets, white socks, caterpillar boots, ball cap with a hockey team on it (usually the Leafs), and two goddamned fanny packs. A leather fanny pack that goes outside of the clothing for the maps, and a thin hemp fanny pack under the shirt for the money. Oh, that secret fanny pack is clever, European thieves will never look there!

Inside the backpack is 12 bottles of water, a jacket, sunscreen, brush, lonely planet, phrase book, novel, sandals and six Nutri Grain bars. There’s a Canadian flag on your shirt, another one stitched onto the backpack, and maple leaf socks pulled down to reveal a “Made in Canada” ankle tattoo.

English lads pack a little lighter. They take three gallons of hair wax, three clubbing shirts, two pairs of Ben Sherman shoes, three pairs of designer jeans and a truckload of condoms. There not really there to experience the culture of a far off land, per se.

When I met up with the English lads I was to be traveling with, I found them talking in Borat accents. “Jak se masz! I go to Warsaw, it NIIICE.” I’ve seen Borat, I’ve been on both sides of the foreigner jokes and it is usually jolly good fun, so naturally I join in. Taking the piss out of foreigners in your own home is a fun and rewarding experience. Doing it loudly on a plane full of the foreigners you’re taking the piss out of... not so much.

I was eating a Nutri Grain bar and (phrase book in hand) trying to order a beer in Polish (even though I knew the stewardess spoke English) when I hear shouted from two seats behind me “This country. It NIICE. I buy your sister. SHE NIICE.” Followed by 12 bouts of liquored limey laughter. English lads go from 0 to inebriated in 6.2 seconds. FACT.

I’m not quite sure what to do. On the one hand, I am absolutely mortified, but on the other, I can appreciate the brass cojones it takes to do that on a plane full of Poles. A weird nervous-laughter-slash-disapproving-tut-huff escapes my lips.

I thought he would have his one little joke and that would be the end of it. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

NEXT IN PART TWO – Shooting guns, Strip joints, Vodka tours with the limey lads with photos and videos.

I am off to Soviet Canuckistan tomorrow, so it might be some time before you hear from me again. I am there for three weeks and I doubt I will have time to write in here, but you never know. If not, I’ll see you in July!

I hope it fucking pisses it down here. :-)