Every boy's wet dream.

I stopped off in Lviv to break up the journey and pick up some stuff I had left, which meant spending another night in the flat waist high in Christian reading. My landlady Nadya and her poor husband Borys invited me round for a cuppa that evening. We sat in front of a cinema sized television and I attempted to converse while they watched a loud and kitschy talent show. Allowing a suitable time to pass and having consumed enough tea for the month, I made to leave but it was not so easy...

"YOU WANT MORE TEA? TEA? BORYS! YOU NO LIKE TEA?" Nadya bellowed at me. Many Eastern Europeans who are not used to talking to foreigners automatically raise their voices and repeat the same words over and over again. I may have trouble understanding other languages but I'm not deaf or stupid!
"No, thank you." I said.
"YOU NO LIKE TEA?
"Yes, it's very nice, but I don't want another one."
"YOU WANT EAT? WHY YOU NO HUNGRY? BORYS WILL TO MAKE WATER TO TEA... BORYS!!"

The next morning with a couple of hours to kill, I took a walk around the old town before my train was due. I said hello to a girl just too pretty to ignore. I was glad to be back in Lviv where they speak Ukrainian which is similar to Polish. We strolled to the main thoroughfare together as she was looking for a t-shirt. Her make-up had been somewhat enthusiastically applied and reminded me of Liz Taylor's Cleopatra. She told me of her ambition to work in Human Resources and her aim to move to Moscow, I imagined Chekov giving me a wry smile.

We stopped at a Country Fair which had come to town. Smiley people presided over stalls galore offering such produce as cheese, wine, glass and peasant jewelry, pottery, local art and wooden carvings. Sooty blacksmiths manipulated red hot iron and traditionally attired babuszkas sold shawls and blouses. There were colourfully costumed 'cossacks' dancing and frequent firing of antique muskets.

It being time for me to leave the Ukraine, we bid each other farewell and with a womanly wiggle my companion walked away without looking back. A ravishing combination of wild black hair, a tiny waist and low cut hipsters which were met with red stilletto's on which she glided around effortlessly... she was every boy's wet dream. She turned down a side street, stopped to look in a shop window, and stepped inside.

Word of the week: Laska meaning sexy girl.

Time to get back.

Odesa calls to mind those boomtowns of the Wild West; deep in debauchery, gold, wine, women and song. It's one big funfair, but if you are not organised then the intense heat - like anywhere - can be quite unpleasant.

I remember arriving on the Greek Islands one summer with a few friends who assured me that there was no need to arrange accommodation beforehand as there "will be lots of Greeks waiting when we alight from the boats." Ha! The ship docked in the fierce midday sun with not a soul to be seen... and tons of roudy English descending. We spent the first two days trapsing round the islands searching - me Atlas like under the great weight of my girlfriends massive rucksack - and the nights sleeping on the beach. On the third day I waded into the water for a paddle and stepped on a porcupine-type sea urchin which left me with over 50 spines in my foot. Yeah, that was a great holiday. I found a doctor to whom I paid about 30 quid to help me, all he did was attack me with a needle. The islanders swore that the best way to remove the spines was to pour human urine over them, so my friends all pissed into a bottle and poured it slowly over the base of my aching foot. It didn't do any good and I've never known if this is really part of Greek folklore or just the locals having a laugh.

Odesa was certainly lively but I have decided to head back westwards to Poland, to go any further east from here on my own would be foolhardy especially as I don't speak Russian. Knowing that it would probably take some time and not a little effort to buy my train ticket, I made a point of going to the railway station the day before I wanted to leave. I was right. I queued for a good 30 minutes and when I got to the window I was told tersely that I had to go to another place. I queued again elsewhere for an hour and when I got to the front she pulled down the blind. It is disconcerting the way they speak to each other, like in Poland, without any courtesy or cordiality. Then a miracle! I recognised Vitaly and Alexej in yet another queue, they had been in Odesa for a few days and had had the same idea as me. So I joined them and we took pictures of ourselves while fending off others pushing in.

At the next window an argument seemed to have broken out. The battleaxe behind the glass was shrieking at a man who was in turn gesticulating wildly... "What going on?" I asked my comrades. Vitaly calmly replied... "He's buying a ticket." At the end of another long wait we purchased our return journeys home, the boys going north to Moscow and me west to Lviv where I would spend one last night before the final leg back across the Polish border to Lodz.

A feast to behold.

Feeling in expansive mood now with my new gangster connections, I took another epic train journey down to the south to have a look at Odesa, the seaside playground of the Ukraine and stronghold of the Mafia.

A city of one million people, Odesa is like Sopot in Poland or Brighton without the grunge. The first thing I did was check out the famous concrete steps made famous in Eisenstein's 1925 film Battleship Potemkin and familiar to any film buff. Monumental and the perfect meeting place.

Odesans are seen by Ukrainians as a different breed, with a unique energy, humour, and a slight snootiness. The density of pubs and clubs is greater here than in any other city, and like most seaside towns it takes on a different personality in the summer. I've always thought that holiday resorts are much more interesting in January. There are without doubt loads of brothels, and 'Romance Tours' bring older men from the States to hook up with local lasses. Many of these online dating agencies are run by criminal organisations. God knows how the 'couples' converse as it's only Russian spoken here. Still, I don't suppose they do much talking.

Of course it was only a matter of minutes in the town before I spotted a McDonalds. The Ukrainians put garlic on everything, be it toast for breakfast or chips for lunch, it all gets covered in the stuff. Garlic is fantastic but I thought I would take a break from it and pop into our favourite American 'restaurant'. Young Ukrainians spurn traditional cuisine for junk food and pizza, which is a shame as Ukrainian food is delicious. Invariably with masses of people queueing, this was the first McDonalds I could actually get into. Depressing eh?

When I eventually got to the counter, the boy at the till beamed at me and, seizing a chance to practice his English said, "What can I help you?" I looked up at the familiar menu and pointing to what looked like a Big Mac I said... "I'll have one of those."
"Oh, you mean a schwelterinszkay?"
"Right, yes, that'll do me. And some chips."
"No, we no have the chips, only fritki."
"Yes," I said. I knew from my Polish that fritki means fries so I was getting somewhere. He looked up after tapping on a screen, "and this to drink?"
"Coca-cola" I articulated, assured by the fact and the whole world understands that.
"Small, to this medium or the big one?"
"The big one, I mean a large coke."
He focused once more on the screen and tapped. "And sauce?" he added.
I pointed to a picture of what looked like mayonnaise... "this white stuff."
I handed him a blue note and he presented me with my change and a receipt, saying "Your check."
"You mean my RECEIPT," I corrected him. Europeans using American terminology really gets my goat.

A tray was swiftly handed to me and I weaved my way through the clamour of the crowd. I made a beeline for a rare seat, sat down and examined my lunch. I had been given a fillet-of-fish, no fries and a small coke. He'd got the mayonnaise right though.

Eurovision... another year of bloc voting.

Surprise surprise, Russia won the Eurovision Song Contest.

Since the Eastern European countries were invited to participate in The Eurovision Song Contest eight years ago, not one country in western Europe has won or even come close. This year the United Kingdom came last again. No-one, not even the BBC would admit it until now, but bloc voting is the way it goes. Eastern European countries flagrantly vote only for each other, regardless of what the entries look or sound like, and because there are so many of them the larger industrialised members in the west don't stand a chance. This is no longer a song contest.

The results of last night's competition reveal that nations east of the Adriatic Sea occupied the top 15 places in the competition. It is an example of the way things work on this side of the continent. Eastern European neighbourly back-scratching has turned this 'contest' into a mockery and it's a shame. In the ex-eastern bloc corruption is still rife and on all levels. There is no sense of fairness. You can see this even here in this once funny camp kitschfest, Eurovision was always light fluffy fun to us, but now it has become humiliating. Terry Wogan who has compered the contest since 1980 says he may not return next year as there is just no point in the UK (or any of the original participants) taking part.

What really pisses me off is that France, Germany, Spain and the UK all bear the brunt of the cost of Eurovision. The 'big four' all limped in last yet again last night. If Eastern Europe wants to let politics takeover the contest then lets pull out and let them pay for it and get on with it!

The local lingo.

The official language in the Ukraine is Ukrainian, but the language actually spoken depends on where in the country you are. In the more patriotic west it is Ukrainian that is most commonly used, and Russian will often a provoke a peevish response. The borders of Central and Eastern European countries have moved to and fro with dizzying frequency over the centuries, and up until 1939 Lviv was part of Poland therefore many people speak Polish.

In the east and south of Ukraine it is Russian that dominates. In the capital Kyiv which sits roughly half way across it is half and half. This can be confusing for foreigners trying to learn some of the vocabulary to get by. Which language should one go for? Ukrainian is the official national language, but Russian is commonly used and geographically more widespread. In Lviv they say 'Learn Ukrainian of course!' but in Kyiv, Odessa or the Crimea they will advise you to learn Russian.

A brush with the Mob.

I got a text from Kuba - they were also in Kyiv - inviting me to the same jazz club where I had been the evening before, I declined. It gave me some satisfaction to hear that Paddy has had trouble acclimatising to Ukrainian cuisine and has spent most of the last week on the karzy.

I had dinner with my Russian pals Vitaly and Alexey, then they talked about going to a club. "At midnight on a Tuesday?!" I asked. I've been in Poland too long where during the week there is nothing happening and nowhere to go. "We will find somewhere!" they enthused. After some heated discussion with a taxi driver and 10 minutes drive we ended up in a small bar that was throbbing with music and bodies. In Poland this would be difficult to find, even in Warsaw or Krakow. The Ukrainians have a different energy, brighter and more optimistic. There is a pulse here and a sense of fun that I've never felt in Poland, and Ukrainians are not so proud, or angry and bitter about their past which is a breath of fresh air. There's nothing more common (or boring) than a Pole ranting about the Second World War.

On looking around at all the scantily clad lovelies eyeing us Vitaly screeched in my ear "Come on! They will suck it!" Succinctly put and maybe so... but did I want it sucking? And having to go through all that chat, all that routine, all that effort... I just couldn't be bothered. I was happy to sit back and relax. I planted myself at the bar and watched while the barman played with bottles and ice like Beckham with a ball, the whole bar oozing fun and excitement... sex was just a moment away. I've sat in 'exclusive' (and very expensive) bars in London which were like bingo halls compared to this place. Fabulous music, loud laughter, outrageous sexuality... this spot was nothing short of sensational. And the finest vodka was being splashed everywhere, back in Blighty spirits are measured out carefully into steel thimbles... yawn.

Slumped at the bar towards the end of the night, and entranced by nubile dancers sporting slogans and miming words they did not understand, I was approached by Vitaly over my right shoulder, he put his arm round me and said, "there's a guy wants to meet you... he's a gangster." I glanced at my watch, it was six o'clock and I told him I that I was ready to go, but simultaneously felt a black presence sit down on my left. I turned to find a 22-carat grin and a hand heavily laden with sovereigns outstretched towards me. He introduced himself in Russian and ordered some vodka for us. In Eastern Europe, vodka can bring the most unlikely people together. The shaven-headed man in black was utterly charming. He had had a few drinks. On his left sat a giant of a human being - his bodyguard - with his eyelids half closed, it had obviously been a long night. I noticed two other bodyguards watching us from the end of the bar. I kept expecting Joe Pesci to pop up between us. The Polish language is closer to Ukrainian than Russian but we managed to grab at certain words and communicate. I turned to Vitaly for help but he was pumping and grinding with the last remaining die-hards on the now quite empty dancefloor.

The gangster was entertaining and I enjoyed talking to him, although I shed no tears at his departure. He ended by telling me that if I needed anything whilst in Kyiv that I was to call him, and giving me a last hard slap on the back, made his way toward the exit. The club bouncers lowered their eyes and took half a step back as he strided out with his bodyguards following in single file. He commanded some respect although Vitaly later dismissed him as a small-timer. I looked at the vodkas lined up before me like soldiers waiting for drill practice, they now sparkled with new appeal.

On delving in my back pocket for my wallet later in the day, I pulled out a creased beer mat. On the back the gangster had scribbled his name and number, with the words in Russian "You are my friend. Chelsea!"

Varvara.

In May there are quite a few public holidays in the Ukraine. On these days the streets in the town centres are closed off to traffic, in Kyiv this was particularly welcome - the loud and aggressive SUV's having already become tedious. The population turn out in their droves although the carnival atmosphere is pleasantly subdued. Old patriotic songs and soppy love ballads fill the airwaves as heavily medalled Generals with their grandchildren, canoodling couples, and fashion conscious przyjaciolki stroll along the main promenades and make merry.

I sat on a boulevard bench enjoying the serenity and the sun, watching the stream of passers-by and writing postcards. A tall girl in a crimson jacket and holding a golden balloon gave me a lingering glance and sat down nearby. Not one to stall at a green light I hastily gathered my things and sidled up next to her. Her name was Varvara and she was indeed beautiful. She was from the south of the country and had been in Kyiv for a year studying English. She had no family or friends in the city. She had some sort of boyfriend, but rarely knew where he was. On this day, it seemed as if it were only us on our own. She didn't go to clubs but preferred walks in the park. Melancholy, graceful, entirely exquisite... and quite alone.

We soaked in the warmth and her balloon played sentry above us. The sun and the setting gave the scene a dreamy vagueness. After an hour or so it turned cold and she got up to go. She said goodbye and I watched her recede from view until she became obscured in the crowd, her golden balloon merging with others. A last flash of crimson and she was gone. Then followed a hazy moment, a blur, and I was overcome by an enormous sense of sadness, like I'd lost something, or something in me had flickered and died. I began to hear people walking and talking, footsteps and voices close to me, a faceless motion, and I became aware of the day again.

Word of the week: Przyjaciolki meaning close female friends.