Sofia to Dublin to Belfast to Liverpool... phew.

Trip Start Jan 20, 2008
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Trip End Ongoing


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Flag of United Kingdom  , England,
Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Okie dokie folks, here begins yet another woefully overdue instalment in this blog, the chronicle of our mediocre travels and exploits...
The last blog covered our time in Bulgaria and mentioned that we had visited some friends (Anto and Marissa) in Ireland, so that seems like as appropriate a point as any from which to resume our disjointed narrative, so here goes J. ...Actually, before we arrived in Ireland, we flew into Luton from sofia. I don't really remember anything about that flight and neither does Doug, he assures me. But the very fact that we did actually arrive in Luton suggests that we somehow made it on board. We had checked in to our favourite hostel in sofia, the Art Hostel, y'know the one with the groovy cellar bar and as our flight was leaving at 6.30am the next day or somewhere thereabouts, we needed to be at the airport by about 0430 hours. After checking in, we decided to leave our bags in the room and nip down to the cellar bar for a few final Wymehckos (it was a Saturday night, after all...) and then, off to bed. It almost goes without saying that we never actually made it to bed that night. At about 4am our mate who sort of runs the hostel and who had been keeping pace with us all night, drink for drink, called us a cab and that's about all I remember till we touched down in Luton. Considering we did actually make it, I suppose things can't have gone too badly, can they? I guess we'll find out next time we go through, or try to go through sofia airport.
We had two nights to kill before our flight over to Dublin and Dougie was going to stay in Luton at Kelly's (one of our friends from Whalley who had moved back to her parents house, handily located just down the road from the airport) while I hopped a national express bus up to Cambridge to visit Sharone. After a very brief visit, I was on a bus again the next morning and met up with Doug at Kelly's, where we were to spend the next night. That day though, we had business to attend to in London (claiming our refunds from the Korean Air office for cashing in our return tickets to Aus) so we jumped on a train and had a day in the capital. We didn't do much, but we did purchase something we'd been after for a while. A travel guitar. It's basically a normal guitar with a much smaller sound box. The neck and the fret board are all full size.
Anyways, we had wanted one of these type of guitars for a while because, like laptops, most airlines let you carry on musical instruments for free and they don't count as extra luggage, provided they're not too large . When we got back to Kelly's that night the sofa was already taken as one of Kelly's brothers was also staying at home, so I managed to make myself quite comfortable on the carpet. I forget where Dougie slept. Kelly and her family were wonderfully hospitable and we spent some very pleasant time there with them just before we headed off to Dublin.
In fact, the very nearness of Kelly's house to the airport actually made us a bit blasé about how long before our flight we'd need to leave for the airport and when Kelly's dad sauntered downstairs in the morning and asked what time our flight was, his reaction gave us a bit of a start. "Fucken 'ell! Grab your stuff and get it in the car, I'll get youse down there right now!". Ok, I guess going to Ireland is still an international flight and the proprieties need to be observed, like getting to the airport early enough. As it was, I'm pretty sure we were just about the last people to get through the check in before they closed the counter, and then we had all the other security checks and other stuff to go through. At one point, I had both our small day bags, which we usually take as carry on luggage [because on all the budget carriers, you only get one piece of luggage to check in free] and Dougie was carrying the new guitar, about ten strides in front of me having already gone through the metal detector. The guard there bailed me up because I had two bags, of course, and you're only permitted one. Thoughtlessly, I then committed an airport cardinal sin and said, "yeah, but this one's not mine mate, I'm just carrying it for me mate". As soon as the words were out of my mouth I could have kicked myself. These days, the last thing you want to tell airport security is that you're carrying luggage that isn't your own. I could see this bloke and his security mates all starting to get macho and envisage themselves taking down a would be terrorist. (There really are times and places when a beard and long hair don't do you any bloody favours).
Thankfully though, these guys were a little brighter than their Hollywood counterparts tend to be and a quick explanation, backed up by Dougie seemed to suffice. Then there was the issue that we still had three bits of luggage between two of us. "Yeah, but this one's a bloody musical instrument mate, they don't have to be checked in and they're ok for carry on. Come on mate, it's in the bloody luggage policy of the airline! (I had no idea if this was true or not, but it sounded good). "Fuck we're gunna miss this friggin flight if we have to fuck about with all this shit!". Well, that seemed to do the trick and we were on our way again. Who says swearing won't help, eh? We weren't late enough that we actually had to sprint for the plane or anything, but we definitely had a bit of a hustle on, especially being in an unfamiliar airport. I remember looking at our boarding passes and thinking, "oh, gate one! At least that'll be nice and close and we won't have too far to go" Yeah, right! Unfortunately, whatever misguided genius was employed to design Luton airport decided to number the gates from the outside in, rather than the more usual inside out, meaning that gate 1 was about as far away as it was possible to be, while still being in the same airport.
All the corridors we were going through appeared completely deserted. Well, except for the attractive and slightly confused looking American girls some way in front of us. It seemed increasingly evident that they were looking for the same flight as us. Not wanting to be the last people on the plane and thereby having to struggle to find a seat and any space in the overhead lockers, as well as deal with all the angry looks from other passengers, we resolved to overtake them. This decision led to a bit of an unofficial race to the gate which I am happy to report, we totally won. It must have looked quite comical to anyone watching though. All of us striding along as quickly as we could, without actually running or looking at the others and trying to look as though we weren't trying. The conclusion of the race was kind of funny anyways, we all came around a right angle bend in the corridor and almost ran into a veritable sea of bored looking people in green t-shirts [it was st pat's day, after all]. We had arrived at the waiting lounge for our flight. All that hurry and worry and the bloody flight hadn't even boarded yet. We wound up having about another ½ hour to wait before we could get on the plane, time we put to good use chatting with the American girls we had just beaten to the waiting lounge. As a gesture of reconciliation, we rather graciously allowed them to board before us. It was the race that mattered anyways.
So, anyways, we did actually make it to Dublin on St Pats day, which was one of the things we'd wanted to do last year, but had managed to mess up. In this case, the second time was a charm, which was just as well, really. I wouldn't relish the prospect of another year of this bloody dismal weather, just so we could get that one ticked off the list. Sheesh. Getting to Dublin airport though, was only half the battle, so to speak. We had a phone number for one of the great blokes we met on our trip through turkey for ANZAC day last year, Anto Doyle, who had kindly offered to let us crash at his place in Dublin for a little while. Anto had quite impressed me on the ANZAC trip through turkey by being just about the only bloke I've ever met who knows almost all the words to, "The Band Played Waltzing Matlida". After some mucking about with international area codes and other annoying but necessary details, we managed to get in touch with Anto and found out which bus we'd need to catch to get into the middle of town where we'd meet up with him, his lovely girlfriend, Marissa and a few of their other mates for some serious Dublin style paddy's day action, i.e. the copious consumption of enormous quantities of Guinness... Finding the right bus though, wasn't quite the same as finding the middle of town. Where we were supposed to meet Anto was by what he described as, "a dirty great big fuck off pointy thing, bang in the middle of town. Like, 200m high or something. You can't miss it." It sounded simple enough, but of course, this was St Pat's Day. The parade was on and the bus routes that would ordinarily go through the middle of town had been diverted. All it really meant though was that we had a slightly longer walk. It wasn't really too difficult to find, Anto's description being pretty much on the money. That spire thing was enormously tall. Apparently it was supposed to be erected in time for the turning of the millennium, but ran over time... by about 4 years or so. The biggest difficulty came from trying to walk through the teeming crowds of people who were, well, everywhere... Eventually, we met up with Anto (and Coyle and Gazza and Dunfy) and despite the fact that we still had all our luggage, it became clear that the first order of business was going to be pints. Several in fact. Well, clearly our arms didn't need to be twisted far in that direction. We soon worked out that we were lucky to have gotten directions to the middle of town and to have been met there by Anto, as he had been considering playing a joke on us that had worked on a few of his other mates. A few people, apparently, when attempting to catch up with Anto in Dublin have been told to head to the George, one of the city's most famous gay venues, and to ask the barman, "can I come in the back entrance please? I'm meeting a few friends". What I found most amusing about this, is that it actually worked on anyone. Anyways, after a few warm up pints of Guinness, just to get in to the St Patrick's Day spirirt, we headed back to Anto and Marissa's digs in Ranelagh, to drop our luggage off and get suitably fired up for a big night out in Dublin, on St Pat's Day, no less.
Back at their place we were also introduced to "Buckfast" which wasn't a person, but a type of alcoholic drink. Disappointingly, Buckfast isn't actually a typical Irish drink but an English one. Despite having been in England for about 12 months, neither doug nor I had come across it, and let's face it, we were pretty familiar with a lot of English drinks. Anyways, Buckfast was a type of tonic wine (whatever the hell that means) from Kent or Cornwall or somewhere in England and inevitably people really do say, "Buckfast, it gets you fucked fast". In Dublin, which is a damnably expensive place to be, Buckfast is considered cheap alcohol, at about 10€ (probably about $22 AUS) for a 700ml bottle, but it certainly beats 6.80€ (around $12AUS, or thereabouts) for a pint. So after an afternoon of getting much more personally acquainted with some bottles of buck fast (which did indeed get us fucked fast) everyone was pretty much ready to go and hit the town, which we promptly did. As far as I recall, and I'm certainly not sure that my recollections should be trusted, the first place we went to was called, The Barge. Or something like that. It was near a canal. Or something watery. Anyway, it seemed a fun place. After a little while there, we waded through the seething crowds of reeling drunks and people who weren't yet drunk, but were trying hard to get there soon, till we made our way to another establishment, the name of which still (and probably permanently) escapes me. To be honest, we were probably doing a fair bit of reeling ourselves. We stayed at the next venue for a fair while, drinking and being jostled so much in its crowded environs that to the untrained eye it probably appeared as though we were dancing. That may have actually been the case for some of the others, but being possessed of all the natural rhythm of a partially decayed tree stump, I'm going to steadfastly maintain that I was not dancing, and any evidence to the contrary was simply a result of the constant jostling of other pub patrons in the overcrowded place. Anyways, at some point during the night, Doug got a case of the wanders and disappeared off to god only knows where. When the time came to leave the pub as pretty much everyone was beginning to feel a little worse for wear, a dedicated search of the street and the few nearest pubs failed to uncover any sign of our itinerant mate.
At this stage of our travels, we were also down to one mobile between the two of us as Dougie had lost the other one somewhere on one of the unpisted black runs at Pamporovo. Fortunately, or rather, unfortunately as it turns out, Doug had our last remaining phone at this time. Having failed to find him anywhere, I managed to dig the phone number out of my wallet and Anto gave Doug a ring. Of course, being in an unfamiliar city that we'd only just arrived in, Dougie couldn't really explain where he was, and according to Anto, it sounded as though he may not have known anyway. As patiently as he could, Anto explained that he would text the address of the house to doug's mobile and that Doug should just grab a cab back to there, we could pay for it when it got there, no probs. As soon as he got off the phone, Anto sent the address information to Doug and we assumed that he would be back at the house in short order as there were any number of cabs about. For reasons that are still unclear, this absolutely failed to happen and it wasn't until the early hours of the morning, around 0500 or 0600H, that Dougie arrived back at the house and the saga of his night began to unfold. Let's face it, the details are still a bit sketchy but Doug's best recollection goes like this: "I fucked off to that other pub down the road and then ran out of money, so I decided to go home, and then, for some reason, I wound up at the chippy with enough Chinese food to feed a medium sized army, which I also don't remember paying for. Halfway through my first meal, I was confronted by a couple of coppers, who asked me some basic questions. They went inside after having a talk to me, at which point I decided to ditch the food and fuck off. Then I got lost in the back streets for a while, where I ran into these 2 officers who looked really familiar. It wasn't till I got really close that I recognised them from the events at the chippy and after a much more thorough interview this time which wasn't made any easier by the fact that I had no ID and couldn't prove my identity plus the fact that they were local foot patrol cops and didn't recognise the address I had given them, and consequently thought I was bulshitting them. Somehow I still managed to convince them that I wasn't lying and didn't deserve to be locked up for inebriation which was the fate they had planned for me. After convincing them of this, I was still back at square one, lost, in what I believed to be the right suburb, but with no idea how to find the right house. Eventually, after walking around in enough circles I managed to find an internet café which, thank fuck, was 24hrs, run by a polish bloke with some seriously limited English. From there, I got onto google maps, put in the address I wanted, got the address of the net café, printed a map and the rest was just like joining the fucken dots. Bingo, not lost anymore. On the way to the house, I ran into the same two bloody cops, this time though, armed with a marked map and a clear destination I managed to get away without the extended questioning. Not long after that, I was tapping on the front window of the for fucken ages, trying to wake up Paul the prick, who was comfortably asleep on the bloody sofa while I shivered outside."
Below is the version of events that I created in the absence of some of the blanks Doug filled in above: (the bit about the No. 2 really did happen. He just left that out of his version)
As far as I understand it, Doug had become a little bored in the establishment we were in and had decided to go for one of his usual drunken meanderings and somewhere along the way got a little lost, or perhaps just a little sidetracked. Maybe it was a pretty face or perhaps just a particularly inviting looking pub, whatever the case Dougie wound up, somewhere else and got in a few more drinks. Why texting the address to him failed to work we may never know, but the most likely reason is that somewhere along the line, the phone got lost. It certainly wasn't with him when Doug lobbed in the morning. Apparently when he finally decided it was time to head home and realised that he no longer had the phone, Doug did the logical thing and tried to retrace his steps back towards the house, which was in Ranelagh. While it may be the logical thing to do, it's certainly not an easy thing to do, especially after a bottle or three of Buckfast, plus all the other St Pat's Day bevvies we'd had. Some of the rest of the details are even more sketchy, but there was mention of one of natures calls (no. 2) needing to be answered in between two parked cars which may (or may not) have precipitated the attention Dougie later received from the Guarda (the cops). Allegedly, the police started giving Doug some grief for not knowing where he was going, because they wanted him off the street or something along those lines. Having lost the phone at some point, Doug was unable to give the address and could only tell them that is was in Ranelagh. This didn't seem to wholly satisfy the police but they did let him carry on, after a warning of some description. At some point, Doug actually did make it to Ranelagh but was then unable to figure out which street and which number the house was, which was near enough to being back at square one. With a flash of inspiration though, Doug realised that if he could get access to the internet, he could go back through his or my old emails and find the address that way. There was still, of course, the difficulty of finding an all night internet café, on St Pat's Day/night at 2, 3 or possibly 4am. In due course though, he did manage it, including another encounter with the same police he'd met earlier. I think though, that this exchange took place after Doug found the internet café and had printed out the address and directions to Anto's, meaning he was much more able to dish out a bit of cheek to the cops who'd been wankers to him earlier. Good on him too. In his place, I'd've been stuffed, I don't even know if it would've occurred to me to find a net café and to check the old emails. Mind you Dougie was one cold, tired and knackered looking fella when he finally did show up back at Anto's... The things we do, eh?
After the madness and mayhem of "An Actual St Pat's Day In Dublin" (was beginning to wonder if we'd ever get that one ticked off!" we took a couple of days off to recover. We went for a few strolls with Marissa around Dublin and checked out the city centre and Trinity College, got a photo next to statue of the Tart on a Cart (Molly Malone), meandered down Temple Bar and basically had a good old lazy time of it. One of our more notable outings was with Anto when we went for a pint of the Best Guinness In Dublin at a pub that could only be described as "seriously out of the way". Stepping through the front door, was like looking back 100 or a 150 years, the only thing that gave it away was the cut of the clothes on the clients and the bartender. Anto had heard about this place from a taxi driver, so it had to be true, right? And everyone in the UK (ok, well not everyone obviously, but a lot of people...) says that the Irish keep all the best Guinness for themselves and only export the worst stuff. All of this put together, we decided, was certainly sufficient reason to go and investigate. After a somewhat circuitous trip there by GPS, we arrived. There was no mistaking it, this pub was the kind of place they had in mind when they coin trite cliché's like, "the real deal" or, "the genuine article". I'm really annoyed that we forgot to take the camera along, but then, it wasn't the sort of place you'd feel comfortable taking photos anyway. In fact, I can't even remember the name of the place, Anto will probably remember, or maybe Dougie will. Anyway, we duly went in to sample the Guinness and disappointingly, I have to admit that I couldn't taste any difference. I will be the first to admit though, that I am far from being a connoisseur of, well, anything. Ask any of a number of ex girlfriends who've tried (in vain) to teach me to appreciate good coffee. I still can't tell the difference (much to their dismay) between a super dooper double backflip mocha thingamy whatsit 'cino and a good ole cup of international roast, instant coffee. White with two thanks. Anyway, Guinness always tastes good to me, especially after the fourth or fifth pint, I find. Still, it was a good afternoon out.

For a couple of days, the weather was lovely and sunny, which seems to be a bit of a rarity in this hemisphere. If there's one thing I'll definitely come home with from this trip, it's an appreciation of good old Aussie weather. I can actually remember thinking to myself at the start of the trip, "I'm not going to do the typical thing and bitch about how crap the weather is over here either". Clearly, I had no bloody idea what I was talking about, but that's certainly nothing new. The good weather in Dublin managed to last exactly as long as it took for us to book ourselves on to a day tour out to Malahide castle and the coastline north of Dublin. On that day, it came over grey and cloudy and things did not bode well for the tour. Luckily though (and completely out of character) it fined up and we had a good time of it. Malahide castle was quite interesting and was filled nearly to the brim with tons of paintings (almost all portraits) from the national gallery. The tour guide was very informative and told us loads about the history of the castle, or at least I think she did. To be completely honest, while I'm sure I was listening attentively at the time, pretty much everything I learned there has gone in one ear and straight out the other, with out the least chance of running into anything in between. In that sense, it bears a more than healthy resemblance to my university degree. What the hell was semiotics all about anyway? Anyone? Didn't think so. As I am fond of saying, "I had a hell of a lot more respect for people with Degree's before I got one". At any rate, it was a great day out and demonstrated why Ireland is justifiably known as, The Emerald Isle. It's really green.
We also had a day out with Anto and Marissa and went to a place called Bray (?) which was on the coast and quite scenic. We climbed up the headland there and very unusually for Dougie and I, we were actually wearing suitable footwear. We've climbed a few mountains during our travels, and for the most part, we've done it in double pluggers. This time though, Anto and Marissa carried the flag for the cause I've just invented, "Climbing Things You Really Shouldn't, In Inappropriate Footwear". I'm not sure that it'll take off, but I am sure that there'll be other additions to it. In this instance, Anto and Marissa had come out wearing the slippers they normally get about the house in, unaware that the casual stroll along the well used path was going to be hijacked into an unscheduled stomp up to the top of the bluff. It was quite a lot of fun actually, though there were a few bits that nearly gave Marissa heart attacks. The view from the top was pretty good, though it was ridiculously windy.
That was pretty much the end of our time in Dublin, for which we cannot thank Anto and Marissa and their housemates enough, as they were kind enough to let us stay with them for the duration of our stay. Thanks guys, we had a fantastic time in Dublin, and you're all more than welcome to come and visit us in Liverpool anytime you want. You may want to check that we're still here though, before coming, lol.
At Anto's suggestion, we put off going to Liverpool for a couple of days and decided to head up north to Belfast, a place which had never really been in our travel plans, but we thought, hell, why not? As it turned out, we were very glad that we went anyway. By comparison to Dublin, everything seemed amazingly cheap, which was good for us, as we had gone past the point where we were scraping the bottom of the metaphorical barrel of our funds, and were pretty much trying to dig up the floorboards. We only spent two nights in Belfast, which gave us enough time to do a Black Cab tour of the city, which was very interesting, as it took us to lots of places in the city where (in)famous or important events during the years of the troubles had taken place. We saw the Belfast equivalent of the Berlin wall, Bombay street and the murals which commemorate those who've died. Our taxi driver guide was very impressive with the depth of his knowledge, but also with his professionalism. He absolutely wouldn't give the slightest clue as to which side his allegiance belonged and we had been reliably informed that a very high percentage of the taxi drivers who do these tours were paramilitaries on one or the other side of the troubles. All that being said, he gave a very fair and impartial history of the troubles and was happy to answer my many questions, a lot of which would've demonstrated just how ignorant I was of the finer points of Northern Irelands troubled past. As Dougie has just reminded me, we also had an amazingly attractive guest on that tour, a Swedish girl named Sophia who was staying in our hostel in Belfast. Dougie: She was fucking bewdifull.
On our second day in Belfast, we once again took Anto's advice and booked ourselves onto a day trip to see the giants causeway, which I'd heard about years and years ago, and had even seen on tv, but had completely forgotten was in northern Ireland. The giants causeway is pretty much exactly what it sounds like. It's a type of rock formation which is almost unique in the world, the only other place that rock formations like it are found is allegedly over the water in Scotland. There are thousands and thousands of these strange hexagonal pillars of rock that form what looks exactly like a causeway (of very large proportions) which just heads out into the sea, straight towards Scotland. Apparently the Irish had a legend of a Giant fellow called Finn McCool (I'm really not sure if I have that name right) who had basically had enough of the Scots, so he took his broadsword and cut off the northern end of Ireland to be rid of them. But he still wanted to visit, or some such, and so built the causeway, so he could walk over and pop in for a bit of tea from time to time. Any historian or person who is actually interested in this sort of thing would probably go into fits over such a shallow, inadequate and probably just plain wrong summation of events, but this has never purported to be a historically accurate or informative text. It's my blog and it's for entertainment as much as anything else, so any historians can fuck off. Scuse the French. The Giants Causeway was spectacular though and I'd highly recommend the day tip out to see it to anyone. I would hope that you get better weather than we did though, it drizzled almost all day. There was also plenty of great scenery and stunning coastline to see along the way too. The day trip also takes you to this place where they maintain an old rope bridge that goes over to an old island used by fishermen many moons ago. The bus stops and you can get out and cross the bridge if you dare, over the 96ft drop to the crashing waves and rocks below. I have to admit, I was a bit disappointed when I saw the bridge. I'm not sure what I expected when I imagined the bridge, but the sturdy, modern looking thing with planks along the bottom to walk on didn't really fit the bill. I guess I was thinking more of something out of Indiana Jones, that looked old and decrepit and ready to drop into the sea at any moment. This one just looked dull, so much so, that while crossing it, despite the wind, I declined to even take my hands out of my pockets, much to the horror of some of the old ladies who were having a bit of trouble with it. And to the horror, I suppose, of some younger people who were behaving like old ladies and having some trouble crossing it. To say I was mildly disappointed would be, well, mildly understating the case. One young fellow though, took advantage of his mother's terror to shake the bridge about while she was on it. Her shrieks of, "Daniel, you fucking little prick! I am going to kill you when I get off this fucking thing!!" gave everyone a bit of a chuckle, though it does seem a bit nasty now.
So, moving right along... that pretty much sums up the Republic of Ireland and the Northern Ireland trips. After that little day trip finished, we had the night in Belfast and then caught the ferry over to Liverpool, where we met up with our mate Al. We spent a couple of weeks getting used to the place, during which Al took us to the Grand National which was tons of fun and then the job hunting began. I got extremely lucky and scored an interview from the first place I dropped in a resume, a flash and fancy pub called, "The Pumphouse" down on the Albert Dock. The next day I went in for the interview and got the job. Doug has been more or less fully employed helping out with the renovations on Al's house where we'd been staying, free of rent (courtesy of Doug's labour). All things considered, I think I got the good deal, by being employed.
So, at the moment, we are still here in Liverpool, attempting to save as much money as we can so we can knock a few more things off our to do list. This year, we'd really like to fit in a trip to Amsterdam, and a bit of time in Spain if possible. The other things on our collective agenda are trying to get visas and Working Holiday Permits sorted out for Canada, so that we can head off over there near the end of the year to try and work a ski season. Geoff's brother Rob pretty much convinced us that we'd get more skiing in going for a holiday, rather than to work the season but unfortunately, looking at our finances (or more accurately, lack thereof) it doesn't even seem remotely possible at the moment.
Well, I think that pretty much brings us up to date. That's what we've been up to, and where we're at now, so let me just say a big thanks to all of those who've helped us along the way. You know who you are guys, and we all appreciate it!
And also, a HHHUUUUUGGGEEEEEEE big happy birthday to my Dad who turns 59 on the 21st of May. Hope you have a great day Dad, lots of love from me.
And a big G'day to my sis, Robz!!! Take care of Dad and give him a big hug from me, will ya? ;)
And G'day to my Nan!!! (If you're reading this Nan, sorry about all the swearing, I'll have to ask Robz to print you out a censored version).
And of course, big G'day's and Hellos to everyone else back home and to our mates round the world. Can't have anyone feeling left out can we?

Bye everyone! Will write more, eventually. Well, will probably write more, at some stage. Y'know, sooner or later. When something interesting happens or something.
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Comments

meathead
meathead on

Ireland
Great write Paul,realy funny and interesting(took me all morning to read) I'm not good with big words,thats anything over 4 letters! What did Dougie do for toilet paper? No, I don't want to know.Keep having a ball men,I envy you both. 'till next time.
Meathead.

dadz
dadz on

Life's good
G'day Paul and Doug
Many thanks for your amusing update. I had a long chuckle whilst I was reading it and had to keep explaining what I was chuckling about. You blokes certainly like to give your bodies a bit of a workout. Remember that the rest of your lives CAN be a long time. I hope you both live long enough to have a few regrets over some of your indulgences (just jealous). Thanks for the birthday wishes Paul, I had a terrific day.
All the best from DADZ & ROBZ

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