The Vengabus is coming.

POSTED JUNE 13.

Ok, yes. I admit it. I went to Ibiza. But, trust me, I'm not proud of it. And I blame Liz for insisting we went there. After pondering this for the last 2 months, I've realised there really is only one word that properly encapsulates the essence of Ibiza: Louche.

Don't get me wrong though. It wasn't like I was counting down the seconds to escape the place, however imagine Manchester on a tropical island. How enticing does that sound? I should also add that I arrived with a slightly bitter taste in my mouth after missing a bullfight in Barcelona the previous day.

AND, I challenge anyone to find a good tapas offering on the island. The local dish may as well be British-style fish 'n' chips. Straight off the boat from Brighton.

And fuck, there are some posers there. If they're not mindbogglingly off their head, the superficial tourists that flock to this place will be pouting, flexing, eye-shagging, head-tilting, sunglass-lifting and eyebrow-raising. It actually makes the people that frequent The Establishment seem down-to-earth. Ibiza was also the first time I've asked a stranger to take a photo and received an outright, "no". The beaches there are undoubtedly some of the best in Europe, but the vibe of the place is simply not relaxed, friendly and fun. There's a sense of drug-fuelled passive aggression that permeates the island.

And then there's the cost of everything. There's basically two ways to entertain yourself at night in Ibiza. You can hang at the beach bars and clubs or hit the superclubs. The regular beach bars are expensive enough. But the Superclubs will hit you a meagre 40 euros just for entry. After discovering that beers were 10 euros a pop and spirits around the 18 euro mark (!!!), we thought we'd sneak our own Vodka in and simply buy the soft drinks for it. Our night at Pacha Club ended up being a relatively dry one, after we were charged 8 euros for a (small) glass of Coke.

Because I'm on holiday, I don't like being so negative, so let me offer you something positive about Ibiza...

...something positive, something positive...hmmm, nup, got nothing. Wait, I lie. Watching the sunset from Cafe del Mar and Bar Mambo over in San Antoni on the west coast was certainly memorable.

So, you can see I'm not a fan of the infamous place that the Vengaboys loudly advocated back in the late 90s (and destroyed a classic song in the process, originally about Barbados). But if you're one of the tools at Good Vibes that insists on removing their shirt and stands there (with their back to the stage) pouting while catching regular glances at their own reflection in other people's sunglasses, then Ibiza is for you.

Now, here are some photos.

Mark being hounded by a local restauranter. He likes his chuppa-chups. As does most of Ibiza actually.


Figuretas Beach. It's not all bad.




The only real 'touristy' thing in Ibiza. The old town.


A disco in the old town. There was even a market for disco biccies back in the 18th century.


Look, I'm smiling.


This was one of the other positive moments of our Ibiza stint. A shop named Pantera. Drag the waters!!


Mark and I with our Melbourne pals Mel and Kate. They're actually still there as I write this. Working in clubs selling NOS (nitris-oxcide).


Bora Bore Beach Club. Need I say more?


Some cafe.


Liz, Mark and I awaiting the sunset at Cafe Del Mar


Mark and I have a quiet moment watching the sunset. Awwww cute.


Eric Morillo doing his thang at Pacha Superclub


Pacha...


Emerging from Pacha at 8am. Mmmm top of the world!


Mark. Failing to make it all the way through the next day. Pathetic.


The hiccie was not a result of me being an Ibizan sleaze. I just shouldn't have let Liz within 10m of my neck.


Sure, it was a low-blow. But I had to get Liz back somehow...


Oh, and don't go thinking that I spent my 3 or 4 days in Ibiza moping around being a bitter, bitter sod. I did crack the odd smile occasionally.

My newly found lisp...Barthelona

POSTED JUNE 9 (this is being significantly backdated)

Barcelona is definitely one of my favourite cities so far, especially as it only cost me 2 quid to fly here on Ryan Air. I learnt a very important lesson in doing this though. If you get a 2 quid flight, beware that you'll be flown into an airport about 400kms away from the actual destination and at a time that is completely inaccessible by public transport. And don't start me on their baggage limit.

And it's not a particularly touristy city, in the sense that there isn't the plethora of ancient monuments and rennaisance galleries that you're expected to visit, which is a relief in a way (especially on my rapidly thinning wallet).

Just before arriving in Barcelona, I discovered that my long lost pals Mark "Twig" Adamik and Liz "Lizzard" Scott were also in town, after finishing a 2 month stint working on a yacht throughout the Med. So, hopefully I can drag one of them with me for some of my European travels, as opposed to nigelating it.

On my second day in Bartha, I was pickpocketed. By two cunning 16 year-old girls. But, rest assured, I chased them down and served them a right thrashing. Mark and I were walking along the port area of town, when we were approached by two young, friendly looking girls who asked if we could sign a petition to help raise awareness for the deaf or something. So, I obliged and noticed there was a column to indicate how much money I wished to donate. Aware I was probably being scammed, I thought I'd just give them whatever shrapnel I had to stop them pestering me. As I opened my wallet and rumaged through the coin section (no, I don't have a purse), the girl shifted toward me and using the clipboard with the petition to obscure the top of my wallet from my vision, she yanked 250 euros from me. I immediately felt the notes being pulled from the wallet and questioned the little whore about what she thought she was doing taking my money. *She instantly broke into a sprint and I high-tailed it after her, eventually tackling her to the ground, shattering her ribcage on the pavement in the process, snatching my money back and bowing to the 300-strong crowd who had gathered and erupted into an hour-long standing ovation*

Because I'm an exceptionally lazy individual, I will now depict my Spanish adventures visually instead of my trademark repetitive monologues.

This was probably one of my favourite part of Barcelona - just wandering aimlessly through all the carrers and placas. You could do it for weeks on end and never be bored.


Street-performers (doubling as pick-pocketers by night) on La Ramblas.


This is not your average statue. It needs to be understood in context. All along La Ramblas is a plethora of mime-artists. Some good, some not so good. By the time you arrive near the bottom of La Ramblas, you assume anything that doesn't move is a mime-artist. So, it became a pastime of mine to watch the seemingly endless stream of American tourists gathering around this real statue, waiting for it to move.


I have Sarah to thank for this discovery! Her instructions were: "As soon as you get to Barcelona, head straight for La Ramblas food markets and stock up on fresh fruit, veg, cured ham and cheeses". I got slightly distracted by this unbelievable selection of gelati. Some of them were fruit-flavoured, so I guess I stocked up on fruit in a way.


It's no wonder I got pick-pocketed! Could I have stood out as a tourist any more??


Mark, Liz and Annie the hardcore shisha smokers down at the port.


Twigos totally being a shisha-hog.


Gate-crashing the boat that Mark, Liz and Annie were living/working on. Not a bad set-up.


Besides making me look like some sort of heavenly being (which I clearly am), there's a mildly amusing story behind this photo. After a big night, we passed out on the beach and when I woke up I was wearing a foreign jacket. I had no idea how I got it. I scanned the beach and saw a young local guy curled up in a ball shivering on the sand. Was this his jacket? Shit. I had no recollection. Mark later filled me in. One of two things happened: either I, in my questionable state, hassled the guy until I got his jacket; or he saw that I was cold and generously offered it to me while he did his exercise on the beach. Either way, when I saw him curled in that ball, shivering on the sand, I felt terrible. So, of course, I kept the jacket. Kidding. I returned it to him and took advantage of him while he slept. Kidding again. Sort of...


After waking up on the beach after stumbling out of a bar in the wee hours, we went in search of some nourishment. Word of warning - NEVER order a hamburquesa. And Mark was smart. He took his sunnies.


Good to see Mark no longer needs to be breast-fed.


Liz enjoying her 4 euro microwaved paella.


Mark with our asshole American buddies Brittany and Marissa. Top class. Pity they can't handle their absynthe.


I don't know why I thought this was funny.


Ahhh Gaudi. Whatever you were on, please share it 'round!




The BBG.


i.e. the Barcelona Bikey Gang


It's all good. I'm cool, I'm cool.


Oh fuck. Did nooooooo see that tree coming.


Bob Marley tribute jam down near the port.


Wow, it's so much easier blogging primarily with photos. I'm gradually getting up to date with all my adventures, so check back later on for the 2 months of my life following Barcelona.

Adios.

* = I kindly asked for my money back and ran away like a pathetic little coward.

So what? Big whoop! Wanna fight about it?!?! Ireland...

June 2.

After scouring the streets of Dublin for three hours, I finally found the renowned “Wi-Fi” park. That is, the park near a bunch of office blocks where you can pick up wireless networks for free. I’m a happy man. The irony of this is that I later discovered my hostel has free Wi-Fi anyway. So I convinced myself that the fresh air in the park did me good.

Until the rain came. Then I convinced myself that the water would be soothing down my neck.

Until the lightning came. Then I convinced myself that the electrocution would benefit the scoliosis in the lower left of my spine and that the subsequent years spent in a wheelchair would provide me with time to reflect on the state of world poverty.

Until the tidal monsoon came. Then I convinced myself that my ensuing death would present me with the opportunity to meet Michael Hutchence in heaven and ask him whether or not he was charged for the hotel room while the suicide investigators did their work in the days following his passing.

Until the solar system’s galactic belt collapsed… Too far?


With what I thought was Dublin Castle.


2 days later, I accidentally stumbled upon the real Dublin Castle. Ooops.


Cafe Irie in Temple Bar. My fave place to eat. Actually, the only place I could find a feed under 5 euros.

What was my favourite thing about my week in Ireland? It’d have to be the people and their innate ability to talk absolute shite for hours on end at any given time. I guess this is what they call ‘the craic’. I think the height of this occurred when I found myself talking to a 40-year-old local in some pub about why the Northern Ireland government decided to change the fonts on national highway road signs a couple years ago from sans serif to serif to improve legibility. But perhaps the best part of all this banter is that, no matter what the topic of discussion, every sentence is peppered with every swear word known to man. And if they’re from Cork, the word ‘like’ will also be thrown in there half a dozen times for good measure. But somehow, when the Oirish swear, they somehow manage to make it sound so charming and natural.

Temple Bar by day:



And night...



But there was one night out where conversation didn’t quite flow as one would’ve hoped. An unbearably abhorrent American dude, Brian, from my dorm and I were at a pub in the Temble Bar area of Dublin when he suddenly got an attack of the horn and decided he wanted to, in his words, “sample some local Irish seafood”. Tactful. So as his eyes fervently surveyed the bar, I realised I had now been appointed his wingman by default. Shit. Failing to find a suitable escape route from this endeavour, I followed him over to a group of 3 mediocre and relatively disinterested looking girls. After discovering within three seconds that they were in fact Italian and capable of speaking the level of English of Craig Nicholls, Brian started to panic. I watched as five minutes of charades ensued until I remembered I had my Western Europe phrasebook in my bag, which I generously offered to him. Unfortunately for my dormie from Michigan, the phrasebook only really extended as far as phrases such as “Excuse me, do you know where the hospital is?”, “Do you accept credit card?” and, “I’d like a return ticket to Sorrento please”.


Traditional Irish musak.


With Hugh and David Lydons. My former bath buddies.

So, I learnt two key lessons that night: You really shouldn’t rely on a phrasebook to assist you to pick-up – especially when you’re a tool of an American who is more closed-minded than me that time I was sent on an Apollo mission with Steve Leibman.

Cut to scene of me with Steve Leibman in outer space: “Hey Adrian, look back down on Earth. Don’t you think it’s amazing that on that tiny little globe, there can be so many individual lives, each with their own problems, yet when we view it from up here, none of that is visible and the world continues to spin?” / “Nope, I can’t be bothered thinking about it. I’d rather ponder how Patricia Cornwell ever got popular.”

Cut back to reality.

What was the second lesson? Oh yeah… don’t ever hum the riff to White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” when in the presence of Italians. It somehow incites them to erupt into peculiar fits of extraordinarily stiff, upright jumping.

But I didn’t just spend my entire time talking rubbish to people in pubs. I actually did do some touristy stuff. Here is some proof:


Of course...


View over Dublin from the Guinness storehouse.


View over one of the 4 billion lakes in Wicklow.


Laces wearing thin...


Glendalough Monastery.

Before I go – make sure you see the new Joe strummer documentary, “The Future is Unwritten”. Brilliant – even if you’re not a fan of The Clash.

Next, I’m off to Wales and Gloucestershire on a roadtrip with Frosty, Alice, Ange, Shannon, Tori and Di for cheese rolling and a long-weekend of endless flatulence.