The annual reccomendation of things 2018

yo my life is getting a tad static because my tiny British town is dull, so in order to find new hobbies and interests I thought I’d throw a few of mine into the void in hopes of getting awesome stuff in return. These categories are mine but if you want to add your own or throw a few ideas into the void feel free. This list is inspired by "wonderful" featuring griffin and Rachel McElroy, a podcast in which they list things they love.

music: this morning a Watsky song was stuck in my head so now i need to grace y'all with Watsky and Karmin. I'm also coming down from a Florence and the machine high because high as hope is SOUL CLEANSING

Watsky: 

welcome to the family (wholesome) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wEqs91ZCAgc

exquisite corpse (a fun song about killer clowns) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XI50C7EPTfc

Karmin:

pulses! - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3RRrNWF46Ns

florence: the whole album because I’m not fucking about

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLGSlu0SXTFM1m6MCzr-NyApQ21x0Vito8

hobbies: this time last year




I got really into volunteering at events for free entry. even events i don't care about, like tattoo conventions (I don't have any tattoos). i did a video game weekend which was very fun but also very weird, and a festival as a steward which would have been fun if i wasn't shattered by all the other adventures. 

The other slightly quieter thing for me is writing, I am hugely into writing. I've entered a competition and although I’m sure I won’t win first place it’s nice to have some direction as far as projects go so I have something to aim for. I had a phase last year where I was hella into zines just because it’s a nice and cheap way to get your ideas out and write what you'd want to read.

books: currently reading A Truely Remarkable Thing by Hank Green (yes \*that\* hank green) and it’s a really interesting commentary on how fame works and also how scary science robots work. it’s like a millennial twist on "the day the earth stood still", about a young woman who is catapulted to fame after she becomes the first to report on the sudden appearance of weird silent robots just appearing overnight all around the world. 

I'm also looking forward to the last few issues of the wicked and the divine. gods as popstars for 2 years, the one based on prince has an explicit sex scene in an xmas issue with the one based on Kanye, Satan is power suit lesbian Bowie, Laura the protagonist is adorable, and did i mention slimy evil daft punk? its awesome, and incredibly diverse!

Adventures I'd like to go on: KINGS DAY IN AMSTERDAM. picture your favourite car boot sale, your favourite music festival and gay pride parade had a weird bright orange Dutch baby. plus the citywide music is supposed to suddenly stop at 10pm everywhere except the nightclubs. IT. SOUNDS. BONKERS.

Podcasts: two very different extremes coming up.

My Dad Wrote a Porno: follow Jamie, James, and Alice as they explore Jamie's dads self-published erotica. Follow Belinda Blumenthal as a saleswoman in Steele's pots and pans and the length she will go to succeed in business. Word of warning this podcast has made me ugly laugh hot chocolate down my leather jacket before. Starring: Jamie as the one whose dad wrote it. James as the gay one who doesn't realise how female sex is, and Alice whose main role is YEAH YOU DON'T GRAB A CERVIX UNLESS YOU'VE SOMEHOW CUT HER OPEN

https://player.fm/series/my-dad-wrote-a-porno

On the other side of the coin

The darkest night: this is a horror podcast about a sketchy science lab that can show you exactly what people saw before they died. The podcast itself uses directional sound to make it sound like you are the victim of every murder in the show, making the voices and footsteps come from right behind you. in the first two episodes I had to stop halfway through and take a break. i ducked under a mallet sound effect in an M&S car park. it’s bad!

https://player.fm/series/darkest-night

I've become incredibly enthusiastic about Travis McElroy. He’s a gem and a style icon. I've had my aesthetic described as "half white dad at a barbecue half Ramona Flowers" (I’m 19) and honestly Travis satisfies both of these areas. he has a D&D podcast, a doctor who fan cast, and a great collection of Instagram photos.

Aesthetic stuff: I (a dude) dabbled in nail polish and a little bit of eye shadow for my Halloween costume this year and ngl I was digging it a little and would totally wear it to a music concert (any tips/recommendations appreciated.) I've also recently bought a simple chain for a ring i made out of an old pound coin and it looks so much classier than it actually is and gives the illusion I'm smarter than i am. Finally in September I dyed a streak of my hair pink and it made me feel like a superhero!

any cool stuff would be appreciated as I'm always looking for things that make y'all authentically happy.

thanks guys :)

my time at Rapture

After many days of sitting there, post party. post pride. Bored. Everything finally collapsed. "Screw it! I'm volunteering for that game thing, I mean I play games occasionally" I announce to myself, dropping an email to Rapture and receiving a phone call mere hours later confirming my position. Little did I know when I accepted my way into the staff Facebook group what I was signing up to.

The first day seemed simple enough, I rocked up mid day, shook hands with people and was put to work with an assortment of nerds screwing together chairs, plugging in consoles, and flipping tables to match the floor plan. The music was good, the company was alright, even the jobs were fun in that fiddly satisfying "every furniture leg clicks in just right" kind of way ... until it was time for the computers to be set up.

I stood staring at the row of tables adorned with wires and computer parts. Screen stands were screwed and things were plugged in. The only problem. I am not a computer guy. I never claimed to be a computer guy. And no one debriefed me on what anything was called.
I had people I'd barely met growling at me to "plug the kettle lead into the side. Not the mother board the other bit" barely telling me what the hell a kettle lead was, "it looks like the bit you plug into a kettle.” This statement especially confused me since it was always said like plugging in kettles was a universal experience, unlike the kettles I’ve interacted with where the wire is built in.

During this time was also when I met two huskier lads goofing around a little bit too relaxed as they worked. They seemed to come as a package deal ala “tweedle dee and tweedle dum” despite having only met recently. They seemed nice, albeit a tad immature. One of the duo - the one with spikey hair - seemed to warm to me very quickly, watching me like I was an insect in a jar. This coupled with his music taste, and a few odd testing-the-water lines made me wonder if he fancied me.

Amongst the stress I was sent under the tables and their cheap acrylic black table covers to connect all the wires down below. There was something hypnotic about this, a den of darkness and fancy LED lights as someone would lower a wire like a fishing line towards me to grab and plug in. Under the table it was peaceful. The primal kind of peace found in caves and forests at night. I didn't want to emerge and deal with the guy in charge, a man who complained about costs and resembled a taller, slimmer, clone of the grandfather in Jurassic park.

After a few hours, I make my excuses early and leave the nerds to their devices (literally) while I got quietly tipsy with my parents at a street food thing. That was exactly what I needed, street food and company I could get drunk and cuddly with without ruining any boundaries.

The next morning I wake up with a faint humming in my head from the 2 sets of cocktails. I shower, get dressed, and reassure the group chat that I will be coming up. This of course was dubious. I was planning to test the water and if it was as dreary as it was the Friday then I'd quietly claim I had somewhere to be or some tragedy had hit a local family member, you know, usual stuff. So I arrive and dodge security, getting given a red tee shirt, a green access band, and a lanyard.

When I'm released the first thing that strikes me is the sea of children. Like honest to god below 12 year old CHILDREN. I guess realistically it was likely to be that or sad adults. I get directed through the red games room and given to John to place me where I seem fit. John was a cool guy, a lighter skinned black guy in a yellow and black overwatch snapback that on anyone else would seem juvenile but somehow managed to make him look more grown up. He bounced to the music when he walked, occasionally adding hand gestures as he herded me around. I discovered later that with the addition of beer this evolved into proper dancing.

Eventually John took me to retro games and I was told to do laps of the top floor. On my travels I watched a little bit of a games tournament for the Nintendo game “arms” – an exciting take on boxing where everyone has springy arms and powers during the fight. It had all the perks of proper boxing without the risk of injury, and is currently to my knowledge the safest way to gamble on children fighting. The contest was narrated by two charismatic, bubbly hosts, who managed to strike the right balance between kids TV presenter and proper sports commentator. They consisted of a young woman in a jacket based on an overwatch character - tracer – which seemed just distant enough from cosplay for it to fly under the radar anywhere else but here, and a man with a gamer top and a beard whose voice bounced around the room as he gushed about strategy and combat.

Eventually I was placed in charge of FIFA competitions. I don't know anything about football of any kind, However I befriended the competitors to pass the time: a semi-professional FIFA playing lad in his 20s who would have qualified as cool in any other situation, a few vaguely Indian lads who were here for fun, a Spaniard in a "Sokka from avatar" haircut who I met up with later, some kids, and an aunt who was there with her brother and niece. I supported the people who seemed to enjoy themselves the most over the people taking it seriously, and congratulated the Indian lad for his prizes.

Eventually, after hours of volunteering as well as free lunch and dinner (free food is the best food, and Rapture fed me well) I was released into the afterparty. I quickly changed and met back with the Spaniard, underwhelmed by the turnout but a little smitten by his accent and European charms. We played a few games, and he explained his tattoos to me, as well as his interrailing exploits. At one point he took his glasses off and shook his hair from its elastics into his face in slow motion, and for a second I genuinely struggled to not to go full bad Romcom on this tragically straight guy.

instead I shifted my attention back to the games at hand. After a few rounds of consoles (smash bros - he won, batman -I won, Mario cart - I won, FIFA - he won) we went to the music band game. Standing there next to the equipment was a petite lady with dark hair and her friend, who I discovered underwhelmingly was her boyfriend. We befriended these people in minutes. Sidenote: Don't crush on strangers, kids. they either don't match you sexuality wise, or are already involved with people.

Nevertheless we banded together, performing a few power-ballads by the killers and then continuing to party by playing a “just dance” as a team in exchange for shots of sours. I was terrible but at least I was enthusiastic! “itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow pokadot bikini” was a particular low of my career as a dancer in the just dance shot competition. Once again the Spaniard was the victor of the group. We hung out for a bit, drinking and playing Mario cart before the band departed one by one leaving me with the staff and the special guests unaware of who was who.

The thing about nerd parties is although I am a strong believer that video games should be available at ALL nightclubs for when the night gets static or awkward, they also have terrible music tastes. Don't get me wrong most of the songs were fab. The problem was that every other song had a meme wedged into it. Some badly shoehorned remix of pickle rick or a big bang theory line as a transition track served by a DJ dressed in a tragically sci-fi vest the likes of which can only be found in Camden markets sci-fi rave section. This was insufferable enough to make me slink to the back room and stick to the games for a bit, before emerging for "apple bottom jeans" by Flo Rida.

My night finished off in the nerd rave, where I met a few intense characters. One of which particularly stood out. It was me. No, wait. it was me in 5 years if nothing went tragically wrong. He had my jacket, he had a pendant, he had a better haircut than me and just enough tattoos to be interesting without seeming like he was overcompensating. Most iconic of all was that he could dance. I'm not talking line dancing, I'm talking this future me had rhythm and the commitment to pull off the moves he made in a way that almost rivalled john. It was at that point I began to wonder if it would be narcissist to flirt with my hopeful future clone.

My overall opinion of the event is that I don’t want to admit I liked it, but it was fun. I came in looking for a cheap boredom buster, and although it definitely had its downsides such as the DJ. I did manage to meet some interesting people, win free alcohol, and play games I wouldn’t have played without the event.

Being an extra in a 2018 romcom

I woke up at 7am, a bad nights sleep leaving me bitter and angry, but for a good reason. I hop on the train. trying to avoid my friend at the station, its too early to deal with him, especially with me at this state.

After a bitter rant over my phone about my housemates and my nights sleep, i arrived at the meeting point. Today was the day of danny boyle. The day i was in an extra.

Immediately the diversity of age hit me, middle aged people and bored students. Even more striking was the disconnect between the people doing it for fun and the people doing it as an ACTOR *dramatic jazz hands*.

The woman running it was nice, in a "cousin's mum/home makeover TV producer" way. She was fun and bubbly in an i-have-my-life-together way. She was irish with a mum bobcut and a tv clean smile.

The other side of the coin was a seperate Irishman. Older with messy hair and a slight "crazed director/probably a witch" vibe. She was clearly the badcop to her counterparts good cop.

I hung out witha gaggle of teenagers, including: a flamboyant fillipeno man with a bright hawaiian shirt and a crystal around his neck (love quarts - he informed me - attracts love and positive energy)

an asian brother/sister duo with enough awkward anxiety between them to make up for everyone else, a black guy and a black woman from london (completely unrelated) who were both really into acting circles.

One of our group - the teenage black actor guy - was selected for "the upper crust group" ... which sounds fancy until you realise thats the name of the cafe. Still he was lucky enough to get free food and drinks.

Meanwhile i chatted with rose quarts guy and actress girl, releasing conspiracy theories about the film and trying not to watch the actors jog past. It wasnt until i left that i was told that had become my mark because of how static our group were and how naturally we got on.

Later, he was in a scene with the main actor. We waved at him supportingly, which although looked like an awkward family thing was a nice gesture ... except the main actor waved back, half sincerely half actor-smiling. We watched half wincing as he gently explained that they were waving at him. I doubt we were allowed to interact with the actors, which made it weirder.

The other half of the day was spent doing laps of a train station over and over again like clockwork figures that clicked back into place given a shout. It was good fun but also exhausting. I slept so well that night.

Being an extra hit all my needs: talking to strangers, keeping healthy without feeling like its work, above minimum wage pay AND good free food. It was fab and i wanna do it again!

almost homeless in scotland

gather around children, let me tell you the tale, of how my phone went down for the count in the middle of Edinburgh, surrounded by strangers.

so im having a lovely time, the free tourguide is great, im hanging with a cute french girl and a strapping aussie (both of which i would have made out with given permission, but hey ho.) scottish people are lovely, but my phones been playing up a bit. i manage to get a flicker of phone life an realise my parents have been panicking because their son is awol and not answering his phone.  this was the first domino

i go to the payphone and tell my folks whats happening, and then try and move my way to a Samsung shop, completely without any directions other than locals advice. it was then that they told me they couldn’t repair it without it costing £300ish. NOPE.  it also dawns on me that without my banking apps, the money on my card is a mystery number in 2 digits. fuck. my bus tickets are on the phone. double fuck. all my local advice is usually a google away. NOPE. triple fuck

so i buy a cheap nokia phone, desperate times call for desperate measures, im pissed to the point where im warning the staff before they serve me and explaining what happens to me, but i go about my day and buy myself a pork role. later in the afternoon however, i try and log into my emails and safe my bus ticket. except i have plot convenient amnesia. the nice frenchman who lent his phone to me was cool, except i get myself locked out of my email. my bus ticket is unretrieveable.

i then try to call megabus, they don’t give me my details and i’m thinking “OH FUCK.  I’M STUCK IN SCOTLAND WITHOUT ACCOMEDATION”. after faffing around, the clock getting dangerously close to the bus times they finally begin to help. i’m checking a stranger’s smartphone for my emails, and the stranger is calling megabus (where he works) they answer and inform me that my ticket is booked FOR THE NEXT DAY. thank god they allowed me to stowaway on a bus a day early.

also i discovered i had £20 to survive on for 2 days including 1 day in London. only just made it home

MORAL OF THE STORY - DONT RELY ON YOUR PHONE. PRINT EVERYTHING AND SHUFFLE YOUR BANK ACCOUNTS AROUND BEFORE SOLO TRAVELLING


BONUS ROUND - power moves from  people i met in scotland:

 - the soft spoken, lilted accent kilt salesman/dad ON A CIRCA 2012 HOVERBOARD. he was already tall and really well dressed, but the board added an extra foot. within the first 3 sentences he spoke was a pun. i want to be this man!

 - the american girl wearing literal prosthetic devil horns, when asked about them she smiled and said “yeah the’re kinda my thing” shutting down all haters and making me hella jealous of her power

 - the cool middle aged woman i spoke to in London en route, she was really worldly and kinda implied she was bi(?) as we discussed SoHo, London, and how to travel and have actual adventures

the lipsync battle that wasn't

Yesterday I did the lipsync battle ... except that's not technically true. 

Yesterday I went out with friends for a birthday and I did a few quiet pre-drinks with a couple of my friends before walking up to the nightclub in question. I didn't walk up in my weird gym getup for obvious reasons (i mean its freezing and i would look a bit crazy in tiny shorts and a bright blue vest) and entered the nightclub. a few beats later after getting my bearings a bit i got dressed into the weird sports get up (see attached) and continued having a few drinks and trying to work out who i was up against. By this point I'm merry, the music is good, and there is enough energy going around for me to comfortably bob around enthusiastically without feeling the paralysing fear I usually feel in clubs, which generally forced me into awkward T-Rex arms doing the wallflower shuffle in a crowd of strangers. I'm still unsure whether it was the quantity of unusual university student drinks - sickly sweet, super cheap, and named things like "Banterlad" - or the fact that with the sports gear on my dignity was gone to the wind and people were going to notice me, so I may as well enjoy myself.

A few slightly cringey photos later (with a couple in their mid 20's photobombing and buying me drinks because they were super nice and/or took pity on the guy dressed up) I awkwardly shuffle up to the DJ area as he announces in a cocky voice that all contestants should come over. I did so and they began taking group photos ... none of which contained me ... that should have been my first clue. I watch the first few acts - which vary from a larger man in a Hawaiian tee shirt doing a half arsed version of "barbie girl," to a full on drag queen strip tease to Ariana Grande's "Dangerous Woman" - it took me a few beats to work out whether it was a drag queen or just a transgender woman who didn't understand make up - and then the DJ says something really peculiar. "That's the end of round one." Now I'm getting really suspicious. I pull the DJ over and ask him whether my name is on the list, he says yes, i ask him why i wasn't included in the first round. Apparently you need to sign in.  NO ONE TOLD ME THAT! this DJ has been making obnoxious hype-man announcements all week and he doesn't even make a suggestion about signing in over the microphone.

So I'm standing there, in tiny shorts, a vest that made me feel way too exposed, a sports sweatband, and a leather jacket - not part of the costume just something so i don't feel super weird - trying to consider my next move. The other thing that alarmed me was the use of the term "next round" ... i thought it was only one song. I'd only prepared one song. So i do what any reasonable person does. I dramatically weave through crowds towards the exit, a perfect end to a badly scripted teen drama moment. except when i realise my bag is still in the cloakroom. I scurry back up, claim it impatiently and leave, desperately trying not to make eye contact to the strangers around me as I go. I walk home, a fun combination of self loathing and disappointment at the nightclub for not making it abundantly clear. and try not to think of all my half prepared quips, witty one liners, and performance material as I leave. If i caught anyone noticing me on the way home I'd make a quiet justification "long story" "it was for the lipsync battle" "its for a thing trust me."  it was like a really depressing retelling of Cinderella, with me running away from the party at midnight. As I write this I have only just gotten over the immediate impulse to run away to Amsterdam and change my name and start a vaguely dutch job and a new life, pot farmer maybe? clogmaker? basically anything other than prostitute. Maybe i could make my millions rewriting my terrible experiences into sitcom form and sell it to Netflix under a pseudonym.

the cocaine incident

Since my old job has since passed, I can no longer get in trouble because of this anecdote. I used to work in a certain chocolate shop, with an excellent team and very nice products. Including one item I dubbed “the crack cocaine of the chocolate world” because it was addictive, and rich white people seemed to love it (especially rich white girls.)  It was of course one of my favourites. This became a line I

used frequently, occasionally getting a chuckle or an unsale – much to the discomfort of my coworkers.

Well one day I said it to a tall, blonde woman in her mid 30s/early 40s. She carried herself with the swagger of a defensive middle class mother, and as she quickly nipped in to get the chocolates I politely served her. I said the thing to her and she stared at me blankly, she hurried away and my older co worker chastised me for it, however no one could take it seriously because of a combination of the relief from the awkwardness and the ridiculousness of the situation. However she caught us laughing through the window, and assumed we were laughing at her and not me. She marched back inside, stared me down solidly and asked me, her voice almost shaking as she spoke. “why did you say that?” I froze, considering what answer would pass the riddle that was this situation. “because their addictive …” she continued, unsatisfied. “But what if there were kids in here?” she asked, there weren’t. I can’t remember what I replied to that one. I think that was the point where I curbed my tongue and instead of giving her the verbal dual she was after, one that could have gotten me sacked, I apologised quietly. Now my older co-worker was considerably angry, one of the younger co-workers warned me she was ‘plucking feathers.’ She excused herself, I froze shell shocked and fantasised about having my own shop where I could say whatever I liked to the staff and customers with no one to tell me otherwise, and I remember a slight rush, like when your cold suddenly gets cleared up through a big sneeze. I assumed it was the last time I would hear about this.

However the next shift at work I get dragged into a side room by my manager, a woman trying her hardest to be sympathetic towards me despite me not making it easy. She informed me that I had been formally complained about and she wanted me to convey my side of the story. There were a few inaccuracies such as my height, and the fact that according to her retelling I didn’t apologise (my younger coworkers vouched for me that I did in fact say sorry) and I Freudian slipped that I apologised for her sake not mine – a fact my manager encouraged me not to reference. After this I emailed thorntons to apologise and explain that I thought it was suitable because “they make jokes like that before the watershed,” the accepted the apology and I was put under a twitchy kind of watch. This was made incredibly hilarious by the fact that only weeks later a customer asked for the phrase “Crystal Meth” written on a chocolate plaque, a joke between her and a friend called Crystal which made me receive a sharp look and a hint of dazed confusion from my manager.

Jump to six months later and my first reintroduction to the older co-worker, who was in charge and had been forceably removed from any of my shifts in case she let her fury out on me. She was a passive aggressive woman, there was something Umbridge-like about the way she carried herself. That smile that was retail code for “I’d sell you out to an angry mob for a pack of mints and the satisfaction of knowing your out of my life.” I noticed at first that I was kept on tasks that had me sent to the back storage, restocking shelves far away from human contact. It got to the point where I’d completed her trials and she seemed, unsatisfied by the fact those tasks had been done. Later when she was out of earshot one of the student aged people working there admitted to having been put on “matt watch” to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid. She also arranged with the other girls on the shift to try and protect me from menial tasks, by giving me the sample tray and making an effort to keep me away from the sample island (where people would be stranded on the other side of the shop alone.)

From now on its always an in joke, with my manager giving me three jumbo bags of sample Viennese truffles as a leaving present and some co-workers even mouthing the words “you mean the cocaine ones” when I discuss Viennese truffles. And that ladies and gentlemen is how I managed to get a complaint against me from an obsessive woman in retail.

my contiki trip

Okay, lets talk holidays. I've just done a Contiki, and it was excellent. Including every second in great detail seems like hard work, so I'll give you the abridged version, jumping right into the first day because the meetup beforehand was mostly paperwork. However that night I did get to meet a giant Australian policeman with eyelashes that naturally looked like they had makeup on despite him never applying it ( like the guy from lost*) that comparison is really rammed home by the fact that he's Australian and called Lach (pronounced lock.) He had friends with him as well, specifically a tall Australian with a swimmer's body, and a petite south African girl who seemed docile at the first night but really came into her element when she got to know everyone. Other people who made the trip so Iconic include my tour guide Susie, the bus driver/party master Dave, a big black guy with a southern accent who I learned was an emergency response nurse when not getting absolutely plastered, and an Australian girl who resembled a younger, less manic Harley Quinn. I also really like the origin story of the brand, the whole "he had a mini bus and lied" thing, I wonder if its real.  

*http://lostpedia.wikia.com/wiki/Richard_Alpert 

After the never ending bus journey and the ferry across to Europe, We arrived in Amsterdam where we were lead into a hostel that looked like a location in resident evil. It was a narrow path that never seemed to end filled with doors that jutted out and hollow pillars dotted around, our room was particularly poor as it smelt faintly of sweat, but we weren't in there long enough to complain. Then Susie mentioned it … we were seeing a sex show. The playlist should have given it away. 

This was exactly what it sounded like, I thought I'd misheard here, maybe it was a joke about how New Zealanders can't pronounce their "I"s and we were going to a show at six. Nope. Full sex show. The theatre itself was in the red light district and it seemed rather normal … for a sex theatre. Nothing incriminating to the untrained eye until the curtains opened, that night I learned that A) a cigar is NEVER just a cigar … it was usually being smoked through the wrong hole, B) pole dancers who don’t smile aren't dusky, they are depressing, C) the one actually good poledancer was probably a superhero/spy in her former life in order to get her strength and finally D) the one real couple performing was obviously having a better time than the others, I actually "aaahhhh"-ed them like they high school sweethearts at a dance because they kissed before having what looked like healthy – if not energetic - sex.  

Amsterdam was a paradox to me, because the alleys looked quaint and the people looked peaceful, yet the quaint cottages were filled with weed smoke. There were little café's you'd take your grandmother to lunch in next to women staring disinterestedly in sexy clothing at the masses. They didn’t dance or flirt like I was expecting them to, one of them was texting, just casually checking her phone whilst standing in the "wonder woman" hands on hips pose in a demi-lovato-style piece of sex wear. I danced afterwards in the recommended nightclub, mingled, and my problems began to melt away. I also discovered that if I play up my naivety - not lying exactly just advertising the newness of the situation – then the more seasoned party-ers would buy me drinks, and although I rejected them at first, I surrendered after a while. It also dawned on me when exploring a coffee shop that it smelt distinctly like an old friend of mine who I had assumed just had bad Body odour.  

The next morning we went to a clog and cheesemaking shop. The woman making the cheese despite being dressed in traditional gear and being an older woman, was hilarious, and the man who demonstrated clogmaking was both very charming, witty, and cooler than me. I'm not kidding when I say that I want charisma to that level, I want to be able to make wooden shoes seem tempting, even for a second. We went for a quaint bike ride with dutch "granny bikes" that require you to back-peddle in order to stop. 

That night we went to a couple of nightclubs. The first of which was very tiny and made me feel uncomfortable, it was grungy in a way that made me think more of abandoned buildings than of anywhere safe. The second bar however made up for it completely. It was a bar that specialised in weird and wonderful shots. I had a caramel shot that was lit on fire by blowtorch, as well as an oreo one. The most interesting of the shots however was the headbanger, which consisted of the trendy bartender pouring spirits straight into the customer's mouth whilst they rested their head on a pillow on the bar, then with a spec of Tabasco sauce he would close the mouth of the drinker and shake their heads like a cocktail shaker, with the same intensity as you would making a drink. I opted out of that drink, however I might look up a DIY version with less Tabasco. 

Berlin was also interesting, the city being entranced with art varying from the magnificent to the mediocre depending on where you look. Ugly buildings sprouted around, industrial things hiding surprisingly modern things inside them. The hostel itself was magnificent, with a swanky bar inside and air conditioning in the bedrooms. Inside the bar one of my friends bought a jug of beer, the next one bought a boot. When I say a boot, I'm talking literally a wellington made of glass in which two pints (I think, maybe more) sat quietly. This eventually became a pissing contest and the nurse (Darrian) fully took the challenge. There was a Quatre of the jug left full of beer, and he managed to finish it off in a smug 2 and a half minutes with the goal being four.  

After seeing the berlin wall I committed to an early night, knowing that the jagerbomb life wasn’t sustainable for the full week. I indulged in a warm, unrushed, uninterrupted shower that had escaped me in Amsterdam and settled after a few YouTube videos to a night of sleep before going to bed before midnight. However the best laid plans of mice and men often go aglae, and the way they went so wrong was in the form one one of my room mates, will, who thought an entire jug of long island iced tea would be a good life choice. I heard retching, followed by the light switching on, and my other room mate encouraging will to take a shower and lay on his side in the most Australian way possible, with heavily affectionate use of the C word. 

The next night was equally interesting, with a night of light clubbing within a sweaty sestpool of tourists – which was to be expected considering the distance from the club to the hostel … literally over the road. Anyway after a few shots, a bit of dancing in/around a cage, and rocking out to various songs I called it a night, passing out in stale clothing for the night … until we had a visitor at four in the morning. There was a knock at the door and a woman stood there, short, brown, with big hair and a grin that was meant to convey a good mood but seemed to resemble an animal baring its fangs. She was dropping off a room mate who had drank enough to need assistance, and after she arrived she perched the spare bunk and started chatting with the guys. The topics varied dramatically, but seemed to revolve around our various dating preferences (e.g. ever been with a foreigner? , white dudes don’t have enough lip for me, do you shave downstairs? Etc) for multiple hours. It ended with her giving me a pep talk about how I should just ask out one of the girls I'd been flirting with and that her new goal was to get me laid, which is not what I expected to hear at 4AM. We decided to have a quick power nap before catching up on the coach. 

We also pre-drinked in a bar that the tour guide – a british woman – had described as having "panic at the disco vibes" … she was not wrong. It was like a set, like circa 2009 Brendon Urie had designed a bar purely for the sake of the eerie red carnival pirate aesthetic.  

Prague was generally uneventful except for a small blip, in which we were almost arrested for not having lights on our tour bikes. As in the prague police had so little crime to deal with that bike lights were an arrestable offense … it was so petty and we were let off with a warning. 

We had a traditional night consisting of too much activity, yet more pork and dumplings – which had been a staple of berlin as well – and ridiculous traditional dancing in ridiculous traditional clothing. I did however swear to myself that I will find something that makes me as sincerely happy as the man dancing was. His eyes seemed to glow like torchlight and his grin was 100% natural, but I was falling asleep. It wasn’t the dancing itself, it was the congregation of the late nights, the early mornings, the exhausting energy of the room, and the table I was on. I fell asleep on the spot yet in some stupid state decided I could go another night. Luckily for me Imogen, a friend from the trip, talked me away from such as idiotic idea. I did however, miss the large group of people, I decided to wing it and try to walk back, which failed spectacularly. I was in a strange city alone, but I was near a landmark hotel, so I logged into uber on their wifi and hired a dirt cheap taxi (£5! I didn’t know £5 taxis existed) to take me home. The cab had great music, lana del rei and Linkin Park – it was my first run in with their music, but I had heard about the singer dying recently – the music was surprisingly good. 

We stopped off at a building filled with bones en route to Vienna, it was dramatic and furnished with nothing but human parts. There was a skeleton chandelier and a mound of skulls, I was expecting it to be more unnerving, but I guess we've seen skeletons since Scooby Doo, the earliest kind of corpse we see. It took most of my control not to make the most of the atmosphere and do a full on evil laugh in the centre of the room, a full on classic "MAWHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" featuring head shaking and hand gestures.  

Vienna was the final location for me and a small group of others. Unfortunately for us the lucky sods on the bus were doing a 25 day tour of Europe, meaning that they were going to get the full package whilst I will be bored at home cyberstalking them and getting severe FOMO. Luckily for me, we were going somewhere without alcohol, so I wouldn’t need to nurse a hangover in the airport. We were going to a 24 hour theme park! 

Luckily for me all the people who were travelling with me weren't adrenaline junkies, meaning that I wasn’t about to be coerced onto anything that was above my paygrade. We hunted for candy floss (which the knock off Harley Quinn referred to as "fairy floss") and I was convinced onto a set of high swings by a girl called Taylor, Lach and Alex tagged along in another swing for the experience, with Lach being genuinely unnerved despite being a police cop. The swing was both the best and the worst at the same time, it rose slowly and gradually, no extreme speed, but the feeling that I was going to drop something and have it plummet to the ground kept gathering constantly. I felt like my phone was going to slip from my pocket despite it being in taylor's handbag the whole time, I hummed to myself and focussed on starring forward and on the pretty lights that illuminated the arcade in bright, hot, carnival colours. This was followed by one more drink at the bar with a gaggle of friends from the coach, who chatted until midnight and then went to bed for an uneventful sleep.  

The airplane home was smooth, and I was picked up by my uncle, who saved me from yet more grim public transport. The strangest thing about the trip was how quickly my problems melted away, either the thoughts vanished, or I didn’t care enough anymore. My brain was free from the traffic that usually clogged it up, it was so freeing. I want that kind of calm in the real life.