An Indian Prince, some Norwegians & a True Brit.

I was invited to a house-warming party by one of the film students. There is a famous film school in Lodz where such luminaries as Andrzej Wajda and Roman Polanski trained. Many of the cinematographers in Hollywood started off here. The party was fun and there were young and interesting people of many nationalities. One of the highlights was an Indian Prince who invited me to his palace back home, no doubt complete with boy attendants cooling the ornate rooms with giant palm leaves. Lots of scandinavians were dotted around, including my pals Magnus, Magnus, and Magnus. Plainly a popular name in Norway.

I took Luscious Lola along and my new friend, another Norwegian, whom I shall call Pin-up Girl. She has a liking for 1950's pinups and last night was kitted out in a tight-waisted red polka-dot dress with white heels and a silk butterfly in her hair. She has lived here for four years although she doesn't seem to have got out much, her recent split from her Polish boyfriend has now thrust her out onto the social circuit. She's just acquired her seventh tattoo and is proving a real hit with the boys.

As is often the case at student house parties, the alcohol was sparse and the Bison Grass Vodka that we brought dissappeared within seconds. In the early hours our quest for more booze demanded that we call a taxi and speed off to my favoured night club. On arrival we were greeted by the usual lunatics. The Bisexual from Belarus was very taken with Pin-up Girl (his motto being every hole's a goal) and the reptilian Doctor was circling us... tongue flicking. Yatsek In Khaki was dressed in... khaki and had his obligatory sunglasses on despite the club being very dark (there's always one). He is in his early fifties, sports dreadlocks and often has a dozy teenage nymphet on his arm. He's a musician, and plays the kind of music that no-one in their right mind would want to listen to. Everyone was drunk, including us, and there was much hugging and back-slapping. Too many vodka's were downed and too many fags smoked.

There are three floors to this den of iniquity, each with a different feel. I collared one of the Magnus's and we ascended the staircase to check out the other levels. The top floor is more disco based and has a small dance area which attracts the younger crowd and generally more testosterone. I spotted through the dark haze The Gentle Giant - one of the bouncers - and sat down with him. Built like a brick shithouse, he was sitting on his own gazing into some sort of pager which was propped up on the table in front of him. He could be alerted through this tiny computer of any trouble and off he would spring to the rescue, although maybe spring is not quite the right word, his great bulk requiring a little more time to shift itself.

Eventually, a friend pulled a man through the crowd towards me and introduced him, and when I enquired where he was from he announced proudly "I'm British". Of course we are all British by nationality and live in the British Isles, but to describe yourself as British seems to me most peculiar.
"You mean you're English?" I responded.
"No, I'm British," he retorted, almost hostile in his stance. Why are do so many of the English become such arseholes the moment they set foot on foreign soil?
"Try telling that to a Glaswegian, or someone from Port Talbot," I said, and having neither the energy or desire for further fatuous encounters, I rounded up my posse and we went back to mine for a nightcap.