New Year's Eve.

The worst thing about this time of year in Poland are the 'bangers' that are set alight and thrown around everywhere. What the fun is exactly I do not know. They do not give off any illumination but let out a deafening crack that terrifies every animal within a mile radius. I am told that these basic explosives have only been available in Poland in the last few years and consequently Poles find them hugely exciting. They are lit and thrown around without any regard for people passing by, but this is not surprising as Poles have no respect for each other whatsoever.

The streets and parks are full of idiots, many of them adults, drinking vodka and lighting bangers. The dogs bolt off, petrified and confused. Once captured they are quivering wrecks. I have been unable to take Molly and Daisy out the last few days as it is just so frightening and I don't want to risk losing them.

After much consideration I have decided to spend new year's eve indoors with my doors closed to the usual rabble. There were phone calls from various Polish 'pals' who I don't hear from all year, curious to know if I was holding a party. In previous years they've attended my New Year Bash and had a wild time. A perfectly located balcony in which to see all the fireworks, free food and vodka all night long, comfort and space for all their friends etc etc. They always turn up empty handed. They have never once bought me a drink when I see them in the pub. And I have never been invited to their homes.

This year it occurred to me that if that's the best on offer, to play host once again to all these parasites who crawl out of the woodwork two days before the event then why bother? Unlike the annual Christmas Party which is a free-for-all, I desire the company of real friends at the start to the new year.

Feeding (on) the ducks.

I'm spending Christmas with Lola and her folks who've treated me as one of their own since I first met them five years ago. I'm treated and fed like a king.

Last night Lola suggested we go for a stroll at midnight to check out the annual festive gathering in the old town square and possibly bump into some old pals of hers. It was minus 4 degrees so we wrapped up warm and set off for what I hoped would be a cheerie hour warmed with candles and mulled wine and accompanied by a little music and merriment. After all these years in Poland I still have subconscious expectations of how it would be as if I was back in Blighty. Lola reckoned being outside in the square preferable to the midnight mass which she presumed would be just elderly locals crammed into the ugly church, it did look decidedly uninviting. I was happy with her suggestion as being trapped in any enclosed space crowded with Poles elbowing me from all sides is something to be avoided at all costs.

It was foggy on the road, evocative of the old days by the Thames and Sherlock Holmes films. The only people around were groups of youths on street corners swigging beer and vodka. They stared at us as we were not attired in the usual shell suits, bomber jackets and beanies. Approaching the town square we were dismayed to find it was dark and empty. On returning we found ourselves in the throng of what looked like an average Saturday night, packs of loud tragic looking yobs in various stages of drunkeness and on the verge of hostility. We looked far too smart and they didn't like it, keeping our heads down with a lively pace we made it home in one piece but it was unpleasant. The air had been bitterly cold although I enjoyed the fog, but festive it was not and the Christmas Spirit was nowhere to be seen.

Today the women served up a feast, unaided by any of the men who in Poland stay well away from the kitchen. I washed up which pleased them to no end.

Afterwards I went for a two hour stroll to the park with Lola and the dogs. Lola had gathered up bread for the ducks which she likes to do regularly and finds therapeutic. Once at the pond she remarked on how few ducks there were. Indeed, the waters have teemed with the critters all year and now their absence seemed blindingly obvious and gave the ponds an eerie stillness. Lola then went on to enlighten me. Apparently the birds are caught by individuals and cooked for Christmas. It didn't surprise me. Although the main Christmas dish is carp, this is supplemented with other fish, meat, and, it seems, just about anything else to hand.

Wasted lives.

The flatmates have returned to their family homes for the Christmas break and I have the place to myself again... what bliss. For the last week Brunette Flatmate had her boyfriend staying for the second time, he'd travelled from the other end of the country and spent six days in Lodz glued to the box, that's when he wasn't sleeping.

Like the flatmates, The Boyfriend never once took a book of a shelf to have a look, never proposed an outing of any kind, never showed any curiosity about this city to which he has only visited once before. The Boyfriend is 21 and overweight. My closest friend back in London is 70 and she has more vitality, strength, intelligence and wit than these slovenly non-entities can ever hope to be blessed with.

Surrounded on every wall by books in Polish and in English, luxurious large format photographic books with minimal if no text, history, geography, art, biographies, pulp fiction and worthier novels etc etc. Over ten thousand books on every conceivable subject. None of my young comrades, however, are the least bit interested. They prefer to watch crap tele (I have just one fuzzy channel) or sit at their computers sending banal messages to each other on social networking sites. None of them are familiar with Poland second largest city, they have never been to any of the parks, have never visited the museums or art galleries, have never even suggested a stroll down the main street. Blonde flatmate attends college for just three hours daily and the rest of the time sits on her rapidly expanding arse doing sod all - watching films and online 'chatting'. She says she never has time to clean or hoover. Neither does she have the time for a part-time job. And now the parents of my soon to be ex-tenants must fork out more cash so that their offspring can move to accomodation that will be pricier, dirtier, uglier and further. Simply because their children are not willing to lift a finger.

Christmas is coming.

There is not much here to give away the fact that Christmas is almost upon us. Only the main street running through the city has a thin layer of extra lighting. Shops don't bother to alter or embellish their window displays in any way, there's no carol singing or public concerts, and no christmas songs on the radio - just the usual ghastly techno and heavy rock.

Fir trees are bought a day or two before the Big Day, as are decorations which then remain in place until the end of February. There's something distinctly depressing about seeing Christmas decorations still up so far into the following year.

There are even more police cars on the streets than normally (every second car seems to be an ambulance or patrol car), this is apparently because they are seeking extra bribe money from speeding motorists in order to facilitate some Christmas shopping.

As one would expect in a Catholic country the churches are busier than usual. It's always been a mystery to me how a nation can spend so much time in church and yet be so nasty the moment they step from the portal. I remember one Sunday watching a congregation piling out from one of Lodz's many places of worship, a massive monstrosity carved in concrete and steel. I was with my Big German Friend... "holier than holy... now watch them as they drive out of the car park..." he remarked. And we watched them... cursing and honking and pushing and denying others even the slightest consideration. Love thy neighbour? Forget it. Treat others as you want them to treat you? Not round here.

Word of the week: czlowiek religijny meaning churchgoer.

The Polish ski jumping champion.

Poland has little presence on the world stage, so when the opportunity arises Poles are more than anxious to get their flags out. Polish ski jumping champion Adam Malysz gives them that once in a blue moon chance.

Ski jumping is shown repeatedly on national television and the reason for this can only be what is indeed a rare species... a prize-winning Polish sportsman. Poles are not renowned for their sporting prowess, they're not what you could call active. In the four years I've spent running and cycling in the park daily with the dogs I could count my fellow joggers on one hand.

The populace prefer to sit in their blocks and watch television, mindless and banal television, and one of their favourite programmes is ski jumping... hours and hours of it. As far as I can see, if you've seen one ski jump you've seen them all, it must rank as one of the dullest sports invented. Nonetheless, tv stations nationwide continually show these dreary contests and the country gather round their Panasonics riveted.

On making new acquaintances it's not long before I'm berated because I'm not up to par on Adam Malysz... but who (apart from 40 million Poles) cares about ski jumping?

The quiet American and a conundrum.

I have a friend called Chris from Colorado. He has been teaching English for eight or nine years. He's had his fill of Poland and wants to return home but it's not so simple... he has a two year old girl called Aniela.

A few years ago he married a Polish girl here in Lodz. They had a child whom Chris's wife, quite shrewdly, ensured was born in the States. They have now separated, the wife has the child and he is renting a dingy little hovel down the road. His job is tedious and repetitive, he earns a pittance, and he finds the Poles rude and boorish. There is nothing to keep him here except little Aniela. He tells me he is frequently depressed and lonely, I see him often as I sympathise - but what can I say to him? What should he do? Stay or go? His soon to be ex-wife is vile to him but Chris still entertains the idea of a reunion purely out of love for the child.

Chris's father is loaded but does not help his son in any way, only telephoning occasionally to ask advice on his investments (Chris studied investment banking). Chris is a quiet American, well-mannered and intelligent. His parents visited once and hated it. They feel his life is meaningless. And yet how could he leave his child? A conundrum indeed.

The Christmas Party.

Every year I hold a Christmas party to which are invited all the staff and students of the English language school where I used to work, and just about everyone else I know. Well in excess of a hundred people usually cross the threshold. Alas, this year my friends will have to forego their annual evening of debauchery as my home and venue of countless nights of revelry will be still. Why? The flatmates of course.

My delectable lodgers have turned their once exquisite bedrooms into a haven of bacteria, they have discarded the luxurious white bedlinen in favour of their own patterned polyester duvets in hideous shades of yellow and lime green, on top of which they have 'rearranged' the furniture so that beds are now pushed up against balcony doors and bedside cabinets sit next to each other in the opposite corners. Like their fellow citizens in blocks throughout the nation they never feel the need to open a window, hence there is a distinctly unattractive whiff emanating from their dens. How could I possibly invite guests to my house?

One could of course just close the bedroom doors but it would not be the same. Visitors love to stroll through the corridors of my palatial apartment, gasping in delight at my vast library and impeccable taste, albeit coming from those who do not read and to whom any interior not painted yellow is indeed a marvel. Nevertheless, following partygoers from room to room as they breathlessly utter superlatives does my vanity the world of good and is one of the rare pleasures I get from my grim existence in this grey land.

So this year the party is off. A disappointment for many and another reason to shift my two tenants asap.

Taking the tram.

I dropped Esmeralda off at Mike and the Mechanics for a service and had to take the tram back into town. Tickets must be bought before boarding but of course there was nowhere to buy a ticket so I just jumped on. EU funding has allowed Lodz (and the rest of Poland) to replace it's public transport system and now smart Volvo buses and plush trams glide through the city on new roads and rails, but in order to buy your ticket you still have to search for a kiosk open.

Once aboard a dirty looking passenger approached me, flashed a plastic ID and demanded to see my ticket. I've heard of conmen who pretend to be inspectors, so despite his belligerence made a point of examining his identity card again. I explained that there had been nowhere to buy a ticket, but no matter, I had to pay a cash fine of 60 quid.

Today is Sunday and all the shops are closed. There are no ticket machines at bus or tram stops. If you want to travel today and you did not buy a ticket earlier in the week then you risk a fine.

Table manners.

I've decided to get rid of the flatmates. The novelty of them running around in their underwear has worn off after three months of constant cleaning... they are filthy. I've asked them on numerous occasions to buck up but they still don't know where the hoover is kept... "just tell us what to do," they whinge. Why should I have to tell them?

It was an accumulation of reasons that has finally led me to eject my two temptresses. Lola warned me from the beginning telling me that Brunette Flatmate was 'loud, vulgar, and primitive' whilst Bookshop Babe felt I was foolish to offer so much in return for so little. They were right. A well presented cleavage makes for a lot of leeway but the final straw came last Friday when I cooked for my lazy lodgers.

Poles have no table manners. Restaurants were almost nonexistant in communist Poland, only the occasional Bar Mleczny (milk bar), a no-frills cafe offering cheap dairy-based dishes. Despite having deeply rooted Jewish, Lithuanian, Ukrainian, Belarusion and Russian traditions, the people of Poland now prefer the dubious delights of cheap pizza, kebab and McDonalds which have opened in abundance. Lodz is the second largest city in Poland and there is only one decent restaurant which is closing due to lack of interest.

I've sat for the last eight years at the same dinner table as Poles and it is truly horrendous. They pile their plates high and scoop scran into their gullets like there's no tomorrow. They manage to talk and display every chewed morsel at the same time. They reach right across you if they need something from the far end of the table and napkins are not required. Courses come in random order, often the soup together with the main, and once the food lands on the table Poles do not hesitate and do not stop for breath. If you pause even for a moment then surly waitresses assume you have finished and take your plate from you, I have often had to fight for a half-eaten meal. There is no custom of putting one's knife and fork together when finished, indeed, there is no custom of any kind. It would be fair to say that a great many Poles consume food like pigs.

I remember a date I had with a divine looking girl I met when I first arrived in Lodz. I made the mistake of asking her out to dinner. The way she bent over her bowl and threw the food into her mouth, spitting it out at me as she jabbered away, and the lettuce dangling from her greasy chin swiftly eradicated any romantic notions I'd entertained. I shook her off faster than an unexpected daddy long legs.

So, there I was at my place on Friday night with my legendary pasta steaming away. I created a fine salad too but of course it was wasted on my guests as they are brought up on frozen and canned junk and are quite devoid of taste buds. Nevertheless, I sat there aghast as Brunette Flatmate and her halfwit boyfriend shovelled my cuisine into their mouths, spraying the table with red pesto and half-chewed olives. As she prattled on at me I winced at the food sitting on her tongue, she almost elbowed me off my chair as she dived over the table for another helping. It was unbearable, although she spared me from the usual plate licking. Of course I spent the remainder of the evening washing-up, Blonde Flatmate breathed over my shoulder "we'll do it in the morning" but I've come to understand that as "we might get round to making a start on it after three or four days."

I'm forced to deal with a lack of table manners in the pizzeria's and kebab houses but I can't tolerate it at home. They have six weeks notice. They'll be sorry to go as they certainly won't get it so good elsewhere in this city.

Word of the week: Wyprowadzic sie meaning to move out.

Tired.

I couldn't sleep due to the ambulances screeching around the city centre in the early hours. A Sunday night with not a soul to be seen but the ambulances do not let up.

In the morning, still groggy, I left the house with the dogs for the park. Two men were pissing in the courtyard as is usually the case. I stepped over discarded vodka bottles and more piss before we climbed into Esmeralda and set off.

On the road we were cut up on all sides by maniac drivers honking furiously. They also like to drive inches behind me 'right up my arse' as it were, aggression is the norm on Polish roads. In order to avoid a headache I played with the radio hopelessly trying to find a station not playing horrid heavy rock and ended up turning it off as is usually the case.

On arriving at the park the dogs jumped out and I was told immediately by two policeman to 'control' them. Polish law states that dogs must be muzzled and on a lead everywhere and at all times. As soon as the police were out of sight I let them lose again. Even here in the greenery you cannot escape the wailing of ambulance sirens which circle the parkland. I had to witness at least another half a dozen men pissing, they don't even bother going into the bushes but do it on the path. Some youths who had been drinking paused to smash their bottles on the ground and have a piss before exiting the park.

On the way back I stopped at a hypermarket for provisions. It is the only place where I can find olive oil and cheddar cheese, for a small 3" square I have to pay nearly 6 quid. About to enter the shop, I stopped and held the door open for a man coming out who did not say thank you or even look at me, I'm used to this although will never like or understand it. Once inside the security guard stared at me. Wandering up and down the aisles people walked right in front of me and two barged into me without a word of apology. I strolled through the processed and long-life fare and once at the cashier I had to tell the woman behind me to stop pushing her trolley into my back. On leaving the security guard continued to stare accusingly.

On our return I passed a car collision, three cars all write-offs, no sign of any passengers. This is yet another daily sight which has long ceased to shock me. If Poles had any brains they would just drive a little slower, it's not as if they are need to be anywhere in a hurry as there is nothing of any importance happening in this town.

Back at the flat I sat down and thought about Christmas. I am unable to get back to London for Christmas due to the fact that there are so many Poles now moving back and forth between the UK and Poland, especially over the festive season. And they buy up all the Ryanair tickets months in advance for a fiver.

I'm tired of it. Tired of the hostility. Tired of the spitting, pissing and shitting. Tired of the jingoism. Tired of the pushing and shoving. Tired of the rudeness. Tired of the ignorance. Tired of the bigotism. I'm tired of Poland. I want to be back amongst civilised people.

Breaking the law.

Outside my bedroom window down on the street about a hundred yards away is a crossroads complete with traffic lights. Newly installed speakers give off a loud penetrating clacking when the green man is shown. Despite this cars are still allowed to speed in between people crossing. There is never a time which is reserved just for pedestrians to move safely across the road. The loudspeakers are horribly loud and go on every time the green man appears, every couple of minutes all through the day and night. I (and almost certainly a hundred other residents living around the junction), have not been able to sleep.

So what to do? This is the main street of the city but it's residents are never consulted on anything, we have no voice as to what goes on. During the summer ghastly rock concerts are organised all along the street which go on til three in the morning, drunken people shout and stagger along the road stopping to spit and piss, ambulances speed down the supposedly pedestrian thoroughfare with ultra-loud sirens and horns blaring, ugly metal signs are chained to lamp-posts and clutter up the pavement etc etc. Residents signing petitions for the council to consider is unheard of and the idea would be laughed at.

Weighing all this up, tired and irate that my sleep had been interfered with, and will be from now on, and with seemingly no other option, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Around midday I left the house armed with a spanner, wire cutter & stepladder. I'd already done a reconnaissance and knew what needed doing. There was a speaker perched on the top of each red/green man light unit on every corner of the junction - 4 in all. Within a few minutes I had the 2 located on the nearest corners in my bag. During that time at least three police cars past me - they drive up and down the street with nothing to do, interspersed with screeching ambulances. 80% of the traffic on this main avenue is police, ambulances, and 'security' vehicles which is a Polish obsession. What a weird place Eastern Europe is. I was dressed like a builder on a paint covered step-ladder, no-one took any notice and besides which Polish police like to intimidate but are brainless. They are paid a pittance and are all open to bribery, many have second jobs. My kitchen was fitted by a numbskull copper who couldn't put a nail into a wall. The British don't know how fortunate they are. Nevertheless, I left the remaining two speakers as it should now be decidedly quieter, and if not I'll finish the job in the next few days. I hope it will not be neccessary to remove the final two as the silence would be noticed sooner rather than later and the speakers possibly replaced.

If the lights, and their co-ordinating speakers, were activated by someone pushing a button in order to cross then I might be able to tolerate it, although it's pointless anyway as cars do not stop. But why should I (amongst many others) be kept awake all through the night when the streets are deserted? An automatic system that serves no purpose except to keep people awake.

Polish Patriotism.

A quick browse on Facebook, MySpace, Bebo and other social networking websites lay bare the thousands of profiles of young Poles living in the UK and shouting to all about how great Poland is. They send moronic messages to each other in Polish saying that 'Poles are the best!' and how 'shit' it is in Britain. They write in (a hideous version of) English, they assume English names, they take everything that Britain has to offer but are ungracious about their adopted homeland. They wave Polish flags as if they were still here in Eastern Europe - which of course they are not.

This is an example of a typical Polish 'poem' found on Bebo:

My Polish pride
I will not hide
My Polish race
I will not disgrace
My Polish blood
flows hot & true
My Polish peeps
I will stand by you
thru thick & thin
till the day we die
Our Polish flag
Always stands high
I yell this poem
Louder than all the rest.
cuz every 1 knows
Poland IS THE BEST!!!
Polish Pride in my mind
Polish BLOOD is my kind
So step aside and let me through
Cuz its all about the Polish crew
Life sucks and then u die
but if your Polish
You die wit sweet ass pride

It would be hard to find a young Briton as proud, but here self-glorification is instilled into the population as infants. And yet what are they so proud about exactly? Poland has never won a war, nothing has ever been invented here, Eastern Europe is grim and oppressive in the extreme, a hostile police state in which people are rude, aggressive, anti-semitic, anti-gay and completely lacking in manners or style. Primitive Polish men in shell suits spit and piss everywhere in public. Thousands of Poles are continuing to leave Poland daily headed west but they have their pride crammed into their suitcases.

Poles abroad, if you love Poland so much then why don't you return to your beloved country and STOP BORING US WITH YOUR PATRIOTIC DRIVEL.

Word of the week: dumny meaning proud.