A lack of words.

It's nearly over! The day that comes around every four years and which, according to British custom, allows women to propose to men. This tradition on 29th February, like many in Britain, does not exist in Poland... it's just another day. The British have a long history of tradition, a wealth of customs, superstitions & sayings which do not exist in Poland.

Just two weeks ago many couples (& hopefuls!) in the UK would have been enjoying Valentines Day, but this time-honoured and luurve-filled day was only adopted by Poland in the 1990's. In the last few years Poland has learnt and copied a lot from the West, from banal tv 'talent' and quiz shows to shopping centres, from lifestyle magazine and newspaper sections to espresso and cafe latte. Ten years ago none of this existed in Poland. You couldn't even buy beer in a can.

The most surprising is the English vocabulary which they use because there is just no Polish equivalent. eg. weekend. Can you believe that there is no Polish word for weekend? Here are some other examples of words which do not exist in Polish: pub, bar, drink, barman, businessman, joint, camping, casting, leasing, hobby, trendy, cool, glamorous, piercing, peeling, stretching, online, laptop, celebrity, VIP, t-shirt, honeymoon... and many more. Nappies are called pampers and trainers (all makes) are simply called adidas.

Due to Communism, Poland ceased to evolve through the 20th Century so hence this lack of many modern words and activities, they now use English to describe their new lifestyles. When you look at the their lack of modern vocabulary you realise that Poland really sat out most of the twentieth century.

Big Eggs.

Eggs is what the Polish call balls, or testicles. I met Big Eggs in my local boozer, although he later confessed to having eyed me earlier in the gym... that was when I first arrived here six years ago and stood out like a pork chop at a bar mitzwah. He is a well-known actor (well-known in Poland that is) and now lives in Warsaw, two hours from here. Don't misunderstand me - I have never set eyes upon his love spuds, nor have I any wish to. Indeed, I don't bat for his team. I can't remember how it came about but the label Big Eggs has stuck and suits the purpose of this journal.

Big Eggs is a semon demon, a brown artist. He's particularly partial to sticking his mitts up the tradesman's entrance. An anal astronaut as it were. He's what they call 'active' as opposed to passive.... "no-one goes near my arse!" I can't imagine anything more repulsive but each to each is what we preach. As Queen Victoria said... "I don't care what they do as long as they don't do it in the street and frighten the horses." We are close and I try not to dwell on what he gets up to in the boudoir. He has a penchant for geysers big and Neanderthal, not hard to stumble on in Poland.

Big Eggs knows what friendship is, he values it highly and takes great joy in it. His family rejected him when he enlightened them just a couple of years ago to the fact that he was a friend of Dorothy's, something which was very difficult for him to do as they are ordinary conservative Polish people. And deeply Catholic. Ironic seeing as all the Catholic priests I grew up around were buggering boys left right and centre. Big Eggs's family have since said awful things to him and behaved very badly. There is as yet no gay scene in Poland. He says that if he came out publicly his acting career in Poland would end overnight.

He has been a real support to me albeit completely useless. He spends his nights on the computer if he's not fucking and sleeps all day. And I mean all day. He has a lot of 'online sex' (what a world we live in!) and is always complaining about how careful he has to be about being exposed. He usually rises about 5 or 6pm. It's not unusual for him to be cleaning his bathroom at two in the morning... in his underpants. He is desperate to get out of Poland but what would lie abroad? A coffee shop? Manual labour? Ha! He wouldn't last five minutes. And going from big shot to barman within a matter of days would be a difficult transition. He'd make a very good hustler. The hours would suit him too. For the moment he stays and makes the best of being someone people recognise in the street. If he left I would certainly miss him.

Big Eggs is to appear on a Polish version of one of these celebrity talent shows. He's good-looking, a fantastic dancer and oozes charisma. I suspect he will do rather well.

Location, location, location.

After months of looking I have found a derelict cottage in an idyllic setting on the market for a song which I'm going to try and buy. I'm been wanting a place I can retreat to with my dogs away from the oppressiveness of this city. And yesterday I found it.

The main problem with the Polish countryside is that, in the way that every city is blighted with vast grey communist blocks, the country is littered with big & ugly exposed breeze-block houses (it's cheaper than brick). Add plastic windows and surround with high concrete wall-type fencing. Unused cement and debris can be dumped in the forest nearby. On our frequent jaunts into the local woods my dogs often cut their paws on broken glass. In Poland it seems that even within the most beautiful surroundings, you can erect anything you like without regard or respect to the immediate environment. Since Poland joined Europe and it's population have got richer, these monstrosities have shot up everywhere, many are abandoned half-finished. So when I did find something with a little character it usually had one of these enormous eyesores within view, something that I could not look upon or live with. I am faced with architectural abominations on a daily basis here in town, in the country I want to retreat to nature.

The spot I came across yesterday is a village of not more than a dozen small brick and stone houses, mostly built in the 1930's. Deer gazed at me as I drove through the dense forest on my way to what is a crumbling ruin within one and a half acres of meadow. Beyond lies woodland abundant in wildlife. There is electricity and water from a well, apparently it is possible to install a pump in order to supply a bathroom. A delapidated wooden barn houses ancient farm machinery. The cottage itself has a rotting floor, asbestos roof, and crumbling walls. But as I know from years of our obsession with property... location is all.

These and other lunatics.

I'm hungover.

A stones throw from my door is the best pub in town. Poles usually start drinking late and alcohol is usually consumed in copious amounts, sometimes pints of lager followed by shots of vodka. Like Ireland, in Poland you are never far from a church (all huge and hideous) or a pub. It's a good idea to choose your watering hole carefully as many places are filled with apes up for a ruck. Poles have no awareness of personal space so in order not to get nudged and elbowed all night I usually position myself away in a quiet corner. My chosen local is an oasis of the highest order which never fails to provide entertainment & adventure. There are three bouncers, all of them vast in stature, who keep a close eye on things. They are never less than gentlemanly and probably view me as the Englishman who took a wrong turning a few years ago and thinks he's in Prague.

Last night revealed the odd assortment of characters that are always, but always, planted at particular points within the dark red brothel-like interior. The ageing and reptilian Doctor with a taste for naive 18 year old nymphets. The heavily moustaced Charlie Chaplin with his ridiculous bowler hat and cane. The amply proportioned Miss Piggy who's hysterical high-pitched squeal can be invariably heard over the din. The ever popular Gosha with the biggest breasts you've ever seen and not averse to showing them off. The perfectly pleasant musician Yatsek In Khaki complete with dreads and dark sunglasses (there's always one) and bimbo in tow. Not forgetting the Bisexual from Belarus, Tragic Tomek, Peculiar Poohatch (spelt Puhacz... I'm not making this up!), and a Welshman called Justin Smith who was obviously one of the great bores of Western Europe until, on the run from the taxman, found sanctuary here in the middle of Poland and consequently changed his name to Tinek Mitski. On opening his mouth he can clear a bar in 15 seconds. These and other lunatics help keep the night alive. I usually go with my close friend Luscious Lola, a 22 year old blonde with a penchant for stockings, sunbeds and John Wayne films.

They are all running away.

Another neighbour today informed me that he is leaving for the UK. I'm long used to hearing it. But what's this? I read in the British press that 'figures suggest' that Poles are returning to Poland. Really? That smacks of spin. Don't believe a word of it, I certainly don't see any evidence of it here. A British government under fire for their open door immigration policy which has brought public services to breaking point (6 out of every 10 babies born in the UK has an Eastern European mother, an increase of 77% according to the BBC). And a Polish government ashamed and embarrassed about the mass exodus from Poland. Poles returning to their own country? Mmm... I'll believe it when I see it. Every day I have the following discourse at least three times.

Me at the newsagent... "Elle Decoration please."
Newsagent... "What is this? We no have this. You not Polish man. My sister live the London."
Me... "Really?"
Newsagent... "Maybe I will come there. English people fat and lazy yes...?"

Me getting in a taxi... "The airport please."
Taxi Driver... "Where from you? You the English? I go England!"
Me... "How interesting."
Taxi Driver... "My son already live in the Glasgow but he no understand when they speak."
Me... "I see..."

Me chatting up a girl in the pub... "Maybe we could meet again...?"
Girl... "Yes, I like practice my language because soon I will to live in the Great Britain."
Me... "Oh... well I suppose we could have a tumble in the hay before you go. Another vodka?"
Girl... "What it mean this tumble in hay?"
Me... "A few rounds between the sheets. Play hide the sausage."
Girl... "I no nothing understand. I must to go home now. When we have English lesson?"

Me leaving the barber... "Keep the change."
Barber... "Mmm... do all Englishmen leave good tip?"
Me... "Haha, it depends in which county you are."
Barber... "My sister live in the Bristol. In England they rich yes? I think I should to arrive there."
Me... "And do they like her Bristols?"
Barber... "Yes, she like Bristol very much!"

And so it goes. I had many friends when I first arrived in Poland six long years ago but they have all fled. My neighbours have gone. My girlfriends have gone. My barber's gone. My dentist. My plumber. My barman. And many with not a word of English.

It can be quite depressing living in a place where any attempt to get to know people is thwarted by their determination to leave the country. My friend Big Andrzej put it quite succinctly... "They are all running away. They think English people shit gold bricks."

The toilet is everywhere!

I woke this morning to more snow and two men urinating in my courtyard. Poles piss in the streets everywhere. There is a Ukrainian saying 'Where is the toilet? The toilet is everywhere!' That seems to apply to the whole of the ex-eastern bloc.

I used to complain to the offenders but got only argument and aggression in return. It is part of their culture. But I will never get used to it. The daily pools of piss outside my front door, rank in the winter and ranker in the summer, are a part of life in Poland. It cannot be avoided. Nobody cares. The women don't do it, so why do the men have to? I wonder if the millions that have fled to the UK are pissing in public or do they realise that it would not be so welcome there?

So finally I begin.

On this nondescript & bitterly cold night I put pen to paper (aah, does anyone do that anymore?) to tell of my daily survival here in Eastern Europe. My empty days and endless nights. I'll put it all into my diary. Another one. But oh how different. My constant companion, my trusted tome of 2007 now sits on my top shelf gathering dust, a small biblical looking volume already forgotten and waiting to be discovered in 10 years and marvelled at. How my life was then! How amusing! How depressing! How dull! No comparison to the halcyon days of today.


Now I embark on a new venture. Not an illicit black book, secret, something that provoked curiosity and suspicion ("are you writing about me?"), but an altogether different proposition. A journal that could be read by thousands of people (I should be so lucky). My hopes, troubles and fears shared with countless strangers instantly. A daily account open to criticism. And to what end? A form of expression, a release, a therapeutic exercise to help keep me sane in this harsh environment. To assess my lot, to clarify what I have that is positive and worth something. To make contact with the world. Unlike my last year-long chronicle which was a lonely and solitary affair, my internet diary, my weblog, my blog, will be an outstretched hand. A blog that will recount my demented and often surreal life in this most peculiar of places. Why peculiar? Read on...