A session in the gym.

I have had phases of gym going ever since as a student I invested in a Bullworker and used to fumble around with it in my dingy bedsit. I recently started training again, and, tending to get quite big quite quickly, have noticed that I am now one of the bigger regulars and am given a little respect accordingly. However, when the truly massive guys walk in I scuttle from under their path like everyone else. Respect in the gym is given purely in terms of bicep size.

There is an amiable instructor who likes to chat and is planning to leave for the UK (surprise surprise). When in his vicinity I keep my eyes to the floor or focus on the nearest machine to avoid being grilled about the cost of living in England and how much gym instructors get paid. He will keep me talking for ages on the price of cauliflower or the exchange rate and I can feel my hot perspiration turn cold and dry up and I must warm up all over again.

On looking around, the clientele is much the same as back in blighty, except that a lot of the men insist on working out in plastic sandals and socks. Twenty stone monsters grimace and grunt into the mirrors while adopting narcissistic poses. Skinny sixteen year old boy beginners in two's and sporting new gymwear attempt to lift ludicrously heavy weights and are rarely seen again. Foxy girls in taught pink lycra who never break into a sweat (God forbid!), and a light sprinkling of OAP's who seem to be the only ones enjoying themselves.

The running and rowing machines are all pointed towards four TV screens, each showing a different channel. It's difficult to follow one without being distracted by the others. At least two are music channels and feature various shades of brown girls writhing around in hot pants seemingly on the point of orgasm. On top of this is loud music which blares out from every corner and bears no relevance to any of the screens. Despite this sensory bombardment, some exercisers are also plugged into ipods, their poor suffering ears most likely giving off a hum for the rest of the day.

A promising student.

I watched him from the third floor park his Volvo and walk through the courtyard. A man in the shadows gazed in awe as The Gentle Giant strode by like a colossus, incongruous looking textbooks in hand, and pounded up the staircase to my door. The dogs greeted him enthusiastically and he lowered his mighty frame into one of my delicate antique bentwood chairs. He politely refused all offers of food or drink and only ever drank water.

He had bashfully inquired about learning a little English as he felt foolish at international weightlifting competitions where he couldn't even tell the time or count from one to ten. We started at the beginning and he proved to be an eager and industrious student.

The poor chairs would creak and groan under his weight, and often, on making a mistake The Gentle Giant would curse loudly and bang the mahogany table hard with his fist... everything on it jumping six inches into the air.

We met over the course of a long hot summer and I got to know that behind the fearsome exterior was an intelligent and gracious soul. He lives on his own and has a beautiful iguana and a less beautiful girlfriend who has none of the charm or humility that he is blessed with.

A grey autumn arrived all too soon and with it his enthusiasm waned. While still at a basic level, he chose to 'take a break' and has never returned. On seeing me in the pub he always lights up and makes a point of coming over to shake my hand warmly. He was in good spirits this week having just returned from a holiday abroad... "I spoke the English all time... no problem! This the easy language! I feel very good to this."

Only a few days ago I came across a souvenir from one of our early lessons. He had requested I write down a few sentences which he could learn and use at the pub on the odd occasion when he had to communicate to foreigners. On the plain A4 sheet were the words...private party tonight, we close at six, and... please leave!

The Gentle Giant.

The Gentle Giant is a professional bodybuilder and fairly famous in Poland, he is often featured in bodybuilding magazines. He trains at a local gym and works as a bouncer in the local boozer, which I suppose in English terms would be classed as a nightclub. Big Eggs, liking his blokes big, goes weak at the knees at the sight of him. I watched The Gentle Giant the other night as he ejected two men from the club who'd had too much to drink and were reluctant to leave and marvelled at his size... not tall but a couple of yards wide.

Most nights he sits on his own concentrated on his mobile phone, his giant fingers methodically pressing out messages on the tiny keypad, or reading. He frequently looks bored and tired, the club goes on til at least 3am during the week and 6am at the weekends. The rules are that the staff must wait until the bar has cleared before they can close, meaning that they sometimes must sit patiently while a hard core group of alkies sit at the bar talking rubbish. I remember being in London and being physically hoarded out of pubs at a few minutes past 11pm, is that still the way it is? The tourists must have been shocked at the archaic licensing laws in one of the world's great capitals.

Now and then The Gentle Giant has a melancholy air about him. He has been training for maybe 20 years and working at this club for the last ten, he's now in his late 30's. He once remarked that his life is the same day in day out....work, training, work, training, his nights spent in the smoke filled club, his days in the gym. He has no wife or children and like most people in Poland he lives in a small flat in a block. He keeps himself to himself and is actually quite shy. He is one of the nicest people I have met in this city. I got to know him quite well after he approached me one night and asked me if I would give him some English lessons...

Word of the week: Kulturyst meaning bodybuilder.

You fuck off!

There is a particularly tedious tramp that frequents the main train station and pesters travellers for change or cigarettes or anything else that they are willing to part with. In the evening he is often to be seen swigging vodka and singing patriotic songs, or being chased by one of the kiosk or cafe owners after having pissed too close to their premises. I once saw him being batted over the head with a frying pan by one fierce looking waitress... it looked liked a scene from a slapstick comedy.

Rushing for a train and at the end of a stressful day, I was in no mood when he duly accosted me for a few bob and told him in English to fuck off, at which he turned on me and shouted "You fuck off!" It's not like me to be so rude, and I only speak English when I'm tired and usually in a situation where it's unlikely that I'd be understood. The tramp's reaction (and diction!) surprised me, so much so that I slung him a couple of quid before boarding the express to Warsaw.

The Great Dictator in the old town square.

Pin-up Girl always knows what's going on in Lodz and invited me to an outdoor film screening. The recent heatwave has subsided somewhat and it was a little cooler as we parked Esmeralda close to the makeshift auditorium in the near deserted old town square.

We settled ourselves behind a down&out who was already slumped in oblivion, I always feel sympathy for these poor souls who have a hard time of it. The programme started with Roman Polanski's first film Two Men and a Wardrobe which he shot while a film student here in Lodz, an allegorical piece and surprisingly violent, it portrays a harsh world (he filmed it on the coast in Gdansk) devoid of benevolence or tolerance. I took the wardrobe that they haul around throughout the film to be their gay love which many are threatened by and react against. He makes a brief appearance as a very young thug (he was 25 but looks 15).

The main feature was Charlie Chaplin's The Great Dictator, his first talkie and one I had never seen before. It was about 10pm by the time it started and we were glad we had thought to bring pullovers. We both enjoyed the film immensely, I've never laughed out loud at a Chaplin movie before, having always preferred Buster Keaton or Laurel & Hardy, but this really was quite marvellous with some wonderful sequences. Released in 1940 before the States had entered the war and the horrors of the holocaust were really known, it saturizes Hitler, Goebbels, Mussolini et al, and bitterly condemns fascism and the Nazis - referred to in the film as machine men with machine minds. Bearing in mind Britain's earlier appeasement and the US's continuing neutrality, this was an important film of the time and one which Chaplin made off his own back despite opposition from United Artists among others.

There will be more Chaplin showings every week at the same place to which all I hope to attend.

Common sights on country roads.

Extremely drunk men staggering along the grass verge.
Short square babuszka's in overcoats and booties.
Youths in three's standing smoking.
Statuettes of the Virgin Mary in blue and white adorned with a garland of ribbon.
Teenage girls sitting in bus shelters.
Elderly people on bicycles.
Crosses with flowers where people have been killed.

A weekend in the country.

I went with a couple of pals to spend the weekend at my country retreat. Lola packed a picnic and we set off with Molly and Daisy in Esmeralda for the leisurely one hour drive.

On arrival we had to pick up the keys which I'd forgotten from the last owner in the next village. His name is Yatsek and I was almost relieved that he wasn't at home. Stout and jolly, he is a Falstaffian figure and invariably surrounded by at least half a dozen children. I have visited them a few times and they are exceptionally nice. I am plied with vodka the moment I enter the house and his voluptuous wife, who never sits down, and with one or two snivelling infants swinging from her, scurries back and forth from the table with armfuls of bread, sausage and gherkins, stopping only to gulp vodka. Wyborova or Zabrovka is consumed ferociously, one shot after the other, followed by mouthfuls of the locally produced nosh.

The grubby, and equally tubby offspring, are well trained. They encircle us, gazing in wide-eyed-wonder as the adults get increasingly loud and incoherent. Every so often the wife will issue a command at which one of the little urchins will rush to obey. The moment a bottle is emptied, one of the pot bellied girls grabs it and scampers off to another room only to return with a new bottle which is plonked down between us. Yatsek sits at the head of the table, and with his fat thighs spread wide and constantly adjusting his balls, he ragales me with local stories and country life. I plan to get a couple of bicycles so then I can whizz over to his house when in the vicinity.

Everything needs doing at the ruin Yatsek sold to me. It is a big project and one I'm in no hurry to begin. The floor is rotten, the walls are crumbling and all the buildings are roofed in asbestos. And yet, in such a beautiful setting, forest on all sides, and only an hour from the city... how can one complain?

Word of the week: Wies meaning village. There is no Polish word for countryside.