Another one i have written is ‘Modern psychology stopped with the hysterectomy’. This is hilarious. I would assume i was being facetious with this. I think it is more funny to me to think where my mind must have been at that point in time. A quick brush up for those of you who don’t know, the hysterectomy originally came about as a cure for hysteria. It was thought at the time that only women could suffer from hysteria. What makes a woman different to a man? A Uterus. Well let’s get rid of the Uterus then…that should cure it!

A duck!
Who are you that are so wise in the ways of science…

In many ways modern psychology hasn’t progressed at all since these days. Of course there have been giant leaps forward in some areas but so many old habits are still lingering. I wonder why i would have been upset about psychology??? The mind boggles.

Working in an insurance agency is the ideal place for a woman to hunt for men. In three questions yesterday i was asked ‘Am i married?’, ‘Do i have any kids?’ and ‘how much money do you make?’ It’s like looking in a catalogue really isn’t it…Have to admit i was a bit embarrassed when she followed it up with ‘Well you do make a fair bit of money….which is a good thing!’ The latter comment tacked on because i had become visibly uncomfortable. Firstly i don’t earn that much, and secondly i don’t find money to be impressive. If i wanted my ego fellated i would go hang out at Living or Velvet with the masses of horrible excuses for people that seem to plague financial cities like Frankfurt.

I almost got suckered in by suggestive advertising yesterday. Which is annoying really cause i’m not usually susceptible to suggestion. I was in Railslide and they were having a sale on Jackets for 50% off. I’ve needed a new jacket for about 2 years now so was browsing away. Noticed this brown number so thought i’d check out the size. I only added brown into my repertoire last year, seems to be working. I notice the label and it’s a North Face jacket. I fucking hate North Face as a brand. I hate people that wear North Face gear. Have you ever even seen a fucking mountain? I bet you drive a range rover through the city as well. Cunts.

Anyway, i was about to walk away but just out of curiosity i thought i’d check out the price. Original price €399, marked down to €249…i’m thinking an additional 50% off this makes it just over €120. That’s almost €300 off! Now all of a sudden i am thinking…well how much do i really hate North Face? Surely they deserve their day in the sun…But i stood strong! €400 is a bit extravagant for a jacket for my tastes..that’s about the price of my entire wardrobe…and it’s still fucking North Face!

I rate that story about a 2 out of 5. I gave one point for the use of the c-bomb.

I’ve been going to the doctors a lot recently…hell if i’m paying for health insurance i may as well use it. Anyways, i have to say i really, really dislike reception staff in health care facilities. Notice how i didn’t use ‘hate’? Cause you’d all think i was a prick if i said i hated them. …I fucking hate anyone working in the service industry who doesn’t appear to like their job. If you don’t like it, don’t fucking do it! The service industry wasn’t for me, that’s why i got out. If you don’t like talking to people, don’t get a fucking job which requires you to answer phones and greet people. Slags.

My GP is good, actually my GP is great. Silk put me on to them. I sit in their waiting room listening to whale noises and shit, ogling the walls which are covered by autographed pictures of the head doctor with famous people. Seriously, Shakira, Elton john, Carlos Santana…all get sick going through Frankfurt apparently. But the nurses there are great. They at least attempt to speak English with me. They also assume i can’t speak any German at all when they speak to each other – “Er ist süß!”

Damn right i’m sweet bitches…

I have no problems with that place, it’s when they refer me to a specialist or something that all the problems begin. Every fucking time, i try as much German as i can…they refuse to speak any English and develop some massive chip on their shoulder like i shouldn’t be there. It’s not the doctors, they are fine. Always the fucking reception staff. Today i walked out after my ultrasound – turns out im not preggers – and i said to the woman in German ‘..ahh are we done?’ She points back to where i just came from and says ‘i don’t know, go and ask them’. Fuck that. I just walked out the door. You can ring me if you need anything else. Trollop.

I now have my insurance sorted, tax sorted, and my health is looking better. 3 Down, 3 to go!

It’s another long one. Sorry, but it is a little treat for y’all. This is the blogging equivalent to a time capsule. Every computer i work on – work, home, laptop, etc. has text files scattered about, normally called something ingenious like blog.txt with one-liners and point-form arguments or stuff i want to write about. The idea being that occasionally i open it up and flesh some of them out into a post. Sometimes i can’t be arsed or don’t think they need further explanation which usually provides the shorter snippets at the beginnings of my posts. Example:

It never ceases to amaze me, Australia’s uncanny knack of achieving notoriety for something really really good, or really really crappy. It’s instilled in us from a young age. I mean we’re constantly reminded at school, “We’re the world’s smallest continent…but the largest island!”. Me and a colleague were looking up parts of Australia on Google maps the other day and were hovering over Darwin. I said oh you don’t want to live up there, they get cyclones and stuff. Really? Well they had one that i can think of – Cyclone Tracy – that was pretty bad, caused loads of damage. Interest sparked, i pulled up the wiki page to pad out my story with some ‘facts’.

cyclone tracy…world’s smallest tropical storm…

Seriously. Whatever the criteria are that defines a tropical storm apparently we had the suckiest one ever. Why was everyone banging on about it so much?

Every now and then my keyboard settings at work switch from German into English. There is some key combination that i can’t be bothered turning off that makes the change mid-sentence. It’s really only the z and y that gets you, until i tried to end a sentence with an emoticon…

Same key combination:

German settings – :o)

English settings – >o(

Smiley happy-go-lucky in Germany is angry frown in England… speaks for itself really.

They are advertising a Jamie Cullum album on tele at the moment. Quote at the bottom of the screen:

“Jamie is fantastic”

- Clint Eastwood

yeah cause that’s going to make me buy it. I like records that 100 year old cowboys like…

How many songs does Robert Plant use “Hey baby, oh baby, pretty baby…nah nah nah no do me now”? 7.

What are the limits to the term ‘no offence’? Exactly how much does it cover? “No offence mate, but you’re a cockstain!”

So looking through my documents the other day to find something i stumbled across an old entry that i wrote and never posted. Meta tags showing creation date of 15 February 2007 13:04:00, and given the subject content this is a pretty accurate description of what my life was like almost 3 years ago.

To set the scene, i’d been in Frankfurt for i guess 8 months or so, and was working a Praktikum/Internship for an absolute pittance for the Walt Disney Corporation – Life rocked! Only 2.0 can probably relate to how this really feels, though Kat had to listen to me whinge about it incessantly and did help me though it.

So i bring you (unedited)…

Me T-3

This is every week since getting a job in Germany. This goes way beyond being a creature of habit.

Monday:

Wake up and curse that it feels like minutes ago that I finished work on Friday. Promise to rest more next weekend.

Walk to work. Pass old man with a bike just standing in front of a building. If I don’t pass him he’s late or I’m late. Or he’s dead. But he doesn’t look that old. Still wonder when he’s not there.

Pass short girl with brown hair in between Bockenheimer Landstr and Taunusanlage tube stop. She is always smiling or almost laughing yet is always alone. Only two possibilities…she leaves an incredibly funny person at the tube who always tells her a really funny joke that lingers enough to keep this ridiculous smile up till I have to walk past her… or she is torturing some guy and is cynically laughing at how she holds his heart in her hands…im thinking the latter is more believable.

Get to work and do ‘Monday morning activities’ which invariably includes fitting in the development of whatever whacky zany improvements my boss has ‘thought of’ (please read as ‘read in a web designers magazine’ AND/OR ‘seen on one of our competitors sites’.)

Monday morning meeting. Discuss whacky zany improvements. Provide feedback. Feedback is ignored. Make suggestions as to why this is a bad idea. Suggestions ignored.

Go back to Monday activities which now include fixing up ‘whacky zany improvements’ from last week and making them how they were before – see ignored suggestions from previous week.

Lunch.

After lunch, spend a lot of time cursing under breath and watching the clock.

Stay back after work to catch up on emails. Started the day with 44 unanswered emails in email box. 22 of which are from people saying why have I not answered my email. Now have 74 messages, 30 of which is Kat and Squires saying shots on a Sunday is bad.

Go home leaving 44 unanswered emails.

Put music on.

Cook cheapo spaghetti from Pennymarkt which only has 20% tomato in the sauce. I hate tomato sauce. I hated spaghetti 6 months ago. Eat half and keep half in lunch box for Tuesday.

Watch snooker/MTV/Bundesliga 1 on tele, AND/OR play Spider Solitaire.

Go to sleep between 11 and 12.

Tuesday

Wake up and curse that I didn’t go to sleep earlier.

At work before I have woken up. Same boring tasks, unless there is more whacky zaniness.

Eat left over 20% Spaghetti for lunch and continue working. Can’t take lunch break cause have to leave early for school. Positive this is illegal however working full time for €400 a month should be as well.

Curse a bit after lunch and count down minutes until 5:00.

Go to bathroom till 5:15 when it is time to go to School.

Walk two train stations so I can save 40cents and get the 3-stop ticket.

Have my first coke of the week. Think about my plan of only having coke when I’m at school so that I develop some sort of Pavlovian association with thinking in German and Coke. Marvel at how I have a psychology degree.

Nervously squirm through 2 and a half hours (3 in German time) of Deutsch Lessons.

Catch train home three stops and walk the rest.

Cook something on toast. Options are: Toasted Cheese Sandwich / Beans on Toast / or Virgin BLT’s. Generally haven’t done shopping and only have cheese and butter in fridge and loaf of bread. Narrows choice down significantly.

Watch snooker/MTV/Bundesliga 1 on tele, AND/OR play Spider Solitaire.

Go to sleep between 11 and 12.

Wednesday

Wake up and curse myself for being so tired. Can’t wait till weekend.

Same things today at work.

Go home for lunch – something on toast, or fish-fingers. Sometimes have lunch with Phong.

More usual work stuff.

Finish work and stay back to catch up on emails. Spend most of time writing this blog that only 30 people in a week look at and they are all in Germany. 28 of which is Squires opening up his browser at home where he has our blogs open up automatically.

Go home leaving 44 unanswered emails.

Put music on.

Cook cheapo spaghetti from Pennymarkt.

Watch snooker/MTV/Bundesliga 1 on tele, AND/OR play Spider Solitaire.

Go to sleep between 11 and 12.

Thursday

Wake up and curse that I always curse in the morning.

At work before I have woken up. Same boring tasks, don’t care for more whacky zaniness.

Eat left over 20% Spaghetti for lunch and continue working. Thinking about weekend already. Look at what times Man U is showing so I know when I have to be in pub. If Man U aren’t showing, look at what time Chelski is playing so I know when to be in pub. Continue process ad nauseum till I find a reason to go to the pub. Under 21B’s Georgia Vs. Lichtenstein…. I’m there.

Curse a bit after lunch and count down minutes until 5:00.

Go to bathroom till 5:15 when it is time to go to School.

Walk two train stations so I can save 40cents and get the 3-stop ticket.

Have second coke of the week. Coke has no effect now. Just want sleep.

Nervously squirm through 2 and a half hours (3 in German time) of Deutsch Lessons.

Catch train home three stops and walk the rest of the way to the pub. No food at home so going for Midnight Buffet. Play pool until midnight buffet. I love Pool. If no family there, play pool by myself and have a beer, eat and at home in bed by half 12 at the latest. If family there, play Pool with squires, have several beers, 42 Jägermeisters, fall over, put buffet somewhere remotely close to mouth, and stumble home for a few hours sleep.

Friday

Thank fuck.

Don’t care how tired I am cause it’s Friday. Tell myself and everyone else I’m going to have a quiet weekend. Invariably end up going out anyway.

This could entail:

• Video Night at Squires: Typically pick up two bottles of red on the walk over….each. Check email, listen to music, drink wine, talk shit, every now and then put a DVD on, Squires getting tired at about 12 cause there’s no girls for him to try to tune, me and Kat leave, have to walk past Irish to get to both of our places, discuss for entire journey the pro’s and cons of stopping in, invariably decide to stop in for a quiet one…next few hours can vary….get home by 6 if we’re lucky.
• Playstation night at Ben’s. Meet Ben at Wormland. Get off bus at supermarket near his house in the sticks. Buy crate of beer and frozen pizzas. Walk back to his. Play playstation, listen to music, watch movies, look up good united goals on youtube. Finish crate of beer about 3 or 4. Walk to service station to buy more beer (crate) and pizza. Come back and eat pizza, fall asleep halfway through first beer.
• Laundry on a Friday (Cause United play early on Saturday). Meet Kat at Irish. Catch train to Laundromat. Throw clothes in machine, turn it on, go to nearest pub. Have one pint, go back, take our washing out, throw both of ours into one enormous dryer, set it to run twice and head back to pub. After pint, take clothes out, walk home, dump clothes on floor next to bed, but hang up work pants. Priorities. Head to Irish – carnage ensues.

Saturday

Wake up swearing out loud. Head hurts. Need to do laundry. Head hurts. Go do laundry with Kat. Eat Pizza. Wave to the same waiters at pizza hut. Order the exact same food. Have the same conversation about how we shouldn’t be drinking this much. Try to recap the night’s events. Text other people we might have seen the previous night to try to piece together what happened. Begin to make plans for tonight. Find out when football starts. Watch football. Head hurting less. Swear that we won’t still be here for Karaoke. Shots..blurry..walk Kat home.

Sunday

See Saturday with a bigger hangover. Throat sore from singing. No laundry so night begins earlier. Typically go out to eat food cause forgot to do shopping on a Saturday. Run out of bread. Still have butter. Options limited. Start thinking about work tomorrow. Know that I can’t afford to go out and plan to stay in and not go out. Receive a text that anyone is out anywhere…last remaining will power dies, liver cringes.

Possible exceptions to this are:

Man United playing Champions League or League Cup or any other reason they would be playing midweek. In which case, add beer / Jaegermeister and midnight buffet to mid-week schedule.

I have work for London to do – substitutes for TV and Spider Solitaire.

Greener pastures…

Saturday

A decent nights rest and very little to drink the previous night meant we were feeling fine. We set off to enjoy Prague during the daytime. not phased by the seemingly ineffectiveness of the ‘Slavic plan’ it was decided that if we were to run into any nefarious creatures on the trams or in the streets silk would address me in Serbian – though sadly not on the Serbian finger phone – and i would respond with ‘Da’. What could possibly go wrong? I actually do know some Czech. My old boss taught me some. It goes something like this (ignore spelling):

Me: Ahoj (hey there)

Czech Person: Ahoj (hey there yourself!)

Me: Jak se mas? (how’s tricks?)

Czech Person: <insert random Czech sentence here>

Me irrespective of what the Czech person has just said: Velmi Zaji Mavi (Very Interesting)

Colt 45…

I try to pick up useless bits of other languages when i meet people. My Swedish friend Jon taught me a very handy sentence in….Swedish coincidentally…and made me use it at the Nordic bar to some chick with an enormous Welsh rugb playing boyfriend:

Jon: Say it!

Swedish Chick: Go on tell me.

Me with a wary eye on aforementioned Welsh Goliath: Du oer soert (i think you’re cute…to the chick not the goliath!)

Swedish Chick: awww

Me preparing to duck: Skavi hongla? (Can we snog?)

Swedish chick: *giggles*

Welsh Goliath who apparently doesn’t speak a lot of Swedish: What did he say?

Swedish chick: He thinks i’m cute…

Pretty sure i was in there. Goliath was just cramping my style.

I used to have a cheat sheet in Spanish written by my New Zealand mate’s Portuguese wife in preparation for my trip to Andorra for those non-French speakers… still with me? It’s like a story by Tolkien…How many fucking characters did that book really need? Anyway at that stage i just assumed Portuguese and Spanish were the same thing just with a different accent. So when i finally got around to using them it went something like this:

Me: Tu tienes ojos mui belos (it is important to note here that i lost said cheat sheet some time ago and these are words that i remembered but could quite possible be a combination of all three sentences. They were something like ‘You have nice eyes’, ‘you have nice hair’, ‘would you like to throw shapes on the dancefloor’).

Spanish girl laughing: You speak old…like the bible.

I dated a French Canadian girl for a little while and when she went back to Canada she wanted me to call her, but her Mum generally answered the phone and didn’t speak any English so i had to ask in French Canadian…it’s not French no matter how much they claim it is. Cypress Hill don’t speak Spanish, they speak Mexican.

Me: Puige parlais a Manon sil vous plait? (Not as bad as Brad Pitts Inglorious Italian but pretty fucking close to it)

French Canadian mum: <insert some 15 minute rant in unintelligible French words that i don’t know, but i assume mean she’s not there>

Me: *click*

Guess i probably should have had a backup plan ready for if she was not available. I don’t know why she went back to her ex either…

So we were walking around Prague weren’t we…anyway it turns out that Jaywalking is a crime there. I know it probably is a crime everywhere but they seem to enforce it there. Seriously this copper stopped these tourists and asked for their passports saying the light was red. We fled the scene. Tourists got to stick together right? Da!

Silk stops to check out the TGIF’s they have there. For 4 years living in London i have avoided TGIF’s and mocked people for travelling to the other side of the world (i’m looking in your direction Americans) to eat the same thing as at home so i was not looking forward to breaking with my traditions here.

We head across the bridge – you know, ‘the’ bridge – to look for Silk’s cousin. Hey if you want real place names go read a travel blog. This is a place for ranting free of all bridles of spelling and facts. I used to give tours to friends visiting me in London starting in Greenwich and taking in the old pirate docks:

Friend pointing to Tower bridge: What’s that?

Me: A bridge over the Thames. Come on the next pub is just over there….

We meet Boban, Silk’s cousin who sells watercolours on ‘the’ bridge. I really liked one of them but was a bit out of my price range. I believe my excuse was that i was worried about taking it home on the plane….we’re driving…smooth…

Next stop was some more Mexican at a place called Azteca. Apparently it’s another chain but as i hadn’t heard of it i felt at ease that it wasn’t in the same vain as TGIF’s. Was a little disappointed when Silk said Mexicans would never go there. :( It was really, really nice though, easily the best Mexican i have eaten. It is number 1 out of 4. The order goes something like this:

1. Azteca, Prague
2. El Pacifico, Frankfurt
3. Mexican who’s name i can’t remember in Dresden, Dresden
4. Mexican who’s name i can’t remember in Maastricht, Maastricht

The Maastricht one takes number 4 by default as i can’t really remember it…at all…and can only remember Squires being disappointed with it so i will have to trust his judgement on this one. It was about the same time that i told Silk i only eat to avoid getting headaches and don’t really enjoy food. He is yet to forgive me.

Following the Mexican and a few beers, we split up to go our separate ways for a few hours. I’m trying to find an Irish pub that will show the United match and Silk was determined to give his winnings back to the Casino cause he felt a bit bad for them.

I go to the first pub offering me a free beer to go in. A classy establishment. Rocky O’Paddy O’Shannaheys or something to that effect…you know, traditional type place. I get there for the end of the Chelski match if i’m not mistaken, which i may well be as the beers were flowing down quite smoothly. I remember they had a live webcam in the bar and texting Squires to look for me on the webcam. I’ve had this before in Amsterdam in my one and only visit, while having a lemonade downstairs at a cafe and boychild asking me if i was the one in the wheelchair. (This post is making me seem really international isn’t it…) To clarify it for Squires i had to let him know that I wasn’t the fat bald bloke in the Giggs jersey…for once.

I remember United got up and the Waitresses were hot.

Silk texts to let me know he’s running late so i will stay put. I’ve already had 5 beers and have moved on to ciders. Would be 8 by the time Silk showed up…i want to go to sleep…oh right…Mudhoney.

Some Random Irish guy starts chatting to me on the way back from having a jimmy in the jacks. I have a bit of banter with him. After my next return he leans in and says “i’ve just given these English lads a bit off stick about their crap football side. You might have to have me back here in a minute…”

You fucking what? I AM NOT IRISH! Falls on deaf ears with him as he beckons me to start singing about the green fields of wherever the fuck he was from. I try changing the subject and ask him what he was doing in Prague. He said something. I may have said Velmi Zaji Mavi. I said i was here for the Mudhoney show and did he know them?

Irish twat: Yeah man, Every Good Boy Deserved Fudge! *Cue air guitar playing*

I’m sure the air-guitar playing fraternity are exactly who Mudhoney are targeting with their power ballads…

It does occur to me though that the saying (moniker?) Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge – on this occasion a Mudhoney album though generally a way to remember the notes on the treble clef E G B D F is different back in Australia, well at least in my music class it was. We were taught Every Good Boy Deserves Fruit. America – Fudge. Australia – Fruit. You do the math…

A quick stop at Masturbation and it was time for Mudhoney. Masturbation is KFC kiddies. You always go back to it, it’s always the same, and when you are finished you swear you’ll never do it again.

So 8 beers under my belt and i’m feeling dandy. We meet up with Boban again and head straight to the gig. I was facing a T-shirt dilemma however. I would ordinarily buy a t-shirt, but i have already been quite vocal about people wearing the shirts of the band who’s gig they are at (Greenday fans i’m looking in your direction)…and i definitely didn’t want to walk backstage wearing one of their shirts. A quick change and now it was hidden beneath my other two shirts….I’m so grunge.

We were a little late getting to the gig, so we missed the support band but just in time to grab beers before Mudhoney took the stage. No backstage before this gig. Made a few film clips from where we were, and it goes without saying they were great again. Bit different crowd – well at least from where we were standing – but the band had so much energy considering they drove straight to the gig from Warsaw. The stage divers appeared to be a bit more knowledgeable at least.

I go to make some comment to Silk during the set and was shot down. I had forgotten the rule. The most valued of all rules as well so i was chastising myself for the next song or two. There should be no talking during songs, unless it is super super important. This rule hasn’t made it to Australia yet but needs to. Australians are perennial threats in concerts. Normally i am an avid supporter of this rule, mainly cause i am deaf and can’t hear anything anyway. Flip is a habitual song-interrupter. The Australian influence might have spread to the Philippines. I’m used to it now so i end up nodding and smiling a lot. Backfired once at a Modest Mouse show. Flip leans in to say something. I give him the ear but can’t hear anything as per usual. I make out something like “blah blah blah Johnny Marr”. I look back up to the stage and say yeah he does kind of look like Johnny Marr. About another 4 or 5 occasions during the gig flip shakes my arm and i hear variations of “blah blah blah Johnny Marr dude!” at varying levels of excitement. After the show we go outside to smoke and finish beers and whatnot and the band makes an appearance at the window. Flip starts screaming like a banshee “Johhny Marr! Johnny Marr!” I’m like fuck Phil, yeah he kind of looks like him but i don’t think he’s going to get the joke….turns out Johnny Marr plays with Modest Mouse now…

We move a little closer during the encore to take some more movies and Guy spots us during one of the songs and nods. Recognition from the band! As soon as the set is finished Dan is at the side door beckoning us backstage. Did i mention i love these guys?

This time there is hardly any record company folk backstage, just us and the band. Whilst the 10 or so beers by now has given me confidence i’m still unsure how to approach the subject of a photo with them. Cue Boban. Bless his little cotton socks.

Boban: You are big rock band from Seattle yes? We take photo.

And promptly throws himself into the mix. Well if Boban can i’m not missing out.

Now the ice is broken there is more chit chat. i introduce myself to Mark and Steve finally, Silk still hasn’t redeemed himself as an introducer…if only his awesomeness could spread to other areas… Mark and Steve think my accent is Scottish, Guy thinks it’s Irish. I’m still coming to terms with Mudhoney having a discussion about me.

Boban is deep in conversation with Mark and Steve so i join silk and Dan over by the couch. We have a good laugh about the Serbian finger phone. Dan is awesome, a really top bloke. Apparently i can’t hang out with Silk if i ever go to Seattle – something to do with the awesomeness level i think – so i’m going to annoy his sister and her husband, but i really hope to run into these guys again one day, especially Dan and Guy, they are just champions! Dan played in Nirvana for fuck’s sake and you’d think he’s more interested to hear a couple of drunk guys explaining talking Serbian into their hands to a Czech cab driver…

We can tell they’re tired but when we asked Dan if he was enjoying it his answer sums it up:

“Look at me man, I’ve just finished playing music i love, i’m backstage having a beer in Prague, of course i’m having fun!”

Substitute “playing” for “watching” and you could have taken the words right out of my mouth. Meat Loaf pun unavoidable.

Unfortunately we inevitably have to leave the guys so we part ways. Full of courage now i’m shaking hands with them all. I don’t know if we were on handshaking terms but we are now. Boban takes us to a local bar where his Serbian mates have congregated. Like Silk put it, it certainly brought a different and great element to the weekend. Completed it in a way. We had done the mega touristy stuff, stuff people wish they could do, and now stuff that hardly any tourists do and locals take for granted. Most of the chat is in Serbian so i just listen and nod and smile…bit like being at a gig really. One guy in the group is Czech and says he can only speak Czech and German. We try to shoot the shit in German but i am really unsure who knew less German between the two of us. It was a dismal effort.

We head in to town when the bar shut. Nothing happened outside the bar did it Silk? Apparently some Japanese company has paid to close of the main square – you know, ‘the’ square…the one with ‘the’ clock – and have giant smoke machines filling the air with…smoke. Looked really eerie. Have a few great photos but now i wish i took more. One last beer and then it was off to bed. A few hours sleep, a long drive and we would be back in Frankfurt and unfortunately reality.

That ending is supposed to have been poetical but on second reading looks like the blog equivalent of finishing an essay with “and then i woke up and it was all a dream…”

It did all happen, it just felt surreal. Part 4 will be pictures and Video evidence if i ever get around to putting them on youtube. Stay tuned!