Gap Year Scrapbook

Paris Blog #3

2007-08-06T21:58:00.001+01:00

Who is this?

And why does she think it's a good idea to stumble around on the pavement, pushing passers by into each other? If there's one thing I miss about England it's that there aren't nearly as many crazy people hollering at brick walls and throwing fecal matter at innocent pedestrians. However, everywhere I seem to go on the continent is infected with crazies. Just the other day we watched an old lady drop some crumbs from her pocket to attract a flock of pigeons; she swooped down and picked one of them up, leered at its feet and threw the runt-like bird through a hole in a fence. However, at times the city is simply tops: you don't find mini orchestras playing on the streets of Stoke-On-Trent, unlike here:

Interestingly, there seems to be a rather surreal 'middle ground' between the talent of a street orchestra and the horrors of a drunken tramp. This creature is known only as "Papy Dance", and he looks like this:

I also did enjoy this anti-theft device, a device that would rival whatever tat the American government has installed Fort Knox:

On the 29th, Paris came to a stand-still for the end of the Tour de France. Whilst everyone was waiting for the cyclists to arrive, the streets were full of loud, annoying floats and open-top buses, trying to get me to "clap my hands" and "dance". I think not. The cyclists zoomed past, and that was that. Not quite sure what all the fuss is about really.

We walked past the Louvre on the way home and a metal grate lifted up to reveal a secret entrance to the museum underneath:

A pack of passing Americans mumbled something about the Da Vinci Code. Peter stopped me from lunging at them in a stuttering fit of rage.

The next day, this human what we like to call Craig arrived. We headed straight up to Montmartre for a picnic consisting of bread, cheese, cake, fruit and wine. There were also some Hungarians near us, so I said some of my favourite phrases (roughly all containing something about "dirty gypsies") until they left.

Of course, being so close to Pigalle, and having drank three bottles of wine, we had to have a look around the grimy sex shops. I'll spare you the details, but we did find some rather amusing items of pleasure. My innocent mind was defiled.

Craig may or may not have purchased three DVDs of cheap porn.

The next day we headed for a good modern art museum. Peter once again showed his skills in hiding in a box and taking photos of people from holes in the side:

Craig used his magic Canon EOS 400D powers to make the Eiffel Tower look even more spectacular:

We had vague plans of going to a theme park with lots of wine, and it transpired that Disneyland was a good option. The roller coasters, heavily themed surroundings, stalking of Disney characters mixed with the intoxicating effects of alcohol ensured that a good time was had by all, perhaps only bettered if we had also taken some mild hallucinogenics.

Peter has compiled some of the day's events into a video. Please note that one of our goals for the day was to turn all the innocence of Disneyland into a wholly more adult experience.

Craig departed this fair city on Friday, and we had to do the weekly shopping. Peter continues to voluntarily carry everything. He likes it because he enjoys watching people's reactions as he walks past them with baguettes, cakes, bottles and vegetables poking out of his bag. I like it because it makes him look like my P.A., I've taken to calling him Passepartout.

I'm not happy about the mosquitoes here. Most mosquitoes at least have the decency to bite people in various places on their body, but one sadistic little prick thought it would be [quote] hilarious! [unquote] to bite me eight times on the same finger! Peter has warned them that the end is nigh:

Speaking of irritating pests, we have always had a little bit of a bug problem in the flat, which is quite normal for a building of this age (and by no means are they only in our flat -- they're down the corridors and stairs as well), but we're sure that they're starting to breed themselves bigger and more vicious. Peter annoys me by being on constant zealous alert with two cans of nerve gas and a hoover full of dead beetles:

Anyway, I was listening to the Russell Brand show on Radio 2, and I felt the need to send him an e-mail pointing out that contrary to his and Matt's opinion, Giles Brandreth is not a gay. Then, instead of reading out my e-mail, he sang a little song about a little person what I like to call me. Click here to listen.

The weather is being very odd, which no doubt can be blamed on global warming in some way or another [we wrote that little sentence just for you, Peter's Dad, you crazy climate-change denier - Ed]. Yesterday was ridiculously hot, to the point where a breeze heated you up rather than cooled you down. And all day the only things visible in the sky was the sun and the moon. The only cloud we could find was this tiny wisp:

Whereas today, I wake up to this:

Strange. But not as strange as the fact that Plews just turned up at our flat unannounced:

Tune in next week for another exciting (and probably final) blog.

- Philip + Peter

P.S. We found an old film reel on the street:

Paris Blog #2

2007-07-27T23:14:00.000+01:00

I got a tad bored of Paris and decided to take a quick city-break in glorious Calcutta:

No, Not really. But we did find a slice of Paris, a slice with a strong taste of 'miscellaneous South-Asian town'. Occasionally, the walks in the guidebook are very useful when trying to find hidden gems off the tourist track. But one of the tours, entitled 'The Literary Latin Loop', would have been more aptly named 'The "I, the author of this guidebook, really fucking love Hemingway and want to see everywhere he slept, ate and shat" Tour'. But at least we found some other interesting things to take photos of:

Peter appeared to love that poster and I would not be shocked if he now announces that he intends to join some sort of martial arts establishment.

Regular readers (would do best to get themselves a hobby) but they may also remember 'Jeremy' from previous blogs. He is the chap who we blame for whenever a certain someone, who may or may not be the author of this blog, breaks, loses or forgets an item of importance. Jeremy is the one who smashes glasses. He is the one who spills milk on the floor. He is also the one who does not remove foil-wrapped biscuits from the microwave (our makeshift cupboard). Peter tells me he has had words with dear Jeremy about the dangers of creating a bonfire-night-style soiree inside the bowels of the kitchen white-goods:

In Berlin we found a number of 'artist squats' which were abandoned buildings which have been seized by artists and squatters who spray-paint on any bare surface. The result can be magnificent, so we were determined to find similar places here in Paris. Unfortunately, the government here seems to have cracked down on such things in recent years. Consequently, a vast chunk of the buildings, which just ten years ago were home to some incredible talent have now either been converted into flats, a Starbucks, or commercialised to the point that they would make excellent adverts for the process of commercialisation. Here are some photos of the final dregs of Paris's bastions of freeform art and grimy squats:

Another thing we missed from Berlin was a trendy WiFi café. But luckily, we've found one:

A few days ago we arrived back at the flat after a long day's walking. Nothing new there. That is until I found a piece of paper slotted into the grips of the lens cap which I had kept in my pocket all day. I unfolded it to reveal this strange message:

The telephone number has been blurred for obvious reasons. Neither of us dare phone it. Is she implying prostitution? We just don't know. There is also much more likely truth that I picked this up and forgot about it, in fairness that does happen to me quite a bit.

In an attempt worthy of an anorak of epic proportions we needed to find any excuse to use Line 14 of the Metro. I forced Peter to enjoy a trip to the national library which consists on four huge glass buildings which look like open books. Two of which are visible here:

You may be wondering why we want to use Line 14 of the Metro so much. The answer is simple. It's fast, has rubber wheels and has no driver. So it's possible to make videos like this:

Finally, I leave you with this profound and highly challenging thought:

And they say the age of reason, philosophy and intellect is dead! Bah! Bah, I say.

- Philip + Peter

Paris!

2007-07-18T01:41:00.001+01:00

Nothing happened in our last 18 days in Berlin. Nothing at all. But look -- we're in Paris!

It was like the battle of the somme trying to getting from the airport to the hostel. Not only due to the fact that Charles de Gaulle airport is a labyrinth full of hairy cypriot minotaur impersonators, but also because Peter is shit at carrying luggage. He bored me with invented physics terms such as "friction" whilst he dragged the case (along with an entire network of pavements in the central Paris area) towards the hostel.

We had to leave our luggage at reception until our room was ready, so we found a café for a sandwich or something. "Get me whatever looks interesting, I don't really care what, just nothing too zany" I said. Peter promptly returns with two bowls of strawberries and cream. I hit Peter. I have to admit, I expected him to understand what is dessert and what is food.

Lifting 60kg of luggage up five flights of spiral stairs is the key to super-fun-crazy-go-nuts happiness, but we also had to dodge the ladders and loud Polish workmen who were smattering plaster in the general direction of the ceiling. Consequently, the stairs were also covered in plastic sheets which essentially turned them into slides. Mister Health And Safety Inspector would have had a bloody good time too.

Being in Paris meant I had to buy some Brie (the best cheese in the world), but unfortunately it did melt in my bag. Peter annoyed me further by coming up with the not-so-brilliant idea of storing cheese in a cup:

Still, it was edible, and for these two days we had to eat cheaply without a kitchen. This meant toast, cheese and apples:

All this toast is partly a tribute to the toastiest person we know: Tom. He should also like this:

We spent our first evening at Sacre Coeur, listening to live music and watching the city fall to darkness. There was also a drunk man dancing, much to the crowd's amusement.

The Arc de Triomphe has become one of our favourite places to stand. Seven lanes of unmarked traffic means that there's a near crash every 30 seconds or so. Due to my sadistic mind, I love watching these arrogant Parisian drivers have tiny little bumps, but when it's more of a thump then it's time to get the hell out of the way of the most idiotic roundabout ever. Ever.

It was important that we got some decent sleep that night as we had to be alert for Bastille Day, so we made our way back to the hostel. Then, for reasons we're still not entirely aware of, huge fireworks started going off all over the city. We only expected them to happen on Bastille Day, but there they were, in the distant skyline, and we missed the lot. Such a shame.

Bastille Day was very impressive. The entire length of the Champs-Élysées was lined with Parisians capturing the moment, as did we.

As we walked around town that afternoon looking for a suitably cheap café, a child on a balcony surprised me by shouting aggressive French at the street in a style highly comparable to John Cleese's character, Mr. Hilter. Then he ran inside, closed the door and probably shot someone.

The evening rumbled on with a festival on the Champ de Mars, where we drank cheap (but good) red wine and read our books on the grass.

Once it was dark, the fireworks exploded, along with the main speaker next to us. The odd thing is, they played the James Bond theme tune, which must be one of the most British pieces of music out there.

Here's a video of the events:

The next day we moved into our little flat next to Jardin des Plantes. It's a nice old building and we're on the top floor so we have the sloped roofs. It's all very Parisian.

We walked along the riverside to see what was in the area, and we found a little square where people danced with one another. Nothing fancy -- just some music, a sunset and some improvised dancing. It was great to see, as it's not something you would find in England, where the only equivalent that comes to mind is a slag falling over in the street in time to music.

The next day, it rained. And rained. And rained.

Today we chose to look at some more places mentioned in the guidebook. One of which was Jardin du Luxembourg, which is probably the most beautiful green space in Paris. I tried my hand at impressionistic sketching. [A Pathetic excuse for just being a bad drawer - Ed].

We also visited the grave of one of my great intellectual heroes, Jean-Paul Sartre (He'd probably both hate that he's anyone's hero and that people pay respect to him), where lots of people had for some reason left their bus tickets under stones, and the odd note:

Lastly, we had a look around the Shakespeare and Company bookshop. It's famous, biblio-tastic, and my idea of heaven. If you want to know more, look it up on Wikipedia or something. I'm not here to molly-coddle you.

- Philip + Peter

P.S. Madeleine -- Où sont vous?

P.P.S. How "Englishman in Paris" am I?

P.P.P.S. Plews, we miss you and your knowledge of cars.

2007-04-02T00:15:00.000+01:00

We're still in Berlin and we're still realising how useless a C-grade GCSE German education is. My Hungarian is now much better than my German, which is bloody frustrating. Irgum burgum! I keep speaking to the numerous Némets (Germans) in Hungarian, as does Peter. Hungarian has become our default 'other non-English person' language. Why on God's green earth can I not get it into my moderately dense skull that the German for "yes" is NOT "igen"?

But I digress. The sun is shining, there's plenty to do and the locals seem to enjoy having very dangerous picnics:

The struggle for an internet connection in the flat continues. For about 48 hours we managed to get the net through a WiFi router called 'netserdal', but even that wasn't great because the only place Peter could get a signal was on the ironing board:

He said, and I quote, "I call it 'WiFironing', not to be confused with 'wife ironing' -- a rare form of domestic violence". Quite.

If you've been watching the news, you'll know that the EU has celebrated its 50th birthday, and as Germany is the current chair, they had a stonking bash here ins Berlin. There were stalls up which would rival Goebbels for their mighty propaganda from every country and showing what they have excreted into the EU. To our horror, the Hungarian hovel mentioned nothing about heart disease, but they did sell all sorts of paprika potions.

An old man walked up to us and spoke in Polish, to which we gave the touristy "what the devil are you prattling about?" look. He said "You English?", we said "Yes", he pondered this for a while and tilted his head from side to side, then said "That's OK", as if somehow it might not have been. He continued to say "I from Poland. England is good!", gave us the thumbs up and walked away. Then the Blue Man Group turned up, so, natürlich, things got (to Peter's sickening delight)...zany!

Here are some pictures of the day's events, and a random kid dancing:

I found a delightfully youthful WiFi joint where we often spend several hours working and e-mailing. The place is always teeming with creative cosmopolitan types on their glorious Macbooks; I am amongst 'my people':

It's good that I can now produce my philosophical genius [ramblings - Ed] whilst online for quick reference, but all this intensive revision is getting to me, as Peter has so artistically demonstrated in film-noir style:

Ironically, however, Peter has no appreciation for Greek and Roman classical beauty whatsoever, which may explain why instead of taking in the impressive statues in the Pergamon museum, he juvenilely took pictures of all their posteriors:

He murmured that it was time well spent because there are 42 buttocks in the museum -- he claims that this justifies the theory that 42 is a magic number, but personally I think that's a load of arse.

Today was embarrassing. Peter got a text message from his step-dad which read "Did you know that there will be a demonstration at the Brandenburg gate this afternoon in favour of re-diving Germany?". We had marched all the way to the gate before we realised it was April 1st.

Just this abend I managed to connect to another WiFi router, through which we bring you this blog. Welcome to my new balcony/office:

The Erichiwi is doing very well on its 14th day of surveillance:

It smells quite strongly of kiwi, and has been described as "Remarkably kiwi-esque, given that it's a full moon" by readers of BBC Radio 4.

- Philip + Peter

2007-03-23T21:36:00.000+01:00

Sorry for the lack of updates, but we've been busy rioting and moving to Berlin. Read on...

We were getting regular power cuts, setting off dozens of alarms in the surrounding area, typically it was due to the Hungarians thinking that the best way to re-wire the electrics is to cut through live wires and leave them hanging out:

We also spotted a man in a cherry-picker hacking away at an overhead cable with what seemed like a plank of wood, with busy traffic underneath. Any tourist to Budapest will have become familiar with these glorious sights.

Peter is pathetically ambling through The Da Vinci Code in my vague attempt to get him to read something other than physics or maths. He keeps saying "I don't care what's in the damn cryptex!", of course he's lying and scrambling to save his remaining grace.

I did, yet again, bake another delicious batch of scones in preparation for the coming riots. A box of delightfully cheesy scones and a bottle of semi-frozen water to aid in the refreshment arena and win over those damn zany neo-fascists.

We went out for a few drinks with those American chaps again, and what jolly folk they are too. Though they can make quite the cock-a-hoop of situations. They love our colloquialisms. We settled in an interestingly sewage-smelling bar called Sark (pronounced 'shark'), which had a 'Politics-Free Zone' sign on the door:

Conversation was limited by this 'rule', so we spent the evening telling jokes in the cozy upstairs den, from the comfort of bean-bags:

We met some more Americans that night, and it seemed a shame to be leaving so soon after making new friends. One of said Americans may be studying maths at Cambridge soon, so we talked about that. Meanwhile, Peter explained to a very drunken mathematician that she had no right to claim 'mathematician' status when she could only count to 2^10. She has no recollection of the following video being taken:

Now we had to preapre for the riots. This is us in our riot gear:

Peter listened to live radio feeds of riot locations and danger zones. Here are some pictures of the day's events:

The Kevlar made them look like cybermen

Phwoar! Szekszí lédí!

The rioters rather quite enjoy settings bins on fire. One would be led to believe that they have some sort of issue with Budapestian waste disposal as well as the Jews.

And the firemen put them out again

For more pictures, click here.

We were in the wrong place when the riots got bad, which was probably for the best. According to news reports, a restaurant full of people on Andrássy street were just eating, watching the riots go past outside, when the police shot a tear-gas canister through the open door, shortly followed by everyone running out screaming.

Due to the increased amount of press coverage and leaked feeds about the neo-Nazis being armed with AK47s (which had already been used prior to this to do a drive-by on the police headquarters), we felt the safest thing to do was to head towards the embassy. This was not like October -- the police were heavily equipped head-to-foot in Kevlar. Thankfully, our safety-conscious mentality also allowed for ticking off one of those things to do before you die: "Run to the embassy whilst clutching your passport". Erich had to catch a train to Belgrade at 11:35pm. Here is our video footage:

The next day, my parents arrived. We did the usual of marching them up to Citadella on the first night, and taking them to one of the many Medieval-themed restaurants where you're encouraged to eat with your hands:

My mother wanted to shop, and my dad didn't care. We did manage to show them all the essential sights though. Sights which I won't put here because I'm sure you're bored of seeing them by now. You won't have seen this though:

She was rather proficient, too. Peter spent the last couple of days running a long list of errands and cleaning the flat like an OCD child:

The day we left was 'chuck your rubbish on the street' day, so every street corner had a big pile of random furniture, windows, television sets, etc. A field day for street urchins and the homeless:

Peter made two 10kg blocks of ice to stick on the pile as some sort of "latent-heat practical joke" as he put it, but in the end we didn't have time so we put them in the sink to melt. Due to Peter's incompetence, we have no pictures of them.

Erich gave us a kiwi to remember him by. Peter has (in an horrific attempt to propagate his gay-rights [Oi! Not funny! - Ed] agenda ) renamed this "The Erichiwi", and we will keep readers updated on its progress.

The Erichiwi - Day 1:

That was it. Goodbye Budapest. Hallo Berlin, ja!

Berlin is certainly a big change from the petit Budapest. We now face the tough challenge of finding our way around this sprawling German mess, which is only accentuated by the lack of a grid system for the most part. More photos will follow in the next blog, but here's the obligatory shot:

Things haven't gone great so far: I casually threw away the guidebook on the first day, things aren't as cheap as they should be and the internet in the flat doesn't work. Still, sitting in internet cafés means Peter can excrete his geeky and nerdy ectoplasm by taking photos like this:

Everything in Berlin is very efficient and green -- they even have 'smart' escalators:

In closing, here's a music video of our first 36 hours in Berlin:

- Philip + Peter

P.S. The Erichiwi - Day 5:

2007-03-23T21:28:00.000+01:00

2007-03-06T12:20:00.000+01:00

Well, March has stealthily positioned itself into this temporal awareness which we call the now. I've got to worry about learning German and moving to Deutschland. Our Arrangements are finalised and "vee vill be inz Berlin vizout delay!"

Peter's Dad has been and gone; we did numerous interesting things. We went for coffee and cake at the Central Kávéház. Peter's dad ordered not just one, but two slices of Hungarian devilry. There was much annoyance at the pincérek (waiters) whom seemed to delight in ignoring us as we were grasping at our last breaths due to a lack of water. However, collecting Peter's dad from the airport was quite fun:

After a few minutes we realised that, of course, the whole flight was full of English people. English people who probably know who Davros is. We got some laughs, which was nice, and we intend to return dressed as Cybermen with a sign saying "The Master". Later that night we marched to the top of Gellérthegy, enjoyed the views and marched back down. Then went to Szimpla for a few drinks. Fun times. I write this so abruptly because we do it all the bloody time.

Later on that weekend we were on our regular tram and the driver decided that, rather than slow down, he'd just accelerate into a car, which we think was trying to turn round. Interestingly, a grumpy old Hungarian chap uttered something like: "A car was in the middle of the track. Unfortunately, he isn't dead"

We also saw a very large police presence seiging a bus. They stopped a passing tram and dragged a few people off it, promptly followed by a couple of skinheads who jumped out of the bus's windows and amazingly stupidly tried to run, unsurprisingly resulting in them being pinned against a wall. Our initial thoughts were that it was some kind of drugs/far-right sting, but according to [probably drunken] onlookers it was just some football hooligans. Quite an overreaction on the police's part if that be the case.

On the last night we went to Sir Lancelot's, which is another one of those medieval-themed restaurants where you drink flagons of ale and eat with your hands. We thought that a three-person feast plus starters would just be enough:

I almost died. But the starters were amazing -- a huge carved out loaf, full of thick onion soup with copious amounts of grated cheese. We ended up taking most of the feast away with, which Peter and I were still eating for the next few days.

The next day we awoke yet again to a snowy Budapest. Overall, the snow this winter has been shameful, but until I decide to walk instead of fly with EasyJet, I am in no position to blame others. Whilst waiting for the bus, we saw some footprints in the snow which, within the confines of human thought, must have been left by a one-legged but two-winged cretin:

We went with the American to see some live jazz in quite a posh venue just next to the 'Bazilika'. The real purpose was so Peter could collect some sort of technological gizamagaz for his image capturing wand (designed for girls, the FinePix Z3, it really is - Ed). The jazz was performed by, so we are told, the leading fellows in the Hungarian field. It was really good. It was mostly scat and highly skilled. The pianist was the best though -- a fat man wearing an argyle jumper, reminiscent of someone trying to desperately clasp on to his fleeting youth (and hair) whilst his sweaty palms tap out smooth tones (jaaaaazzz!). I wanted to take him home and add him to my glass cabinet, which currently consists of tramps that look like Rasputin, amazingly slow old ladies and gypsy flower women. Here he is in action:

All this reading of Greek philosophy has got to my head, leading me to show Peter the relevant merits of a Grecian toga as opposed to a Roman one. Regardez my attempt to mimic Aristotle:

Unless you've been living under a non-scientific rock for the past week, you'll know that there was a lunar eclipse recently. Peter tried to make a video of it, but the clouds kept getting in the way. He did get some good shots, however:

Lastly, Jeremy (the chap who is responsible for all of our social, economical and technical failings) decided to casually walk into a ladder and break a window. Naturally we've had to pick up the bill as Jeremy has not a shred of responsibility about his character. If he doesn't buck up his ideas, I'm going to 'Get Carter' him off the balcony. The twat muffin.

- Philip + Peter

2007-02-20T19:52:00.000+01:00

My Dear Readers, I am sorry for the horrific lack of updates. I can give you no legitimate excuse other than my laziness. The truth is, you've become a task and it's no longer fun to regale you with stories of wit and amusement.

Naaaaaaaahhhhhhh; not really, it just evaporated from my mind that I've got a horde of adoring fans sitting shaking and waiting for their next moist installment of A-grade adventure and humour. So here it is:

I'm in the process of getting a contract on my future flat in the heart of Berlin's 'funky hip young things' district - Mitte. It's just above the Tiergarten which is this big mass of trees you see below:

We're the third floor balcony - here's the frontal face of die haus:

It came at a very reasonable price too. I've read a statistic that the Berlin living cost is even lower than Budapest, which seems hard to believe. Does this mean that rather than the Hungarian standard of 40% Polish chemical content per kilo of miscellaneous food we'd be going up to 60%? Will we soon be speaking Polish and working menial jobs with a strong Catholic ethic? God only knows. Oh God, it's happening already!

As per usual, Peter's mother still finds amusement in sending us to abandoned, smoking and tramp-infested warehouses on the outer district of this fair city. Peter claims that he was sent into the Peckham of Budapest. Oh yes, and when did blighty descend into this gun-crime-ridden Harlem-wannabe island?

I'm awoken with Mr. Humphrys shouting at me about gun crime; in a half-asleep daze I feel like I should be putting my arms up and handing over my wallet.

We've met a new American friend -- he's called Erich and he fits all the important American measurement criteria:

1. He's not in America so he knows of this other world we call Europe
2. He likes English humour
3. He knows what irony is
4. He has no intention of mating with a vegetable

He's doing maths or some other limp, boring magnolia-flavoured subject [Now now, we'll have less of that. I find sine and cosine liberating, and even sexy! - Ed]

- Philip + Peter

P.S. Betsy has developed a penchant for hippidy-hop youth music, so she has now been fitted with one of those suspension devices that gangster folk have in their automobiles:

2007-02-12T03:04:00.000+01:00

We've actually had some work to do (shocking, I know), so it hasn't been all joy et jeux this week. I should probably start by saying that Peter was again besieged by women armed only with rusty scissors:

Before long he'll embrace the genius of using a breadknife, like me.

We're so sick of hearing the high-pitched intimacies of our neighbours' private lives through these paper-thin pre-fab-tastic walls. We've reached the unquestionable conclusion that the couple living next door are swingers as we always hear loads of people 'round there chatting, shortly followed by sounds of a morally disingenuous nature. When morning breaks we see people leaving with blow-up mattresses. It's even worse when both our neighbours are at it -- it's in surround sound!

There is a famous Hungarian dish called 'Paprikás Krumpli', but because it's so cheap to make it is thought to be a poor person's gruel, thus making it an unlikely dish to find in the [for the most part] fine eating establishments of Budapest. So I summoned up the cauldron; I divinely dispersed several kilos of miscellaneous food, probably full of Polish chemicals, and cooked it on the burning mouth of Betsy. I noticed the finished broth was a bit oily, so I scooped some out, but it just kept spontaneously creating more and more raw unhealthyness until we had a whole jar of fat and oil:

It's now been sitting on the balcony for a week. It's gone hard and nasty. Neither of us dare touch it. The food itself was good though.

We've had some interesting tram drivers recently. One thought it was fun to accelerate and decelerate at full power to make all the old ladies hold on for dear life (and to his credit it was quite funny). Another one started smoking in his little cabin, which slowly filled up with smoke until it became translucent. One driver just stopped the tram and stepped out of his cabin, crowbar in hand, and started hacking away at the tracks. Perhaps he was mending them, or changing the points, or killing a sleeping gypsy. I couldn't quite see. Which removes the likelihood of the latter, as gypsy killing is normally considered a fine spectator sport here. [cf - burning gypsy-lady last week]

Now, recent political news in Hungary is that about 150 MPs walked out of parliament and pushed down the barriers which are currently in place to stop anyone from protesting outside the seat of government. The police soon remedied this by padlocking every fence segment together:

Tensions seem to be running high. One may ask are they ever low over here, but it does seem that March the 15th may result in yet more tear-gas, stone-throwing, and rubber-bullet escapades. I do hope the government don't make the mistake of putting a tank in the centre of town... again.

In other news, I'm getting better at Hungarian now. I think I might go on their equivalent of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.

We're not sure how this happened:

I've found a revolutionary new way to dust pillows:

We never really noticed just how dusty some of this 1970s furniture is. But it simply adds to the glorious retro vibe.

I've been making a cake; it turned out to be bloody nice. It's a combination of scone and apple. Here's a photo of me posing - in a suitably effeminate and Delia-esque stance - with said baked ambrosia:

- Philip + Peter

P.S. Those of you who have seen the film "Kontroll" will understand the reference:

Back in Hungary

2007-02-02T19:07:00.000+01:00

After seven long weeks in England, we're back in Hungary, and we managed to smuggle a Craig into the country too:

We hid him behind some luggage on the train so as to hide him from the authorities who were now searching for him:

It was Craig's first flight, which was moderately exciting. However, Craig (and of course, as typical, Peter) had to get out their laptops. The novelty soon descended and so too did our conversation into whose laptop has the longest battery life. Mine, of course.

The air pressure caused some interesting effects:

The first thing we did was death march up Gellért Hill, as all tourists should do on their first night, but we already have plenty of pictures from up there in a previous post. All the hill drudgery caused a panging for liquid refreshment tendered from our favourite ruin bar -- Szimpla:

After Szimpla we got the Metró home and ate some food forced upon us by the generous Nati.

On the second day we decided to go to Hőssök Tere and see those really big fancy statues. Then we went to what is potentially Europe's nicest coffee shop: Centrál Kávéház. We did many other tourist type things which I'm not going to write about since they contain only minor amusements in comparison to other more random events. But also, I can't be arsed.

We were out one day and decided to have some pancakes as we're sure they have some sort of significance within Hungarian culture. They're full of fattiness which makes them typically Magyar. Peter took us to a 24 hour pancake house which he vaguely remembered stuffing his drunken face in after a boat party. This was also his rubbish excuse for why he thought ordering 5 (!) savoury pancakes would be just enough food. It wasn't. We almost died. Seriously, it's like they pack them with foam and once it hits your stomach acid you inflate to proportions normally only seen in Texas. Please tell me why Peter refuses to use his eating weapons and decides instead to consume pancakes in a style more befitting to the Slitheen (Doctor Who, not Slovenian nationals).

There's a nice photo of Budapest.

Some peasant jumped into the shot. So Craig kicked him in the face.

There's me hugging a tree. I'm not sure why.

One night we decided to go to the Frank Zappa Café. It was full and they made us sit in the non-smoking area. We were slightly intoxicated on Swedish vodka. Rather defiantly Craig got up and smoked about two inches outside of the non-smoking area. The waiter did not revel in this act of extreme provocation! I'd wager he spat in our drinks, the cheeky bastard. After the cigarettes he sat down and started to consume his Zappa trademarked booze. It was going quite well, glasses were being held and alcohol was pouring out of them and successfully refreshing our pallets. A minor smash occurred. Craig had dropped his glass from a small height onto the table and the top chipped. It was OK though since he could grab it and save it from the frying pan. No, instead he decided to watch it fall. Silence. Smash. We laugh. We get asked to leave.

We then went to a Gothic sort of DnB ruin bar called Kultiplex. Here's a short film. A word of warning, contained within one will find stupid fucking dancing, foot burning, and lots of loud swearing.

The next day we awoke to a snow-covered Budapest. Most people would go and swim in hot outdoor baths at Széchenyi or something, but instead we chose to march through the Buda hills. There were some very nice views from up there though, and we found some sort of Soviet transmission base:

Ushanka + cigarettes + snowy hills + soviet transmission base + Ivan Rebroff on Peter's phone + a camera = a video opportunity too good to miss:

The sun began to set, and we didn't feel like getting stranded in the middle of nowhere, so we caught the last train back down. Now, instead of going back the way we came (which would have been far too sensible), we took a different railway called The Children's Railway. I thought it might just be one designed for children in some way, and I was looking forward to getting free sweets or something. The train pulled up and a bunch of kids dressed as train conductors jumped out and started to throw snowballs at each other while the passengers clambered onto the platform, trying to avoid the cross-fire. Little did any of us know that the entire thing was ran by screaming kids!

One hour later we were cold and very hungry. The best way to solve this at any time is a trip to Sir Brian's -- the place where they play modern music sang by monks, your food comes on a huge wooden platter and you're not allowed to use a fork (so this is Peter's territory). It was all going well until the mealtime entertainment started, which consisted of a large man who used his arms to move various uninteresting things and made the children cry.

Just as we walked out the door we saw them dousing a Roma-lady in some sort of unquestionably flammable liquid from a canister. Perhaps it was "Burn The Gypsy" night, but now we'll never know. I wish we had stayed for a little longer, and perhaps the opportunity to roast marshmallows on the smouldering carcas of a lady of the night would have presented itself.

On the day of which we call 'Sun', nothing much is open in Budapest, except for churches. So we went to visit the stupendous "cave" church built inside Gellért Hill. Now, either that whole hill is filled with Polyfiller, or they're not really caves at all. Barstarding wankers.

After the heart-attack excitement of the rather dull 10-metre-deep cave ("It's almost like being blind" - Ed), I dictated that later that soire we went to a retro chillout club called Mono ElectroClub. We were quite lucky in that this club almost propositioned us into the pitfalls of another existential predicament. We clawed our way out by finding the door. It was interestingly furnished, and came complete with a hippy sitting in a birdcage who promptly produced a small collection of musical instruments including a violin (I really doubt a Strativarius - Ed) and a flute. He then played them much to the chagrin of the DJ who was trying to mix chillout music with Powaqqatsi.

As with any time we are outside our concrete communist tower after sunset, we headed for Szimpla for more drinks before heading home.

We didn't do anything very interesting the next day, except Craig and Peter laughed at me trying to grab at a hologram:

To sum up the next 48 hours: pancakes, walking, pancakes, walking, sitting, taking photos, pancakes, walking. And for Craig's last night we failed at ice skating. Well, Craig was actually quite good, but Peter and I struggled to skate properly on the poorly maintained surface. These zany Hungarians must think it funny not to smooth the ice all day so that it's basically a cheese grater. Then some crazed kurva (yes, that is indeed the Hungarian for a prozzie) ran into me and I fell on my arse.

That's it. Craig flew home and I hear he did a job of the landing -- jolly good. Peter and I teleported home.

Not really, we had to spend an hour in a Metró carriage with smelly tramps who kept falling asleep on their cigarettes and burning their hair. We love Budapest.

- Philip + Peter + Craig in spirit (He's not dead - Ed)

P.S. We've named the toilet Lucy Loo

2006-12-07T22:08:00.000+01:00

Peter went to get his hair cut. He returned with yet more evidence to support our hypothesis that Hungarian style is around 15 years behind the UK:

What they never seem to do in Hungary is hold that little mirror up to the back of your head and ask "Is that OK?". That way they can write things like 'lófasz' in the back of your head, and you won't know for hours.

When we arrived in Budapest, we kept saying that we were going to do something about the awful shower. Holing it up with one hand just wastes time and water, and it's bloody annoying. So, Peter set off with his usual kit of SCART cable, super glue and a tendency to get carried away with problem solving. The original setup seemed OK, until I put the shower on full, and the pressure caused it to swing around and soak everything in the bathroom. After adding an elaborate pulley system, we ended up with this:

Well, we're back in the UK and both staying with Peter's dad in London.

We've not done much of interest really, except for going up to Cambridge today. As typical with our sad excuse for booking cheap travel, we ended up having to awaken from our limited sleep at around 6am. In a state of sleep deprivation we tried to make our way to Victoria coach station. GNER can piss off if they think I'm paying their stupid money for a train. So we ended up getting the coach from central London. Where did it stop first? Stratford! That's just two tube stops from where we're staying in Bethnal Green. Public transport seems to do this to us quite a lot, especially in Budapest, like the time when we spent ages getting to a distant train station, only to find that the first stop was back in the city centre, a few miles from the flat. But I digress.

We got into Cambridge and headed up to Homerton college. The interview went quite well, lots of interesting topics. My second interviewer only talked to me about Sartre. I think he enjoyed talking to someone else whose first philosopher was Sartre - he told me that he was his intellectual hero when he was 16/17. My mother called me up after I got out and told me that I'd been shortlisted at the London School of Economics, so I've had a brilliant day all around.

Peter found a nice cafe and read/RAH-ed. He spent £7.40 on a grandé-mocha-frappa-choca-latté-decaf, a tiny sandwich and a thimble of banoffi pie, so he embarked upon a silent, personal protest in which he sat on their already over-crowded property for an hour and a half just to get his money's worth. We met up with our chum Amy and went for coffee, exploring and booze. Fun was had by all. It was excellent to have Amy with us, she sneaked us into the SPS faculty and took us to all the good places.

We got the bus back to London, had a good chat with fellow National Expressies. Peter even found a physicist to chat to, which is a relief for him as so far on our travels we keep bumping into anthropologists.

In closing, England is boring. I want to go back.

- Philip + Peter

2006-11-30T14:35:00.000+01:00

Hello Readers,

We've just got back from my Birthday trip to ---- Venice!

Rialto

San Marco Square

There's a tradition we've established that my Birthday is never to be spent in a country of residence. Nobody likes violating a tradition so we had to pick somewhere. The best time to see Venice without the army of yanks is November, so we didn't want to miss the chance.

Waiting for the train in Budapest

The train left from Keleti Pályaudvar where we'd bought tickets for a sleeper train. After ending up in a Romanian peasant wagon in July, we didn't want to risk an open ticket for a second time. Fourteen hours locked in a carriage with cows and sacks of rice would not be a relaxing birthday jaunt.

Our spacious couchette

When we got on the train the MÁV chap told us that not only was there nobody else in our compartment, we also had the entire carriage to ourselves! It was like travelling first class. After about an hour, the train stopped for a short while and started moving backwards, which it continued to do for the entire journey. We were convinced that we hadn't left Hungary at all, but were just going 'round in circles.

The border control woman wished me a happy birthday when we reached Croatia at about midnight. That was really friendly - quite unlike the Slovenian boarder. When we got to it, it was very much a "Passporto!", "Where are you going?", "What affiliation do you have with the Face of Boe?" and "Why are you travelling through Slovenia?" type of affair. Well, the answer to the latter would be "We're on a fucking train," but it's best not to try anything with the Slitheen.

After the passport checks a customs officer came round. We assume that's what he was because he shouted at us in generic foreign. I said "anything to declare" but with such an intonation and authoritative RP accent that it sounded like I was questioning him. Luckily he didn't shoot us or shout "Vee vill ask zee kvestions!"

After all that fuss we were able to get about three hours' sleep before we got to the Italian boarder. The bridge over the lagoon into Venice is good fun and the train station has a brilliant Italian Fascist Mussolini ambiance to it, with a golden globe on the front. When you walk out you're straight onto the grand canal and it's bloody impressive.

It took us a few moments to find out hostel as it was down a tiny back street which even a ferret would consider a challenge, but we found the small green door as described in the e-mail, and rang the buzzer. It was a nice big clean room. After we unpacked we decided to do the normal Venice thing -- just walk around and get lost. And my God did we get lost.

We ended up stranded and on the wrong side of the island, where the only logical thing we could do was get the water-bus, though it was a ridiculous five Euros each! So we rode it right down the grand canal to get our money's worth, which was amazing. It then seemed a good idea to walk back up towards San Marco.

San Marco Square

Peter got attacked by a pigeon which, at this time, we thought was original. Soon however, we noticed that everyone was getting attacked by the vicious flying rats.

Despite it being low season, there were still quite a few Americans. Now, we're not the type to generalise all those from the USA as uncultured scum, but when we heard one say "So do you think there's another Pope here too?" we couldn't help but laugh.

When we were sitting looking at the islands thinking about what to do next, a mad beggar woman walked over, looked at me and asked for some money. I didn't have any change and couldn't be arsed to stand up. What did she do next? She ever-so-slowly picked up my bottle of water and drank from it, as Peter and I watched in slight shock, and just strolled off with it. She had a massive cyst on her lip, so I had no intention of grabbing it back. I was well pissed off. Still, we got a picture of her:

Stop! Thief!

Evening set in, the locals came out for dinner, and Venice looked even more stunning.

On the next day we went to the Guggenheim gallery which I really enjoyed, though I'm not sure about Peter. He sometimes gets pissy about modern art claiming that "art must have work put into it". He knows he's wrong, but that doesn't stop him having a moan. But there was no "Young British Artists" stuff, and that's where Peter's hate really starts.

A strange mirror illusion thing

By late afternoon we had done everything we had intended to do, so we had six hours to kill before catching our train to Budapest. Our only option was to walk around aimlessly and take in the surroundings. A lot of Venetians own small dogs, which can be a bit of a hassle with the cramped alleys. However, one woman has found a revolutionary new way of carrying her dog:

Every shop in Venice seems to sell masks. You can buy anything from a long-nosed diamond-enencrusted gaudy monstrosity, to Trevor McDonald:

By 8pm it was time for us to collect our rucksacks from the hostel, head to the train station and wave goodbye to Venice. As with most things in this world, pleasure often comes with pain, and our train journeys were no exception. The ride to Venice was quite pleasant, but we weren't happy to find our return couchette already kitted out for six people. Peter asked the train guard if he knew how many people would be in our couchette, and he said six. Shit. Peter also asked him that since there were only 18 reservations in our carriage, why they couldn't be split up into more cabins, rather than three cabins crammed full. At this point the guard started shouting, in Hungarian, "This is how things work! It is not up to us where you sleep! You sleep where your ticket says you sleep! Don't tell me the rest of this carriage is empty! A new TV with no channels programmed in is empty, but this carriage isn't!", so we shut up and closed the door.

In the end, only one of the four passengers turned up: an American called Kevin, who was visiting a friend in Budapest. We discussed politics and world affairs for several hours. The night was, as per usual, full of passport checks and changes of direction (we're sure we never left Hungary at all), but we slept well. The train pulled into Keleti Pályaudvar on time, we wished Kevin a pleasant stay and headed home.

Here's some video footage of the trip:

Click here to view more photos of the trip.
(To download these photos in full size, check back here in a day or two, and a link will have been added)

- Philip + Peter

2006-11-27T14:40:00.000+01:00

Where...

...are we going?

- Philip + Peter

P.S. This happened:

2006-11-24T01:23:00.000+01:00

I should start the blog by saying that all is not well in the kitchen. Betsy has, well, take a look:

We're not entirely sure what to do. She just growls and spits at us if we get try to go near her. Boris (the microwave, for those who don't know), on the other hand, is still going strong, so we can have warm radioactive sandwiches. Boris says: "Iz good, dah? Who need Betzee?".

'The Great Frank Zappa Experiment' is going well. After listening to his music for about 40 hours, we're just about starting to appreciate it. The experiment ends just before midnight on Saturday, by which time we hope to have figured out the deep philosophical meanings behind his lyrics, such as why Mr. Zappa wants to "ram it, ram it, ram it, ram it up yer poop-chute," -- assuming there are any at all. On with the experiment -- "Yippy-Ty-O-Ty-Ay".

It has been suggested by some that we are (or ought to be) slowly going mad. I was about to "poo-poo" this idea ("An entire platoon, brought down by poo-poo!" - Ed), until I found Peter sorting the coins into piles of 179Ft (the exact price of a loaf of brown bread), and wrapping them in cling-film:

I later found myself jumping around like a kangaroo as a means of light exercise. I'm sure this is all inevitable behaviour when you place an anthropologist and a physicist into the same flat. Peter even did some secret filming:

The bush people seem to be quite active tonight. The scary noises just keep getting louder until they get fed:

That's all for now.

- Philip + Peter

P.S. A certain Mr. Nash sang to us through Skype, without realising that we were broadcasting the lot:

2006-11-19T17:08:00.000+01:00

Well, I've got a few things of interest that I can pick out for the blog.

I'm supposed to mention that when we went out to meet Len last week, there were people dressed up as zombies and other nasty things on the stairs of our block of flats. They were just standing still, holding cakes, saying nothing. They looked brilliantly realistic and terribly scary, I didn't want to drag up the memories but Peter harangued me till I mentioned it. Happy now?

It was decided that it was about time we took the tripod and the big camera up to the top of Gellért Hegy. The photos which resulted can only be appreciated truly in all their pixel glory, so click on any of the following to view them full size:

They're the best ones, but we got loads more.

We're currently cooking some Hungarian Galuska Pörkölt. The stew part is simmering away on the burning mouth of the bitch. I mean, "Betsy", sorry sweetie darling. Kiss kiss. However, the Galuska part is a bit more difficult:

Last night we went to see William Shakespeare's 'The Merchant of Venice', which was brilliant. It was almost as good as the set of streets we found on the same night. They were the perfect "generic James Bond Eastern European location" streets, complete with little cobbled courtyards here and there.

We also found this bar/cafe:

With Shakespeare in mind, this cafe caused "much to do about nothing" (Rah rah rah - Ed). Zappa has placed us within yet another existential predicament. We thrashed it out and decided that the only way out was to start "The Great Frank Zappa Experiment". For one week, all we're going to listen to is Frank Zappa. Both me and Peter feel we don't "get" some of his music, but after such prolonged exposure it might become clear. Well, as clear as one can get without a small supply of soft drugs.

Really cool picture Peter took in the Metró

We got a letter from home. It was the nicest tasting letter we've had yet. However, we must call out to the good people and beg for more. We need Pear Drops, how else are we supposed to carry on living without them?

And, finally, people have been asking about the "Bush People". Who are they? What do they want? Why do they want my tasty snacks?

Well, this picture might help:

Or not. Stay Tuned. More next blog.

- Philip + Peter

P.S. We've found a new way of getting the shopping done:

P.P.S. We've also been experimenting with vitamin pills:

2006-11-16T20:50:00.000+01:00

We haven't been up to very much in the past few days, so we've no anecdotes to speak of. However, I have been cooking:

- Philip + Peter

2006-11-13T22:27:00.000+01:00

Not much to report, well, except for the best night out we've had in the city so far. I don't know if rioting counts as a "night out", but this was the best one involving alcohol. We got a call from "crazy German Len" at about 8.30pm telling us he was bored and all his friends were either back in Deutschland or ill. He asked if we wanted a beer, and we thought a couple of hours in town would be nice. This turned into seven.

Szimpla is the best ruin bar in the city, and it was our destination:

The ethos is to go into an old house with a courtyard; rip its guts out; put in a bar and add a splash of dramatic lights. Then they whack in some old furniture from the 70s and there you go. Easily one of the best bars in Pest.

We got some mulled wine and waited for Len. We got seats in the corner, with Americans on the right, Germans on the left (unusual -- Ed) and Hungarians in front. It's a very international scene.

We talked to Len for a while. I said that it was nice on that date (November 11th) that we were able to come together and have a drink, and that we're all friends now. Len replied "Yeah, you wait till I buy a round -- I'm gonna piss in your beers".

Us with Len

Crazy German Len with his medical kit

The talk got onto politics, with me explaining to Len why England is the cradle of all civilisation. My point (in a joking manner of course) was that we created:
A. Parliamentary Democracy - The world's political system
B. Free Market Capitalism - The world's economic system
C. Football - The world's most popular leisure system.

This got too nationalist and heated so we invited an American called Matt to play cards. Typically he was the last person to join our table that night.

I won at cards and seem to remember shouting "You lose, you lose, like you did on this day so many years ago! We made friends, it was OK, then you ruined it for a second fucking time!"

Szimpla, in all its glory

But this was taken in good heart of course, we then went on to make fun of the French. Ahh, common ground.

We got a bit too political discussing North Korea. American Matt and I have similar political views. Both of us are libertarians and neither of us support pulling out of Iraq until it's stabilised. Len thought North Korea had a right to the bomb. We didn't. USUK versus Germany again. Things got nasty so I swapped seats with Len. Me and Matt talked about the disgusting nanny state in both our countries, while Peter and Len discussed which famous people they'd happily dissect. Unsurprisingly, Len would happily cut anyone up, as he is the love child of Gunther Von Hagens.

It got to 3:00am and I was tired, so home I went. Peter stayed out with Len, playing table football and chatting to random people. Matt left when I did. I found the night bus OK and ended up back in the concrete Communist tower by 4:15. Peter walked back to "burn off the alcohol" and got in at about 5:30, after nearly being hit with a poisoned dart by the bush people.

A video concerning the bush people

More about the bush people on the next blog...

- Philip

P.S. I've been learning some more Hungarian with the help of an online flash card system:

2006-11-09T22:34:00.000+01:00

No explanation necessary:

Love,
Betsy (please help me)

2006-11-09T01:16:00.000+01:00

Well it has finally happened -- we've got some students! Yes, in about fourteen hours' time we should be trying to teach two Hungarian girls how to become great English poets. We've tidied the flat, I've baked some more scones, the Yorkshire Gold teabags are at the ready and we've got a tray with pictures of landmarks from London. We're going to officially declare this flat as British soil. I took some pictures of the scones and a pot of tea on the balcony. The bad news is, one of the scones fell off. I might retrieve it later...they're damn good scones!

In other news, I'm now an external researcher at the Central European University, where I've spent a total of nine hours trying to read every Anthropological book in the library. I found myself reading a field report into sex workers in the “Galatic Zone”, which was called "Awkward Intimacies: Prostitution, Politics, and Fieldwork in Urban Mexico" by Patty Kelly. Today I read "'Yo, bitch ...' and Other Challenges: Bringing High-risk Ethnography into the Discourse" by Sylvie C. Tourigny, which was also brilliant. I've already done some high-risk ethnography on October 23rd and I look forward to more.

Tomorrow, I'm not going to get distracted and end up reading complete random books that just look interesting, I'm going to focus and do the work I'm supposed to. Or I might just get distracted by the playground which they conveniently placed so near to CEU:

Last night we met up with one of Peter's contacts, called Béla. He showed us a ruin bar in town called Szimpla, which really is a fantastic place. The whole interior, as with most ruin bars, is covered in graffiti and various stickers. The place is comfortably populated by twentysomethings; some of which are on their laptops doing work, some of which are relaxing on one of the many sofas and the rest of them are just chatting away with their friends. Old standing lamps in every corner keep the rooms dimly lit, and because the place is neither truly indoors nor out, gas heaters are dotted around. We sat down, drank mulled wine and chatted for a good few hours about various things, mainly Hungarian politics.

I decided to try out the bath. What I didn't realise was that the water here is very soft, so when I checked on it five minutes later, I realised I had created some sort of beast made from bubbles:

Peter took a picture of a really odd sign we saw on the bus:

What could it mean? "Don't transmit electromagnetic radiation from your mouth towards the driver"? "Cybermen must not attempt to upgrade the driver"? And another odd sign we found is this:

Possibly a bit of 'Engrish' going on there.

- Philip + Peter (the newly-appointed co-blogger)

2006-11-04T21:16:00.000+01:00

We've had a new order from Peter's mum; we now call her "the Boss from HQ". We were requested to purchase some new CDs to be found at a random house in the second district. After careful examination of a map, we realised that this was a bloody long way away. Peter said he was quite happy to go it alone on this adventure, so I stayed at home and got on with cooking dinner and writing my report. The doorbell rings three hours later and in walks a frozen supplier, he announces: "It's far... there's snow up there!" My comment that "it's hardly fucking Ben Nevis," wasn't welcomed. He couldn't even find the house. Peter also casually placed a poor little Hungarian man outside number 17 into an existential predicament. When asked where house number 20 was, he replied: "I'm sorry sir, it does not exist".

Earlier today, people were laying flowers at the new 1956 memorial:

This afternoon we went on silent march with the centre-right Fidesz political party. This was both in protest to the alleged police brutality on the 23rd, and a commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the Soviet tanks entering Budapest and crushing the uprising. The news warned that today could see an increase in violence. As it turned out, it was very peaceful and respectful. The Hungarian government would have stumbled into even more trouble if a second set of allegations of brutality circulated, just like it did twelve days ago.

Still somewhat of a police presence:

The march was cold and wet, and the number of candles and burning torches made it somewhat scary; they were all brandished by menacing old ladies.

I'm in the process of joining Central European University as an external researcher - which should be spiffing. They're showing some shorts about 1956 on Monday with discussions afterwards, and there's a series of public lectures on social anthropology starting, both of which I might attend. There was some sort of party going on when we got to CEU - we thought about just looking confident, grabbing a few glasses of the free champagne and standing looking at 'installations' whilst talking about their poignant post-modern implications. Sadly, fear bested us. It was like an academic Ab Fab.

Peter would like me to mention that he saw a book at CEU called:

The Daleks are coming...

I've been for a coffee at what is widely thought to be one of the best coffee houses in the world: Centrál Kavéház:

Yes, it was nice, even better than Vennals. Did I just say that? I am now a heathen! Raargh! Peter asked for a hot chocolate, and was a bit confused when they brought out a mug of hot milk, a bowl of cream and a lump of chocolate on a stick:

However, this next photo is the best of the day - give me my bastarding Pulitzer!

And a video compilation of the march:

2006-11-01T17:23:00.000+01:00

Well, it's now gone from 'a little bit chilly' to damn right cold. The heating in the trams seems to be for decoration purposes only. Peter's hand went bright red due to the chill; unsurprisingly, he found this wacky.

Today – November the 1st – is known as the Day of the Dead in Hungary, which means people walk around looking depressed, wearing black, and visiting graves. Well, since we're pretending to be cultural anthropologists we decided to go find a stonking big graveyard and have a (somber) look about.

An 'off-the wall and zany' grave

We started off by walking in the wrong direction for 10 minutes in the pissing rain. By this point, I no longer had to pretend to be depressed to fit in. Having found the entrance we were greeted with a plethora of market stalls, busy cashing in on the day by selling flowers. Flowers which they probably stole from the graves the night before. Stop it Philip, no need to be cynical – I'm sure they're going to church funds or graveyard upkeep.

Flower-stealing capitalists

A crypt -- exciting

Some sort of God-priest-thing -- Even more exciting

We saw tombs, crypts, graves, shrines, mounds and even pits. If we were playing the 'ways you can be buried bingo', we'd have won at least £5. I dared Peter to walk down the main street whistling the Benny Hill Show tune. He refused, he's a big girl. I would have done it if my lips weren't sore! Honest.

I can't believe it's more tombs!

Anyway, after the exciting afternoon of grave-spotting, we decided to go find somewhere to eat. We went to the Westend shopping centre and had a Turkish meal. The plastic plates the food was slapped on went soggy from all the fatty oils.

A scary looking hospital. We'll be there if we keep eating this crap food.

Aforementioned crap food

The BKV - The Budapest version of Transport for London - are total rubbish. If you trot past their ticket inspectors with a confident stride, they'll not bother you. BKV, when they can be arsed, will have two inspectors hiding at the bottom of a popular metro station escalator. They look about as threatening as an old lady who won't take no for an answer when you refuse a cream cake. But then, sometimes, they'll pitch up a big row of fat, burly, 'lesbian blonde' inspectors and it feels like your papers, not validated tickets, are about to be demanded. In a cold-induced daze, I walked past them this afternoon singing “BKV, lalala BKV, lalalala BKV”. My tickets promptly demanded, then a smile exchanged.

By popular demand here's that cake I made:

2006-10-30T21:13:00.000+01:00

Hello all from the rapidly cooling eastern metropolis. Today we went book hunting, and it was great fun! First, we went to a massive shopping centre in Buda. We went with the aim of trying out the Libri there. They were quite nice to us, which is unusual for Libri (think 'Boarders' but with shop assistants whom in training were told “be really bloody grumpy -it's the best way sell more books!”) Then we went all over town using those modern fancy trams, the ones that make you feel you're in some sort of cyber-punk paradise.

My favorite bookshop is “the writers bookshop” or “Irók Boltja” It's just about the most 'class A' drug of the bookshop world. Laced with High ceilings which are, of course, packed with bookshelves . Ladders run around them on metallic rails and wheels. I almost died.

But that wouldn't be my first near-death experience these past few days, oh no, I've also made a cake. I got the recipe off the Internet, and as normal we couldn't be arsed to either A. use the correct measurements or B. get the correct ingredients. Thus, we made it up as we went along: Yum Yum

It's quite shocking how two of the same bookshop (again: Libri) in the same mall can go from a house of smiles and kindness to bleeding walls of death. But it did. A nice helpful man who looked like Dr Frasier Crane in bookshop 'A' charmed and danced money out of Peter's credit card. We were then beaten to a bloody mess in bookshop 'B' Then spat on. It was horrible. Grumpy bastard just said “no, we have no books here” So, in Pythonesque nod, we shot him.

Anyway, after the book hunt I ended up with a backpack full to the brim with texts of all shapes and sizes. I can't understand them; this gives them an odd feeling – it's like they've got hidden knowledge locked away. And Peter is the rusty key who only sort of understands the titles. These piles of books add an academic flavour to the digs - but they're off to blighty after we've hunted down the last 9.

On the metro today the - probably sloshed- driver tried to pull away from the station without having first pumped the breaks. We think that's the reason I was almost flung into the Everest sized belly of a Hungarian gentleman. The train shunted to a stop in the middle of a tunnel and then an odd noise started to seep into the carriage. It was ok though, we wobbled our way to the next stop. It wasn't as scary as the time the GNER train from newcastle me and Peter once used, which as well as selling drainwater coffee also deiceded to set itself on fire.

Flea markets are excellent here, even in the bastarding rain. They're packed full of top hats, Soviet passports, Nazi memorabilia and scary sounding porn. On Sunday we went to a rather nice market in the centre of the city park – We bought incense for the flat to give it a funky Hippy vibe, Peter got chocolate and a pen made from a disused bullet. We've also added a book to the GULAG of “new age shit”. The book has the same name.

I've burnt my finger. From this blog onwards I'm never burning any of my limbs again. It really bloody hurts.

Ok, so I also keep leaving the hob on when I make coffee. I can't help it, it's really hard to remember! So Betsy has made a sign for me to stop me burning down the flat.

Yes, we decided Betsy shares the same persona as that of Patsy from Ab Fab.

I saw a rather cool shop sign one night in down-town pest. Here it is:

And, one last thing, Peter wants me to report that he tried (and failed) to scare me using the demon-curtain thing. I'm really quite worried by it. I think it is brought to life at night and dances around the flat in a bid to please its master: The Lord Woland.

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2006-10-28T01:09:00.000+01:00

Well, the riots have fallen into a vast pit of nothingness: or so we thought. We went out for coffee and drinks at café near the basilica, in central pest, at around 10pm. After we'd payed and walked down the street a man asked us if we had been “turned away as well” Peter said “no, and where would we have been turned away from?” The gentlemen then went on to tell us that around 200 police officers turned up outside parliament to move away about twenty protesters. Clearly he may be exaggerating; however, it wouldn't shock me if there is the smallest element of truth running about in his grubby looking head.

We're going down to investigate soon, tomorrow if we have time. We were also harangued with a tale that “some Lithuanians were coming with guns to kill the police for beating up priests and press of their country”

I found a great way to spend the night -- sitting on the balcony with an Ushenka and a blanket with a Bulgakov. Yummy.

We've made French onion soup from the massive amount of raw food ingredients we bought from the Hungarian equivalent of Aldi. It wasn't that great, we blame Betsy, she just burns EVERYTHING, even my scones. She has a serious lack of respect. But we're going to leave the soup in the fridge over night as it “may get better with age” After all, we did put wine in it. On that subject – when I told my comrade to buy some wine he ran down to the shop and said “give me your cheapest wine”. It cost 80p. It tastes of grapes with just a dash of used coffin.

Oh, that chap Peter escaped from the police with is doing ok. He's getting his teeth fixed and he got home safely. The mad German student doctor 'Len' has called; Peter's text messages threats turned into definite action. He didn't sound 'mad' on the phone but actually quite normal. For me, this is a relief. But for Peter it means he now lacks a partner in the pursuit of zaniness. We'll see. Anyway, it gives me an excuse to try and make more scones. He's convinced I'm some sort of English Lord. We're going to use tin foil to try and disperse the volcanic heat from Betsy's belly around the scones, rather than just leaving it to burn my delightfully English snack foods.

We're going to purchase Hungarian book for Peter's mother tomorrow. They're for The School of Slavonic and Eastern European studies. Who also happen to be my first choice university. I'm aiding the supply chain for their books. Well, it's something to drop into an interview.

This evening we reached the end of the only series of 'ab fab' we have. Thus, a new requirement for visitors is to bring series two of 'ab fab' as well as 160 Yorkshire Gold. If this is not met, we will leave you at the airport and, should you make it, not let you into the flat. Sorry, but it's the way it's got to be sweetie.

Here's a video of peter nearly killing himself. When Plew's saw this, he said: “that was the most dangerous thing i've ever seen, even by my standards”

2006-10-25 Shaver Charger

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2006-10-25T01:21:00.000+01:00

I've had Sunday dinner with Peter's mother's ex lodgers family. It was really nice, I had the traditional Hungarian fish soup and then more fish for the main course. Peter was bitched at for not liking aquatic meat; I think this is justified since it was really tasty. The meal lasted about 3 hours which is much longer than your normal English Sunday dinner. After that we went out and put English teaching posters all over the ELTE student district.

The decision to have an early night was made since we had to be up at 7:30 to get to the parliament in time for the start of the 1956 events. Right from the off we were met with police force pushing back politically active crowds. Chants of AVH were bellowed at the authorities. We were moved back away from Parliament, and ran towards the chain bridge. Here we saw the first signs of the far-right Hungarian 'political' groups. They want to see the nation’s boarders stretched into Transylvania and other areas. The slogan used by these members is "Super Size Me".

Skin-heads were dotted amongst the crowd trying to perpetuate the violence and stretch the tension. And it doesn't take much for it to snap. Especially in Hungary, as we found later that evening.

A large crowd moved towards Corvin cinema. Anti government chants were called out in the wide streets of inner-Budapest. We marched down the middle of the road while cars were spinning round, then racing back into the opposite direction. I was at the front of all this snapping away at the mob behind. We jumped up onto telephone boxes and anything else that gave a good vantage point. The cinema is of symbolic importance, lots of people were killed there in '56.

The protesting really only got serious when we went back into the breach, after going home for some much needed food. We'd met with Peter's friend Gáspár earlier and he'd warned us that the police will use violence indiscriminately. We needed to be really careful.

We first went to Deák Ferenc tér, where the protestors had commandeered the soviet ear tank:

It was desolate except for the police blockades, piles of stones, rubber bullets and tear gas shells. We decided to try and find a way to Astoria whilst avoiding of the police lines; as we got closer the tear gas in the air started to stab Peter’s eyes. Mine were alright, but once we got onto the main street my eyes started to sting (though not enough to stop us sprinting into more photographic opportunities). We decided that we should get to Ferenciek tere; when we arrive the crowd was moving down the road towards the bridge. They were backing away from the riot police, who were assembled like an army. Dotted amongst them were men with green bullet-proof vests. We were told that they'd already killed 3 protestors that day using rubber bullets (which later turned out to be false, there were no deaths).

A stale mate was reached, so the next port of call was the parliament building. We went along the right bank of the Danube towards freedom square. The heavy police presence had worked - the area was deserted. Thus, we got the metro back to Ferenciek tere. This was quite worrying, we overheard a man say that the police had shot tear gas into a subway. It goes without say that this was the subway station we were getting off at:

The gas rolled down the escalator as we ascend into the violent streets above. This was causing everyone to leave the station with red, tearful eyes. We didn't know that on ground level the situation we had left had reached a new level of danger. The protesters had ripped down the scaffolding and grabbed building materials. Within 30minutes they'd erected a crude but sinister looking barricade.

We met some American and/or Canadian guys and also a crazy German medic student called "Len" who, whenever the police shot tear gas at us, would shout at people not to run. In his bag he showed us a tear gas canister he’d grabbed and various plastic bullets:

He was drunk. And walking around listening to music and laughing at the situation. Brilliantly, he was able to speak perfect English. He called me "Lord Extra". This was some sort of German 'joke' which I didn't understand. Typically, I was asked about how to drink tea correctly and why we "force" people to sit down and have a cup of tea at 5 o'clock. I didn't know that we did, but fine. Peter loves him. He has got his number and keeps threatening to text him. One of the last things I remember him saying was "I would very much like to have a cup of English tea with you. Please can I have your number" - Peter gave him the Hungarian mobile number, and I should mention that this German was a lucky German: He'd danced with the wife of Ali-G. I think one of his relations is married to a member of the Sacha Baron Cohen dynasty.

Later on, as all Americans do those amongst us did utter them well-trodden words: "it's not the LA riots". I think this is law for yanks: any public disturbance must, at some point, be compared to the riots in Los Angeles.

I was just explaining to the Americans that they'd never dare to do anything with the world watching, then the police charged at us whilst water cannons and tear gas was launched into our direction. I ran to the left down to Váci Utca with Peter. This was a mistake as the police came running after us and started to beat down the protesters. I put up my hands and had my camera on display. This stopped them attacking me, but in front people I'd been chatting with minutes earlier were beaten to the floor. At this point I lost Peter, he ran towards the Danube, whereas I went back in the direction the police were coming from. I saw more photographers and told them to get out of there before the police came back. Peter rang me and all I heard was "I'm ok" then my phone stopped working. I hate Orange!

I walked back to Deák Ferenc Tér with some member of the anti-communist league. They spoke perfect English, and were asking me if anything like the brutality of the police would happen in England. I said it would be highly unlikely and nothing compared to what I'd seen that night. One man said "fucking communist pigs ey?" which serves to illustrates the misunderstanding and uncontrolled propaganda which is running rampant amongst the far right groups of Hungary. I walked towards Arany János metro station and, using my crappy Hungarian I asked which metro station had no police. Most people I asked didn't know, and the protesters I was walking with didn't seem to know either. We got to the station but what we'd all forgotten due to the heat of the moment was that metro would not be running at 2am.

I started walking back towards Deák Ferenc Tér when I lost the English speaking anti-communist members. I walked past the basilica and saw the police, one of them shouted to see my camera. I said I was English and my camera was broken. I got out of their sight and removed the memory card, put it in my shoe and placed an empty CF card back into the camera. This way if they smashed the camera they'd not smash my images.

I asked some more protesters for directions and walked up towards Westend shopping centre. I stopped in at an open Internet cafe and tried to buy a phone card. Failed at it. So I changed a note into coins. When I tried to call Peter the line would not connect. Today we've realised it was due to the police, they may well have shut down the mobile network to stop anymore protests organising a new stand-off.

I was dying of thirst, when I came to an open pub I went in and had an ice-tea and some crisps. I sat down and started to worry about Peter. My plan of action was to get back to the flat and use Skype to call him. I hoped he'd be trying to get home as well.

I stole some police tape on the way back - I needed more souvenirs! I was told to go around a long way round to get back home. This was what the authorities were shouting at me, but then when I explained I was English and was trying to get to Angyalföld and they just waved me past.
I saw one of the protest leaders on the way back - I said good evening and told him he'd been on the BBC.

It took me about an hour and a bit to walk back from Westend. I got to the flat and saw the light was on. I presumed that Peter had left it on to deter burglars. But thankfully I'd saved myself £5 to use Skype out due to Peter making an appearance in the little window in the flat door.

PETER'S STORY AFTER WE WERE SEPARATED

At about 1:30am, just after we had all had ran from the police, I was chatting with a slightly crazy German guy called Len. We were just exchanging numbers so that he could come to our flat at some point for "a proper cup of English tea", as he put it, when the police appeared from all the surrounding streets with their shields, bats and cans of mace. I thought they would just target the rioters, but when they started beating random people to the floor (including Len), I knew it was time to run like hell. This was probably the first time that I genuinely felt scared for my wellbeing. So, naturally, I ran as fast as my tired legs could take me (having already been standing for 18 hours).

I soon hit a clump of rioters on the riverbank, some of which were running around, shouting, crying from the tear gas and bleeding all over the place. I called Philip and asked him if he was OK, to which he replied "Yes I'm OK", then the line was cut off and I just got forwarded to his voice mail when I tried to call again. My options were now:

North - Police blockades around the parliament

East - The police who had just tried to beat me

South - The main riot

West - The Danube

Just like in an old text adventure, all directions lead to peril. In the end I headed North, as that was homeward, and I quickly picked up the pace when I heard the police throw tear gas into the crowd I had just left. I got a call from Len who shouted in an all-too-jolly tone “Hey, Peter! I’ve just been beaten up by the police!”. I asked him if he was with Philip, but he wasn’t. He later called again and said “Just say you’re English and they’ll leave you alone,” which, in hindsight, is precisely what I should have done, but in that mindset I just wanted to avoid them as best as possible. The streets were completely desolate, and every exit was blocked by rows of police. Thankfully, I bumped into someone who might have been able to help me. His name was Gergő, he was about my age but quite a bit taller. He was badly bleeding from his mouth, two of his teeth had been smashed and he had streaks of blood across his face and clothes. No less than eight policemen had battered him to the ground, then kicked him repeatedly. He couldn't get home for all the police presence, so I agreed to let him stay the night back at the flat.

After roaming the streets for some time, it became clear that the police were only letting cars out, but no people. Even then, quite a lot of cars were being turned back. We tried to flag down a few cars, but most just drove on. Finally, one stopped and agreed to drive us home. We were turned back quite a few times, but eventually we were allowed through one of the barricades. It was all going smoothly until our driver drove us straight into Deák Ferenc Tér where we again got stuck behind barricades. We spent a good half an hour in the car, the police knocking on the windows and asking questions, and Gergő discussing theology with the driver. I had thought for a minute that Gergő was going to use me for a sex game and burn me in the bath (as Robert Webb once said), but his religious views cleared all such thoughts.

We did, finally, get home at about 3am, and having called Philip every few minutes for the past hour to no avail, I decided to call home for some advice. Basically, either Philip was in a prison cell somewhere (where they can’t keep him for more than 12 hours), or he’s in hospital somewhere. My mum said that if Philip didn’t show up within 12 hours, we’d call our solicitor in Budapest and she’d sort things out. Gergő had a shower to clean away all his blood, and who should walk through the door but Philip! Yay! This meant I didn’t have to call his parents and explain that I had lost him!

We rejoiced and drank tea. Actually, we didn’t, but we really should have. Gergő couldn’t eat anything due to his broken teeth, so tea would have been perfect. Then we all went to bed. And don’t worry, Plews, I didn’t cheat on you - Gergő slept on the couch.

So that was one eventful day. Peter made about five minutes of video recordings too, which you can watch here:

We took over a thousand photos in those 18 hours, but Peter, the official photo editor, has picked out 114 of the best, which you can view by clicking here.

- Philip + Peter

2006-10-23T18:44:00.000+01:00

No update tonight, sorry. Here's the reason:

(watch out for me at the end)

2006-10-21T23:08:00.000+01:00

Well, we have now been to see the very politically active parliament square. The métro pulled into the Kosúth ter station; it was so silent a scientist could of use it for a controlled experiment to see what happens when it's really bloody quite.

Going outside the station to see the protesters in the square could have easily reduced us to a bloody mess in the back of a police station. A woman -- whom we've since been told was probably a little crazy -- warned us that if the police catch us taking photos we'd have our cameras taken off us then promptly our faces would be smashed in. Needless to say we left. Found a new location. And started taking more photos.

There's an example; I'll use this in my report since it's got good details of aged facial features on a subject from the older generation. It's hard to pick who to support in these events in Hungary. Either support the corrupt left, or the centre-right who are using this as an opportunity to try and seize power. I don't think either of us know enough about Hungarian politics to make any kind of judgment. I'm going to wait to ask Gáspár tomorrow.

Back in the flat peter had a night of me shouting at him to get on with his TEFL. At the rate he's going it won't be done until December the 22nd. He's not improving. So I've not taken more drastic acton:

"Rajta" is Hungarian for - "get on with it!"

In the métro system so far I've come across: A drunken man looking at a burning cigarette with a magnifying glass; countless Gypsies selling total crap; sleeping tramps; lesbian BKV ticket inspectors; transvestites; more screaming and begging Gypsies, one of which said: "you! look at me, your nice, look at me as well - do you like?" and even Lord Robert Winston.

Peter's and my own navigational skills came out top trumps when we went to find the 'Kultiplex' ruin bar. It took us about an hour and a half, and it should have only taken only thirty minutes. At least that's what peter announced before we set off. As a consequence we missed the band we wanted to see. Still, they have alcohol at kultiplex so it wasn't all bad.

Walking around down town 'pest one doesn't expect to have to dodge loads of crap 70s furniture. But to make such a presumption would be a rookie mistake in Eastern Europe. Tramps passionately were searching through an ancient vinal collection (to play on what? I honestly doubt they have have a massive home entertainment suite). However, I shouldn't be so quick to judge as I almost gave a rather swanky leather case a new home.

Another word of warning to the tourist of Budapest is not to fall into same trap as comrade peter. Just because someone is nice to you in a restaurant is not -- by any means -- justification to start buying double of everything. Even if you're getting 'chatted-up'. Remember dear readers this could well be a 'sales trick', and not an opportunity try and slot money into the leather clad underwear of a French kávehaz. Peter has asked me to point out that he really thinks he was getting 'tapped up' Philip thinks otherwise.

We found some random tanks, cars and flags at Deak Ferenc Ter this afternoon. It's got something to do with the 1956 uprising celebrations and memorial. It provided an excellent opportunity for some photography for my scholarship. And even more random photos of me and peter not really knowing what's going on and enjoying the randomness of Budapest metropolitan life.

This flag has a large section missing, no not for my head, but from where a CCCP Hammer and Sickle which was slashed out during the up-rising:

Back at the flat we had a little problem, thrashed it out, and came to the conclusion that the only thing for it was to send all the womanly and new age stuff to the GULAG. This is what we now call the cupboard in the corner of the room. I'm sorry Peter's mum, he made me do it!

It include: “miscellaneous items without function”, “smell making thing” and “new age random tosh"

Of course, the speaker has use – it's playing some excellent Bach as one types this.

We are the rational revolutionaries -- we take action!

Be seeing you

P.S Here's me dancing at 3AM:

2006-10-20 Philip Dances To Great Balls Of Fire

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2006-10-20T11:50:00.000+01:00

We Landed in Budapest after a very pleasant flight on easy jet, which is thanks to vicious grabbing of the front seats. Ultimate leg room, ultimate value.

We went to the Tescos on the first night - which is also the biggest Tescos in the world. It's fun but so big it takes about 15 minutes just to find bread. Peter often gets treated like an idiot when he asks for things in his Hungarian. This is due, i am told, to his "excellent" pronunciation, but sub-par lexicon. However, both of us had problems expressing the shock we felt when walking past the fish tank and, right in front of us, we discover a massive dying cod. Flapping about and trying to scream for help. It's calls were answered when an attendant came along and chucked it back in the tank. Animal rights are strong in Budapest.

We would have a video of the aforementioned event, had peter not got so excited that he dropped his phone and the memory card clunked against the steel plated floor of sadness.

Paying for our items at the very reasonable price of 9,800 ft we were also sold a story of how much better it is to work in England. It was so cheap we expressed a little slab of joy. The lady told peter "yes, for you, not for me!" to which a rather scared peter replied "I don't know what to say" we left, quickly.

The ingredient bought from Tescos were the components for a rather over-cooked bowl of Chile Con Carne. It may have the texture wallpaper paste but at least I'm not dead. Yet.

I bought a Hungarian espresso coffee making thing. It works via pressure and evaporation. The coffee is "Nagyon Eros" - very strong. But that's how I like it. If I didn't have my black gold I'd probably kill peter in the morning. He produces energy "the natural way". Well, bully for him.

The entire BKV city transport network is ran by butch, blonde, lesbians. And they would not give me my 60% off standard rates month pass. Despite how much we smiled. A pox on them.

I can't think of anything else really. We went to the kultiplex ruin bars and watched some bands on the big screens. Now we're setting up a sound system in the front room. I'm off to learn some more Hungarian and see how Peter is getting on.

- Till next time.

here's me cooking:

2006-10-19 Betsy Cooks Chili Con Carne

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2006-10-17T14:51:00.000+01:00

Here's the first post on a blog which I'll be trying my very best to keep updated. I'll record all my mishaps and adventures in foreign lands.

If anyone wants or needs to send me anything via post I'll give you the address.

Why not send me for my birthday a present; perhaps a Nintendo DS with an Internet browser card - yes, that's for you mother.

Morvai Klára
H-1139 Budapest
Tahi utca 74. III. 1.
Hungary

I fly out from Newcastle Airport to Ferihegy Airport Budapest at 14:30 tomorrow afternoon. My current mood: bloody excited.