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.

Moaning prima donna's and EURO 2012.

Last night I went to the pub and watched Russia lose to Spain in the UEFA EURO semi-final in the pub. I don't usually do football, but enjoy keeping a loose eye on these big European tournaments. I go by the old adage that football is a game for gentleman played by thugs, whereas rugby is a game for thugs played by gentlemen. Watching the footie nowadays, not a minute goes by without the screech of the referee's whistle and a prima donna rolling around on the grass clutching his leg and moaning. The Italians have turned it into an art form. I don't remember it like that when I was a boy and those burly rugby blokes are certainly a lot more manly in a much rougher game.

Understandably, the locals were backing Spain and so had a good night as Spain gave Russia a 3-0 pasting. So the Spaniards will meet Germany in the final in Vienna on Sunday, and no guessing which way the Poles would like the game to go.

One of the Magnus's is driving to Vienna at the weekend with a couple of pals and invited me along. I can't imagine anything worse. They have no tickets for the game and will no doubt end up sleeping in their car. I told him it will be chaotic to which he replied... "Of course, that's the fun of it!" I must be getting old.

The next championship in four years time will be held jointly in Poland and the Ukraine. A few months back it was celebrations all round when the first 500 metres of the Gdansk-Warsaw A1 super-highway was completed. Less impressive was the fact that it had taken 10 years to achieve this feat of engineering - doesn't fill you with confidence for EURO 2012 does it?

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.