GO LAUGH AT OLAF

Sept 10th

So, my Estonian adventure was coming to a close. The morning after Kristi's midnight feast, I was atop St Olav's In Tallinn, the highest building in all of medieval Europe. I felt woozy and light headed; it was either vertigo, or Kristi's Alsace pie. This type of medieval skyscraper did beg some interesting questions though: where oh where in medieval Europe do you find a Maxim hydraulic tower crane? "No, no Hansel, jump MUCH higher than that..."
There's an interesting story behind St. Olav's: Once upon a time bishop of Tallinn said: "Here lads, I've got a deadly idea, let's build the tallest building in the world!" So they all called him a mad bastard but went for it anyway. The only problem was, to build it would cost more money than the treasury would allow(Bertie's Bowl advocates take note). So this geezer comes along and says: I'll build it for you... for free, IF you can guess what my name is!" So they pulled out ye olde baby-name book and started rattling off a load of names. But to no avail. Then one day someone followed him to his gaff, and his mum called out the window: "Here, Olav, would you hurry up yer dinner's nearly cold!"
"Shurrup ma! They'll find out what me name is, It's embarrassing enough as it is!"
So that was that. And I thought my middle name was bad. This is a moral tale of bad enterprise: to promise to do something for free believing that no-one will guess your name makes very bad business sense, especially if when they DO have to pay you, they'll see it written there on your P45. It reminds me of the time I said to Crapman, "I bought you your Christmas present... they only clue I'll give you is that it's a computer game. I'm not telling you anything else about it except that when I saw it in the shop, I said "There's "Arnie"... gift!"
That's a true story unfortunately.

By the way, I highly recommend Estonian Air; their air hostesses don't look like bad copies of Star Wars figures sold in pound shops, they're actually good looking.

KRISTALLY DELICOUS

Sept 4th
We were treated to a monumental breakfast of Pancakes and freshly-squeezed cow-juice, after which Courteney and I were good-naturedly humiliated by being thrashed at basketball by Julika’s little cousin; we forgot our problems with a bit more splashing about in the water, this time in the full sunshine. Then we made our way back to Tallinn, where we met Kristi, who prepared a grand delicious meal for us. And we were only three hours late, which is good for us. Now, I’d perhaps over-emphatically told Kristi that this dinner was the highlight of my entire trip, so I’d better adopt the tone of this Flog entry accordingly. Ahem.
Upon our entry to Kristi’s Kitchen of delights, our very senses were enwrapped in a sublime ecstasy, sure God’s own Manna could not provoke such an overwhelming onslaught of unrelenting hedonistic delight; And the taste! I could hear the buds on my tongue cry out in earnest and unanimous gratitude that I had led them to this place, their entire existence so obviously leading up to this moment. As I chewed, more taste explosions rocked my very soul, its texture as soft as feathers, yet as succulent as honey-tinted spring-water. And as the last mouthful disappeared down my oesophagus, my heart cried out “More, more, dear God, give me more!” a part of me knowing that as the gastronomic orgasm subsided, there could be no repeat performance, and a little part of me died inside. But its memory lives on, and as I think of Kristi’s cooking, a sad smile spreads across my face, and I know that one day – one day – I will taste it again, and I pray that the time between that day and this one, somehow quickens its pace.
In other words, it was good grub.

Sept 4th

Suddenly, I was in the blazing sunshine, somewhere on the south coast of Spain. The sun was low, painting everything a pale yellow, the silhouettes of Courto and Butterfly were before a sizable crowd. He was on bended knee, she was elated.
“Right,” he said, “I’m off to get the ring”.
She turned and urged him;
“Keep it under a tenner, boy.”
I awoke to see Butterfly smiling at me from the next bed, blissfully unaware that she had been made out to be a cheap bitch in my dream-world. If only she… Ow! My head! What WERE we up to last night? With low gusto on my part, we got ready to take ourselves off to the countryside, the herbaceous forest air cleansing my system as we went. Courto and I drank pure water from a stream, Courto devising an unconvincing “pagan ritual” to go along with it. Then we went to a swamp in the midst of some woods, were we circled for hours, went slightly insane, lost our map and then whinged snotty-nosed into our camcorder. No - wait - that was The Blair Witch Project. The only witch we saw was a one made of wood, hanging menacingly amongst the trees – er… just like in The Blair Witch Project. We had a wee swim in a serene but Guinness-black pond, which for all the world reminded me of the water-tank by my Grandmother’s bungalow; a terrific, smelly abyss. As night set in, we headed to Butterfly and Bluelita’s Auntie’s gaff, where we had a late-night sauna session, cooling ourselves off by intermittent dips in the pond outside. Steam rose from our heated bodies as we swam, and it rose like the briefest of clouds into the moonlit sky. I saw a shooting star there and I made a wish, but damn it, Miss Knowles still hasn’t rung. The only knickers I was getting into was when I put on Courto’s boxers by accident afterwards. However, my pores utterly cleansed, I had a gargantuan feed, and then a soft welcome sleep.
We were on the Spanish coast again, Courto was holding a small potato snack for some reason. Then I realized it was a hula-hoop, and he was putting it on Butterfly’s finger.
“It’ll do,” she said, “but if this is on my finger, we’ll have no grub at the reception!”

TAARTSLIFE

We headed south to the “student city” of Taartu today. The idea of a “student city” did fill me with some skepticism; thankfully however , my fears were unfounded. I had expected the aroma of sweat and used prophylactics, mingled with the fainter – yet unmistakable - smell of stale beer and kebab-tinted vomit. The air was sweet, and I don’t mean it was doused with a fog of incense and ganje, it was as crisp and as clear as flat 7up. I had also expected the city streets to be cluttered with old leaflets for anarchy clubs and 5-cent-of-your-next-Big-Mac-or-cheeseburger tokens (oh wait, this was the continent, should I be saying “Royale-with-Cheese?) yet the streets were colourful, smooth and sterile; I could have been walking in Legoland. Honestly, what type of students were these? I thought at least one corner of the town square should be taken over by greasy gamers, the opposite corner having a stand selling tickets for the Fashion Show, the stand manned by some bulimic orange yoke with a horse-like overbite making her look like a throwback from The Simpsons.
The first person we saw, however, was not a student, but a tetchy woman who screamed at Butterfly as Butterfly was turning up her driveway trying to turn her car around. They exchanged some heated Estonian unpleasantries, while I stood on the sidelines ready to pour some hot oil on the situation. As the evening progressed… well, I’d love to tell you about the rest of the night, but to be honest, it would be fabricated stories revolving around a some isolated pockets of memory. My confusion was impounded by the fact that the club we went to was called “Club Tallinn” (hang on, didn’t I just come from Tallinn?). Imagine a place in Listowel called “Club Dublin” – it would either burned to the ground or renamed the Uppity-Jackeen-Bastard Inn. Come to think of it, imagine a “club” in Listowel. The last club they had was held by a Neanderthal. Which are still the indigenous peoples, I believe. I should know, they’re me kin.

GRABBED BY THE BALTICS

After somehow finding Butterfly’s gaff in the labyrinthine streets of Tallinn - with the unmistakable feeling that Vodaphone were squeezing my testicles as I made a few guiding phone calls - she drove us out to restaurant for lunch; a big place by the beach that looked like the upturned hull of a boat. The disaster-stricken sailors, seemingly unable to emerge from their tomb of crushed wood within, had taken up gastronomy, and cooked any fish that happened to wander in through an upturned port-hole. Oh, and also somehow they managed to make the wreck a Wi-Fi area. All of this is, of course, as bollocks as Vodaphone’s roaming rates, but my version of the history of Tallinn’s public eateries is far more interesting. Now, on the way back we went to the Pirita Monastery, and me an Courto when ghost-hunting in a dungeon. Most Haunted Live would’ve been proud, except the suitable creepy mood was ruined by having to dodge the pebbles that Butterfly kept throwing down every available hole. Courto was convinced that there was a wee ghostie in one dark corner, with a spooky pale pallor and drab ill-fitting out-of-fashion clothes sporting a stupid little beard; but I think he just saw me.
That grisly incident behind us, we retired to Butterfly’s where me, Courto and her Dad managed to polish a full-sized bottle of brandy during the course of the night, where I found my Estonian magically improved, as did my ability to drink Brandy in large quantities. It had a fierce kick off it alright: Oh! speaking of kicks, here’s a pic of a part of The Old Tallinn walls. I think its place name speaks for itself.

A LOAD OF BALTICS

September 1st

My first morning in Estonia had myself and Courto - fellow Eesti-virgin and Dublin bowsie - braved the Tallinn streets all on our own. Butterfly wasn’t sure she could trust us, which was of course a ridiculous notion. So, after a few visits to some discount brothels, we met up with Butterfly in a trendy café called the ‘Kompressor’. I managed to ‘kompress’ most of my delicious pancakes and a divine Russian soup called Seljanka, and with a filled belly I made my way around medieval Tallinn. I visited the oldest pharmacy in Europe, but sadly, they were out of eye-of-newt. When I emitted a cheeky fart, they tried to apply some anal leeches, but I wasn’t having any of it. Surprisingly, however, the elixir of life was going for only a few Estonian Kroons, which was handy.
Butterfly brought us then to St. Nicholas’ Church, yet it was blatantly false advertising. There was no jolly red-suited man with a paedophilic grin and a sack full of goodies. I was expecting a grotto or something but there wasn’t a candy-cane or even an elf in sight. Nothing; not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The rest of the day we wandered around absorbing the sights, Butterfly revealing an expansive knowledge of her city that would put a tourist guide to shame. She invited us to wander into any shop we wished, as long as I didn’t talk to any Russian women (any other nationality was okay, I think). We followed the narrow cobbled streets to the Old Hanse restaurant, a real gem of a place decked out in medieval décor, serving medieval food in a medieval style. I was in my element – especially after a few honey beers and sweet wines. We met Kristi there, another good Estonian chum I met in Dublin. Afterwards she took us to a ‘chocolaterie’, and after a cupan tae, we went for a wee bit more booze in something called the “Wally-Bar” or something like that. When the name was mentioned, a sardonic smile spread across Kristi’s face, an expression not that dissimilar to a Dublin reaction to “Let’s go to Dr. Quirky’s!” (or should that be “Qworrrrrkeeeees!”). So, I wasn’t convinced. Still, a pint’s a pint, and a drinking-hole’s a hole, and soon that warm fuzzy feeling came over me, happy in the knowledge that my Eesti- hymen had been breached, with almost no pain at all. Butterfly wasn’t content with the lack of pain I had endured, so afterwards I had a quick, night-capping street-fight with her, where I quite literally kicked her arse. E. Honda eat your baltics off.


E.Honda: Even Butterfly could kick his arse