Just as a pre-warning, this is a travel blog written through the eyes of an acidic manic depressive for who its is easier to fuck off than it is to make happy, there are generalisations that are by no means an attempt to make a statement about the entire population, and only refers to those who fucked me off in some way and with the amount of dirty looks we got, it was most people.
Sure I enjoy my travels but I'm not geared up for writing about holiday shits and giggles, if you want that, fuck off and buy one of those twee world travel books written by some silly old slag who has set off round the world looking for love but just ends up fingering herself. Enjoy..
I recently had the opportunity to have a long weekend away with my mate Dave, we had talked about where to go, the boring tedious over priced bong bothering arse boil on the Netherlands that is Amsterdam? No, fuck that, we ruled this out when we realised that it might still be an option to go into North Korea and spend our time eating through Crufts. We then realised, that being tight bastards and wanting as much as possible to avoid paying £5 for a beer with a head on it like John Merrick, and spending evenings whiter than a Klu Klux Klan outfit in a Daz advert choking in some caucasian raster addled pot puffing dive on genetically modified weed, and then desperately trying to call my mum to tell her the 3 songs I want played at my funeral.
We then started to look at Eastern Europe, somewhere cheap and cheerful (well, cheap alone would have ticked our boxes, most of these places are about as happy as Bobby McFerrin after finding out he has balls cancer (be happy now). Budapest, Krakow were mentioned but someone at my work suggested Latvia in the usual chirpy Millwall supporter way, stating its two major draws, lager and “gash” - a slang word for the female genitalia that sickens me, I prefer it to be called by its scientific medical term, cunt. After discussions we booked it, it was cheap, Ryanairs £5 flight, which actually ended up being £85 each after their array of taxes, and a hotel right in the centre for about the same.
Up at 3am for the epic lord of the rings'esque journey to Stanstead in a car that was playing relaxation music, some pan-pipe, then a howl of a wolf. I was terrified. Don't play relaxation music when your job is driving at 85mph on a poorly lit motorway?
Then onto Ryanair, who should be called Lyin-Air, who tried to charge me £1 for a tiny see through plastic bag so I could put my hair putty and deodorant in, I just left it in the bag and Stevie Wonder on the scanner didn't pick it up, I probably could have had an AK47 stuffed with coke. Then on the actual flight, in which the Irish carrier have managed to create all the hustle and bustle of a Moroccan souk in the sky, constantly badgering passengers to sell their own lottery tickets, tiny cans of pepsi max, a panini that looked drier than Dot Cottons fanny after witnessing a bible burning.
I tried to go to sleep, was dropping off and was then awoken by a huge hissing noise over the tannoy, “Islamic fundamentalists”, I said with a start, but not in a way to assume that it was a terror attack, but it was literally the first words that came into my head, the bang and hiss was in fact a tannoy advert for J20 “There's never been a better time to enjoy a cool refreshing J20..” etc, the the first of many attempts to sell lottery tickets, this went on for the entire flight ensuring that nobody slept, nobody rested, “buy buy buy you fucking cunts, your life is in our hands, buy a fucking small can of cola, DO IT!! I summarized that its only a matter of time before Ryanair hijack one of its own planes, holding everyone hostage until they part with their cash, jewels and 3 digit security number. The passengers cheer when the plane lands, this isnt because of the miraculous act of getting a huge tube of sandwich foil with wings to land, but simply because the hell of having stuff sold at them will soon be over.
Riga airport is a simple affair, outside it is a “aviation museum” which is essentially rotting migs and helicopters rusting away, like a huge junk-yard, we wanted to go in, but with our luck one of the planes would have somehow managed to spring to life and fire a sidewinder into us and blow all of our legs and testes off. We went and got the bendy bus into town.
It was at this point I noticed we were getting looked at, curiosity, and probably unabridged lust from the women, who probably became so wet at the sight of two burly bearded beasts that they ended their day with ducks nesting on their naughty bits (cunt), and dirty looks from the men. I know the difference between types of looks and these were more dirty than “I thought Jabba the Hut was killed?” We drove through the outer slums of Riga, I say slums with reservation, but this was essentially a sprawling zombie shit hole, but people hung flags outside their houses with pride, I've always admired the people of the Baltics, hard people and it was clear that they don't embrace foreigners with open arms. More on this later...
We got to our hotel and looked around the area, battered old trams trundling along and roads and pavements that were more uneven than the UK wealth divide. Our hotel though was lovely. One look at the room and I was worried that at some point Dave would attempt to rape my arse or mouth, or heaven forbid, several of my holes, including a secret pussy, that I tell NOBODY about.
Straight out and through a spattering of dirty looks and spitting males we headed for a bar/restaurant I'd read about. We were expecting every woman to be 6ft 2, cheekbones so high that they hovered about their heads like tiny bone moons. This wasn't the case, there were some lovely girls yes but this wasn't the punani tsunami that we'd been led to believe (which wouldn't have mattered anyway as we are both taken and at best would have just looked at best).
We found our place and asked the barman which beer was good, on hearing our British accent he recommended a beer that was still live, pretty much the beverage equivalent of licking a raw chicken breast, like a syrupy leffe the stuff was taking us down hard. We ate in the place and would have been happy to pay £30 for what we had, which actually cost me about £6. The beer had fucked us up and we went back to the hotel feeling like we had been drugged. We had been up since 3am so this didn't help. We ended up going back out and were chatted up by two younger girls, I explained to them that I was taken (and old), It was past my bed time and I was going home for a nap, the girl seemed confused and asked me again to go clubbing with her. I stood my ground to her confusement.
The next day we explored the old town, It was Friday night, I confided in Dave that I was a bit worried about being raped by button mushroom noses sapphire eyed gymnastically built local women. He didn't say much to be honest probably concluding that this was just another example of my almost narcassistic self flattering mind trips that I should have kept to myself, along with 85% of things I say and do, like this blog. We walked around the old town and found an Irish pub, these places are everywhere like thrush on a vegans clopper, there is probably even an O'Malleys in the Yemen. Nice people in there, a mix of Tourists and the odd local. The beer was cheap. Outside of that, I didn't give a fuck if the place was on fire.
The dirty looks from men continued, and a few under-breath comments which sounded like “Da da fuckeen inglish”.. Then a visit to the Riga museum of the occupation helped me to understand, essentially Latvia was invaded and consummate but fucked by Stalins red army and the culture crushed like a fat girl on a blind date and new doctrines forced upon them, so much so that when the Nazi's came to butt fuck the Russians, the Latvians welcomed them with open arms, and were subsequently butt fucked by the Nazi's. Eventually, Stalin, realising he was missing the warm cosy enclave of Latvias arsehole, re-invaded, butt fucked the Nazi's, and the commenced to bend Latvia and dry butt fuck it until it bled, this only ended in the 1990's and the Russians finally pulled out and scuttled off with a crap coloured cock. Now, a peaceful place, reasserting its own culture is resisting another attempt at an occupation, by dick headed British Stag Parties storming in with their reebok classic trainers still dirtied with the dogshit of their cock assuring fighting dogs.
Ryanair are to completely to blame for this, putting an air route in from Britain is like putting a huge hamster run in the sky, but for rats. The scum of British will just go somewhere, get drunk, want to fight and then pepper spray their STD riddled semen up the local ”slut”. There were stories of hardy Latvians beating the sopping cunt out of stag parties, I was actually pleased by this, I hate rowdy groups of British, but felt we were getting tarred with the same brush.
It was reassuring that I had heard that places like the “Pussy bar” will lure cretins in using the bait of tall blondes and then charge them 600 lats for a drink, this equates to about £700, its either pay up or Zangief from street fighter comes and punches you until you are smooth and featureless like a bruise coloured butter bean.
The currency is strange, with no idea of the place, I half expected the currency to be wheel-barrows full of tatty sea shells, old rusty bullets, or a go on a peasants frantically resisting daughter in exchange for a heavy dry lump of dark bread, or a wad of cheese that is as tasteless as eating a Sainsburys bag for life. The currency is actually stronger than Fatima Whitbread in a desperate wrestle over a last dildo. No wonder they don't want to join the Euro.
The woman there are strange, alluringly beautiful up to a point, I realised I didn't think I had seen a single reasonably good looking woman over 30. It was either young pretty girls, or weather beaten claw handed shuffling hag types, with seemingly no in-between, its like having a bike when you live by the sea, good for riding about when its new but will quickly rust to fuck. I know in the UK we have the tooth fairy, which ensures us Brits that when we smile we present something that looks like the grill on a land rover that was recently in a head on collision. But in Latvia its like they have the haggard fairy, on the eve of a woman's 30th birthday she will put her head under the pillow and wake up with more lines than a ripped out page of an ordinance survey map (wrapped around a cabbage). The men fair better over age and generally remain sharp featured clown shoe wearing floor spitting yokels.
The roads were similar to other tram cities, the zebra crossings however are fucking cunts. In Britain the green man is a friend, he wants you to live, he protects children, he cares along with his red mate, he makes sure that if you listen to him you wont end up a tawdry collection of flowers round a tree with a t-shirt in your name, (most road death victims are called Ricky by the way). In Latvia the green man beckons you out, and then the traffic speeds round the corner, die you fucking English pig dog, it seems to say (in the manner of an inanimate light).
Right, tired, I'll end it for now, and will conclude with some pictures and all the positive bits..
PS, If you are interested in the small section I did on Latvian history, I have a book called, "world politics explained in Butt Fucking"..
