In Poland the law really is an ass.

I was saddened to hear that my daily jaunts to the park with Molly and Daisy will become even more difficult now that cycling in the parks is to be outlawed in Lodz. This is the latest in a long list of oppressive and senseless laws that we will have to deal with. As it is, it has been illegal for some time to have a dog - regardless of breed - roaming free... even in the country. There is nowhere in the whole city set aside for dogs to exercise without a lead. I have been fined several times in the park.

I have been fined in the past for washing my car on a public street, this is illegal. It was in my courtyard but one of the neighbours called the police. They arrived and charged me fifty pounds on the spot.

I have been fined for walking across a road when the red man was showing, despite the road being deserted. Cars are allowed to drive through even when the green man is showing, and will tear past you within inches.

The banning of bicycles from parks will come into effect in about six months. The people are never consulted and opinions are never sought. The greenest and most pleasurable form of transport is not encouraged. If I had a big gas guzzling SUV I would be highly regarded and the law would bow for me in every way. That's Poland for you.

The ding-a-ling man.

On the main street of the city, on the doorstep of an empty shop, stands a man in a tuxedo. Tall, thin and gaunt. His hair is almost white and his complexion ruddy. Back arched, heels in and toes out, his sad face gazes into the distance as though he were an awkward beginner in a ballet class. He stands as still and as stiff as a pole. Around his neck is a sign in Polish saying Throw Money and he holds a small brass bell in his hand. He has been in this position for years.

Every now and then, but not often, someone will put a few pence, but not more, into his box. At this he peps up, as though just plugged in, and swivels around on his small platform like a wooden puppet on a string. A series of jerky hand gestures and tinkles accompany him as he comes full circle only to then slump once more into the stillness that has become for him a way of life.

Sometimes in the winter, when it is particularly bitter, he is to be found in a nearby subway. A good set of thermals under his garments must ensure against hypothermia. It is likely that his back gives him trouble by now and he will undoubtedly suffer from arthritis. Unlike the colourfully costumed street acts that ply their trade in busy Covent Garden and other such places, this artist's services are rarely requested.

For a few months he did experiment with a different act. This enactment was centred on a golden picture frame which was held up and through which he peered as though he were a portrait on a wall. When a rare coin hit his box he would turn out a series of animated facial expressions. This diversion from his usual performance did not suit him, and it wasn't long before he reached once more for his trusty bell.

I once noticed a woman, persumably his wife, sitting opposite and watching intently. It was a dark early evening in the bleak mid-winter and the falling snow had settled on him, she was huddled under an umbrella. When I passed by again some hours later, he was packing up, and I watched them walk away through the snow arm in arm.

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.

No awareness of personal space.

I have a friend over for a few days from London. The first thing he commented on when I picked him up at the airport was how he'd been pushed and jostled either end of his flight. Whilst queueing at Stansted, Poles were standing virtually top of him. While lining up at passport control on arrival, one woman standing behind him, calmly but firmly, edged her way forward until she was in front of him. I explained that Polish people have no awareness of personal space. This is a legacy from Communism when it was the done thing to fight your way to the front of the queue, it's the same in Russia. I know a couple of newcomers to Lodz who refuse to go to Tesco as they just cannot bear the shoving that they are subjected to, I go as early as I can to avoid the abuse.

His first evening here, we sat at the bar in my local and gasped in despair as a young woman elbowed her way between us to order a drink. The pub was sparsely occupated and such an intrusion was unnecessary. She remained in position while waiting for her drinks, not even glancing at either of us as we stared incredulously at her rudeness. This is the usual protocol here and something that I will never get used to, but if I'd had a go at her she wouldn't have understood why. Although last week whilst in London I witnessed two shaven Polish 'potatoheads' get a telling off as they barged their way onto the tube, they don't get away with it in the UK.

Word of the week: Pchac sie meaning push.

Basha and Zygmunt.

Zygmunt is my 87 year old gay neighbour. He has lived on the floor below me with his sister since the Nazis left in 1945. I invited him upstairs for dinner as it was his birthday. He sat in a big armchair at the head of the table as always, with his little legs swinging underneath and his hands out flat on top, he looked like a small child anticipating a treat.

He perked up when I offered to take a few snaps of him which I could then frame and give him as a present. He has already presented me a few photographs of himself which I hurriedly pull out of the drawer and display when he phones that he's popping up for tea.

Zygmunt hardly speaks any English although this is a mystery to me as he lived in New York for 25 years. He flies back fairly often as he has a Polish doctor friend who gives him the once over and a full service.

I'd bought some delicious cabbage soup from the eaterie downstairs earlier, which I heated up and served with bread.

"I go the New York," Zygmunt said, as the soup ran down his chin.

"Again? You've only just come back."

"I must to go. I the very old grandfather," he giggled... "and the zoup this good!"

"Yes, it is good," I said.

"What?" he peered in at me.

"The soup, it's good," I repeated.

"Zoup? Yes, this the good zoup! What this zoup?"

"Cabbage."

"What?"

"Cabbage soup."

He screwed up his face in disagreement... "This not the garbage. This the good zoup."

"No, not garbage, this is C-A-B-B-A-G-E soup," I reiterated, glancing at the clock.

"What gabbage zoup? This the gabbage zoup? Yes, this the GOOD zoup!"

And so the conversation lurched from one word to the next. We usually speak Polish but sometimes he has a go in English. His sister is at the seaside in a sanatorium. She goes there once in a while to rest and recuperate. Her name is Basha and she's as mad as a hatter. A lot younger than Zygmunt, probably in her early sixties, she certainly stands out. Her hair is bleached black and unkempt, like Ken Dodd. She sports firey red lipstick, thick black eyeliner and mascara, plus a lot of rouge - all of which looks like it's been applied in an open top sports car at 120mph. I remember first meeting her on the staircase, at first glance I could see that she was obviously unhinged. She gawped at me and though amenable, her piercing stare and the odd punch to my stomach made me feel uneasy.

Sometimes, when passing their door below, I hear her screeching obcenities at her poor brother. Basha had a husband who died early on, Zygmunt returned from New York to be with her but he didn't intend to stay. Manacled together and dependent on one another, they have no family and I don't know what will happen to her when he goes.

Their flat is just as it was when they moved in sixty years ago. Ornate and antiquated furniture is spread around the large rooms. A dusty grand piano dominates the living room, with framed and faded sepia photographs sitting on top. Once, I popped down unexpectedly and saw hundreds of small white pills laid out in rows on the dining room table.

Molly and Daisy in action.

I was greeted with ecstatic jumping and yelping from Molly and Daisy on my return home. It was great to see them again, I had missed them and looked forward to the next morning when we would embark on our usual furious journey to the park. We set off early in the morning as the park is free of people and police, and it quickly gets too hot for them in these summer months. People stared at us as we hurtled down the high street, me on the bike with M&D pulling me like Ben Hur in his chariot... the fastest dogs in Eastern Europe!

Polish law states that all dogs must be on a lead when outside, this includes all parks and forest. An absurd and cruel law and one which I break daily. As soon as we get to the huge park I let them off the lead and they sprint off into the distance. I follow as fast as I can on the bike and we race round the great periphery a few times before heading to the ponds where they dive in. Then follows a session of robust stick throwing into the water which they bring back together, pulling at either end. Signs say that swimming is prohibited (man or beast) but fishing is allowed and common, fishermen discarding their hooks and line which frequently kill the birds. Daisy recently had a hook embedded in her foot. I often have arguments with these men (why do women not fish?) who sit all day staring at the water while their dogs are stuck at home, and demand that I chain up my two small mongrels. Homeless cats and dogs are plentiful as people in Poland do not want to pay to have their pets neutered, most tiny flats in each block will often house at least 1 dog and 1 cat. Needless to say, the streets are strewn with crap.

We usually take a short break and I might read while M&D do a spot of frenzied digging, indulging their hobby of locate-the-mole. Mighty chasms are created, the crazed hounds surfacing now and then for air with blackened faces and broad smiles. They soon bore of this and disappear into the shubbery only to return dragging a huge branch which I am expected to launch into the air.

The final phase of our daily outing consists of more manic bike riding until they show slight signs of sluggishness. Every so often they will shoot off in another direction after a squirrel, then when they are finally flagging it's on the lead and back home... at a much slower pace!

Poles going home?

Having just got back from a few days in London it strikes me again just how many Poles are now in the capital. Everytime I get on a bus I am sitting next to Poles. When I get off the bus I am facing a Polski Sklep (Polish shop). When I go to a pub or restaurant I am served by Poles. I am greeted by them at hotel receptions and accosted by them at markets. They are renovating my friends houses and looking after them in hospitals. They are taking advantage of a plethora of free university courses (I would have to pay for any education in Poland). They are hearing Sunday Services from Polish priests and in their native language. For the first time in over 500 years England has now more Catholics than Anglicans, this being a direct result of the Polish invasion. Polish people in Great Britain far outnumber all other immigrants... they are everywhere.

After Germany beat Poland in Euro 2008 I phoned Big German Friend with congratulations. When England are playing even the most obscure of nations, Poles always support the opposite side. They never support England. They are resentful because of all the Poles in 'slave labour', but if things were that bad in the UK why don't they just go home? And why blame England? Millions of Poles having fled their homeland... surely it is Poland that is the problem?

The fact is that a young Polish architect or engineer can earn more money and have a better standard of living managing a shop or restaurant in Britain. Not only is the average income in Poland pathetic (less than 80 quid per week), but employees receive no tea breaks and only half an hour for lunch (if that). Working conditions are often horrendous and employees rights are non-existent. Health and Safety is an unknown concept and Poland still not having grasped capitalism, choice is little and prices inflated. When getting on planes to visit family back home, Polish people are invariably loaded down with carrier bags full of cheap goods (Polish shop owners buy much of their stock in Argos!).

Consequently they are happy to be living in Britain and are much more productive than their British counterparts who have had it so easy for so long. But why can't Poles be a little more gracious about their new adopted home? The Polish papers scream POLES EXPLOITED IN GREAT BRITAIN! and all you will here from Polish immigrants in the UK is about their "Beautiful" Poland and how wonderful things are back home. Yeah, right.

Word of the week: Niegrzeczny meaning rude.