KwAcKy's Konfessional |
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Nothing of interest; just mindless links to bikes Birmingham City Football Club and useless junk  
  
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14 March 2004
Tallinn – Day 2 The following events have been pieced together. I know what is posted below happened, I’m just not 100% sure of the timetable of the events. Having been wise enough to have an early night, Ian, Andy and I went into town to have some breakfast. Andy reported that Southy and Slammer fell into the room at about 5.30 a.m. muttering something about “Rock Rob”. The fresh air and the lack of a hangover meant the 3 of us were prepared for the long day ahead. The plan was to find a bar showing the only premiership games – Blues v Bolton - in between planning the night and the following day. Andy assured us we had found the “Bar With No Name”. We ordered some food and appreciated the pleasant, young, friendly, attractive, short skirt wearing staff :- ) After eating we walked further into town and found the “Bar With No Name”. Just for research purposes and to ensure we didn’t take the late night revellers to a duff bar, we went in for a beer or two and stumbled across the only stag party in Tallinn - a bunch of London boys on some poor bloke’s stag. Quiet what they were doing with a Hartlepool fan I’ll never know. We looked for a tourist information office to find out about the rifle range we had heard about. We stood outside for 10 minutes deciding which one was going to talk to the local lass about firing AK47s. Getting colder by the minute I took the plunge. My query was greeted with a face that failed to register a word I said. Her colleague translated. I heard “Kalashnikov”. Her face was no longer blank, but pained and puzzled. “Why?” was her query. My excuse of “Erm, because we can’t do it in England” was returned with a frowned brow. The nice lady from the tourist board made some phone calls. She then passed the phone to Ian. I quickly gathered he was talking to the owner of the rifle range “No, we don’t have our own guns, can we use yours?” perked us up as we had started to think that this place didn’t exist. However, it’s fair to say I was a tad nervous when Ian gave his name, hotel and room number. “He sounded a big bloke. A really big bloke. Scary” reported Ian. “So why did you tell him where we’re staying?” “He’ll fax us some details.” Cool. We headed back to base and picked up 2 very rough looking Bluenoses. They had carried on drinking, argued with some Yanks and made friends with a heroin addict. All in a nights work. Back into town for more food. Slammer turned down the nosh because “food is for girls” 20 minutes later he was asleep. We dragged his sorrowful carcass to Molley Malones where he woke up long enough to throw an insult to a gang of Helsinki bikers. That art of flight I told you about? Put to good use. We couldn’t find anywhere showing the Blues game. These Eastern European countries are so backward ;-) We took in some of the sights and settled in a bar with skysports 1 so we could hear about Blues going 5th. Slammer slipped into deep slumber. We moved seats to give him some peace. In came a drunken couple. Finns celebrating their 3rd wedding anniversary. How sweet. He was the Finnish version of the pub singer, a song every 3 minutes. He also seemed to take a shine to Southy, rubbing his unshaven face against Southy’s each time Southy joined in with the sing a long. Nice stubble rash. Mrs Drunken Finn wanted to hear some English songs, so we tried to teach her the good old fashioned Shit on the Villa. Curious looks from our new found Finnish friends. “Why you hate the villa?” ”Scum love.” (feigned spit on the floor) “BASTARDS! Why you hate the villa? WHY?” came the plaintive plea. Slammer woke up. We fled. We headed back to the Bar With No Name to watch the Arsenal game and to hear from a Gooner how times were hard under George Graham. Our collective hearts bled. Back to the hotel to get washed and changed. We collected in the lobby bar to plan the night. I decided that we shouldn’t stay out too late as we had to be at the rifle range the following morning and the last thing you needed to mix with a banging hangover was a semi automatic assault rifle. Seemed like a good idea. We’ll go to the hotel’s disco for a nightcap and call it a night. Whilst waiting and watching we noticed a decent sized queue develop for the Hotel’s “ROCK DISCO – HITS OF THE 80s AND 90s”. The average age wasn’t nnnnn nineteen, nineteen, more like fortysomething. This must be the place where mums and dads come to reminisce. This was one fucking surreal day. So we went to the local strip club. This was the usual fare, very attractive semi clad ladies of various nationalities and breast size, do everything possible to make you and your hard earned part company. I found my target (or she found me) and off we went into a private booth with a very nice full sized mirror. When she whispered “ you can touch me for EEK 500” and then pulled her pants down a little, I didn’t know if I was meant to slot in my hand or the cash. 15 minutes later I emerged to find that the others had all found a particular silken purse. After a while the others returned to the main area. All but one. Slammer. Being the loyal and kind hearted folk you know us as, we fecked off and left him to whatever he was up to. En route to the ROCK DISCO we decided to get more cash. Southy got attacked by a small group of local ladies who loved his smell. Go figure. He was tempted to follow them to another nightclub until we pointed out that the leader of the pack had a rather strange and unsightly growth on her lower lip. Back to the hotel and the 8th floor ROCK DISCO. As we paid our entrance fee I noticed a Spotted Slumbering Slammer. Not usually seen this far East we made sure it was alright before we fecked off and left him too it. The oldies we had spotted earlier had obviously left and been replaced by the babysitters who cared for the elders charges until ma and pa had had enough. A couple of local lasses questioned our choice of destination which was answered in the usual fashion of “cheap beer and good looking women”. They impressed us with their knowledge of at least 4 languages and we relied on the "but everyone speaks English" excuse. They were impressed with my smattering of German which meant I didn't have the heart to tell them I learnt it all playing sad on-line second world war shoot em ups. Surreality (is that a word?) took a firmer grip when I found myself slow dancing to Estonian folk music with a Sarah Jessica Parker lookalike. Being the gents we are, Southy and I offered our new found friends the chance to join us for food. If we could find somewhere. It was 4 o’clock in the morning and they don’t do kebab and chips. We were escorted to a local late night canteen style buffet. Once we had our fill we dumped the ladies and made our way back to the hotel (taking the longest route home for some unknown reason) stopping only to talk Russian with some guy who wanted a rollie. As I stumbled into bed this voice muttered “you don’t want to stay out too late, we’ve got the rifle range in the morning” “Fuck off Ian, and sweet dreams mate” |
