sub woofer 31.07.06

the time it takes a steak from being grilled medium to well done was the amount of time by which ryanair decided to close the big vacuum sealed doors of one of their teeny tiny boeing 737's so leaving me stranded like tom hanks in cast away at stansted airport at 18.30pm.
next flight to Gothenburg City........7.15am the next morning.
FU...............................................................................................................CK

i had to fork over 40 squid rings (copyright capitan america) and believe you me that didn't come garnished or with a side order of rice. that's the price you gotta pay for missing a flight with the flying rodent that is ryanair.
and so began a torturously exciting adventure, but luckily in my company waiting for me with a subway sarmie on the swedish side was ray 'bones barbone', who was nearly shot while attempting to make a pat cash on the swedish royal palace one wednesday morning.

bones and i chewed the fat,grizzle and meaty bits of a two legged journey which culminated in stockholm.
the airport at gothenburg is no bigger than my garden shed, and i aint sh*tting you. our bags rocked up off the plane on a frikkin tractor. it was all agrarian to me, all green and woody. saw dust filled my nose and i was loving it.
i dig hostels, you never know who is gonna be cooking their pasta next to you. me and boney man quickly made buddies with some other travellers and all of a sudden the city was all ours. we bent that wee town like a pole vault attached to the hairy sergei bubka.
Gothers is a wee little city, again like most european cities, it sits real perty on a river. we quickly whipped though the city like tasmanian devils, drank all their beer, chewed their sh*tty tobacco and punished our jamesons. we punished that jamesons so hard, it made guantanamo bay look like play school.

having raced through gothenburg, stockholm would find us weathered and tired at the end of the track.
Stockies aint no joke. she harbours loads of water and is pocked with emerald green coloured onion domes and roofs. her architecture is detailed and vibrant in colour. her patch work city layout is stitched by fingers of water, squares and grassy playgrounds.her old cobbled town is quaint and steep with streets only 4 people deep.
the swedes are icy blonde, air brushed and strikingly beautiful. the two of us were burdened by our fat lips we dragged behind us, and our eyes needed to be soldered to their sockets after each days journeying.

we had booked one night in the old town thinking we could then book another as we pleased, but noo, stockies had to go and be difficult. it so happened that every gay in every village was in stockholm for her gay pride parade. so me and the boney man having burnt our rubber soled shoes to chewy gum looking for available beds decided to go the night sleepless and so a night of torture began.

we jump started the night punishing a litre of my favoutite jet fuel vodka in some kiddies park in wee swedish suburbia under the guise of dark. we bar hopped and made an attempt to party the night like there was no tomorrow. we chilled in a park and watched the sun rise from a bus stop bench. wow what a night.

that morn boney man left me stranded on a hard wood train station bench to stew in the putrid stench of stale cigarette smoke and humid sweat. i stayed on for another couple of nights battered and as tired as john waynes old leather belt.

the architecture of sweden occupied my days. gunnar asplund's chapel left me with grass burns and his library, unfortunately inaccessible, left me wandering and illiterate.

the sunny days saw me strolling the bays and soaking the sun. every swede was out baking to a fine crisp, and plunging the waters.it was an incredible sight.

swimming in the black water bay of stockholm after a night of cheap heineken was as freaky and as surreal as a b-grade horror movie.'ill go get my swimming trunks before we go.' sorry dude but we dont have time for that, we'll go bare ass, you can swim in your jocks.' hmm mm. from the water i peered long at the lit city and high at the overhead concrete bridge. it was an experience ive placed in my back pocket secure from being erased.

i continued to spend my days dangling my raw feet over the harbours edge staring at the glorious sparkling Baltic sea, munching pre-made salads, industrialised french baguettes and sipping ice cold coca colas. i saw design museums and the great vassa museum-home to a splintered viking ship. i walked my way to the geodesic dome that is the ice hockey stadium, bought a california shirt from a svelte swede who was a fan of Oasis, 'keep listening to rock n roll', i watched gays on motor bikes, gays in trucks, gays who worked for Ikea, gay cops, gay docs ,it was the gayest thing i've ever seen. phew what a day, a day as gay as the hills

finally i had found a city that had not been drowned in the gangrenous rot of globalisation.
stockies, you are my friend, so long buddy, i do hope to return.

from the scratchings of saddened lad.
stay well my far flung friends and remember, skating goofy aint mickey mouse.
sweetly
the dan russian bear hunter and master swordsman