2014 - A year of PROGRESSION.

A couple of days ago I was sat by myself on the 18:05 train out of London Victoria, with time to reflect to myself on how ground-breaking the stark contrasts were for both my  life and Dover Athletic in just the space of 12 months.

On the very same day one year previously, we had just completed the double over Ebbsfleet United in the conference south in which both clubs had become embroiled in a full-scale war. That afternoon I found myself on the receiving end of dog's abuse from a sizable quantity of their vocal support, who partook in several choruses of that hilariously original "10 man and his forklift truck couldn't carry Lampard Callum" song for much of the contest. 

Our superiority on that day, however, was by no means a measure of our league performance on the whole. We still remained outside the play-off berths and trailed the internet-sellout club by 5 points even in spite of that result, plus our dreadful home form would yet to be eradicated over the following couple of months with inconsistency set to confine another league campaign to failure. 

Fast forward twelve months and I'd be making my way home after visiting the Hive; the swish new home of Conference Premier pace-setters Barnet, who had led the pack since the very infancy of the 2014/15 campaign. They are a side managed by a wily old dog in Martin Allen and have plenty of football league quality amongst their ranks; to accompany the state-of-the-art facilities in their new surroundings. 
We escaped there with a very creditable point after a hugely entertaining 2-2 draw. Granted, it was tinged with disappointment that we had surrendered a two goal lead, but that was more an indictment of our opponents' strength than any shortfalls of our own. We still had chances of our own to have killed the game and any sorrowness of our failure to hold out was a measurement of just how far our club had progressed in such a short space of time, rather than genuine displeasure. 
After all, this result had just extended our unbeaten run in all competitions to a stunning run of 15 games, some feat for a club our size with what we're competing against since our division jump. The slaying of two football league clubs are also amongst this impressive stretch; which has thus bagged us an FA Cup 3rd round tie against Premier League outfit Crystal Palace, netting the club a huge windfall after its selection of televised status. 

I'd also leave this game roughly 8 and a bit stone lighter than I had weighed during my public display of mocking on that day at Stonebridge Road. 

Ebbsfleet United, meanwhile, having been condemned to at least another season of feeder league oblivion by the club who have (or had) a supporter who required a forklift to get past its turnstiles, marked this otherwise inconsequential anniversaire by being trounced 5-1 by the might of Basingstoke Town. At home. To leave them meandering behind league leaders Boreham Wood (who 'attracted' a Boxing Day 'crowd' of 278) by a whole 10 points, despite their shit-or-bust scale of spending in a ridiculously piss-weak league.

I'm under no illusions that eventually that club will sort themselves and buy drag themselves out of that division, especially now they have appointed a seemingly competent manager in ex-White Jamie Day, who performed spectacular at Welling United given the meagre resources available. If he can eradicate the jobs-for-boys culture at the club and weed out all the ex-Dover pea-hearted mercenaries like Daryl McMahon and Billy Bricknell, I'm sure he'll eventually be a success there in due time. At some point in the future we'll no doubt be on equal footing again, or worse still, they'll surpass us. 

However, I'd be lying if I said I haven't smirked at the irony of our contrasting fortunes in this moment of time. Generally, I bit my tongue a bit after our great Nathan Elder induced triumph of 10th May 2014. By my standards, I was rather constrained in the aftermath of that game. Partly because the sheer joy of finally escaping out of that tedious division overrode the need to mock our defeated rivals. The elation of not having to visit Boreham fucking Wood or Staines Town for the umpteenth time and instead being able to set our satnavs towards Blundell Park, The Memorial Ground and Plainmoor meant I was able to set aside my bitterness against our fallen opponents. 

Part of me thinks that an enormous, whopping big "fuck you" with Stone Cold Steve Austin middle fingers raised alike is long overdue against that club and its fanbase. But why should that disgruntlement remain? Ebbsfleet United, and Steve Brown in particular, have paved the way for DAFC to be the club it is today. The club that is currently experiencing some of its best moments in living memory. If he hadn't have raided the club for the bottling, overrated failures that we were for some reason disheartened to lose in the summer of 2013, then it would be very difficult to envisage DAFC being in the position that it currently is. Ebbsfleet may have instead appointment a man who would've put better use to their available astronomical funds and we wouldn't be lumbered with players who have ultimately shown that they are devoid of any mettle or moral fibre. 

So thank you Ebbsfleet United, it may have been fucking horrible at the time but you have ultimately shown that your recruitment policy of signing past and present DAFC employees has been fruitful in restoring one of Kent's most famous and beloved non-league clubs back to where they belong. It's just a shame for you that at the time you didn't realise that I would be talking about us. 

Some people (well, my Dad at least anyway) also believe that I should display gratification towards you for helping me achieve my subsequent transformation in both weight loss and life outlook. However, if the catalyst towards me finally managing to sort my life out is a gaggle of oddball non-leaguers taking the piss out of me, then I probably ought to take a long, studious observation of myself. 

Though I will not try and lie and pretend otherwise; having a whole stand verbally mock and laugh at me for my obesity did hurt me somewhat at the time. Especially given some of the perpetrators were people I have previously acquainted myself with and at one point would have considered them as friends. As much the abuse was disguised under the tediously cockish, overused line of defence "it was only banter", I felt pretty damn humiliated at the time, as much as in the macho-male bravado world of watching soccer you would wish to pretend otherwise. 

I'm not going to play the precious victim card here though. I opened myself up to the abuse I received by my conduct on several online outlets - both on football forums and on social media. I too have written some unsavoury and harsh stuff about Ebbsfleet United prior and in the aftermath of the games. I too, like 90% of match-going fans in the cockish world of football behaviour, have dished out and given abuse to players & officials from the safety confines of being behind a barrier. So I'm certainly in no position to pretend to be some virtue of morality who should be exempt from receiving what I regularly give out (although neither does it make it right).  

Some said it should have been a compliment that the abuse of their fans was veiled at me, rather than any DAFC employee who had been embroiled in the public tit-for-tat spat in the local press(es) that had been stirred in the game's lead-up. 
The abuse was personalised though, and without wanting to come across as a precious flower I wasn't able to see the funny side at the time. There was an element of truth to their claims anyway - weighing in at around 20 and a half stone at that point - it would have been difficult to envisage a man being able to carry me without the aid of some form of machinery. You can't argue with those sort of facts. 

To use this game, as my Dad would, as a tipping point and main provocation into undergoing such a dramatic weight loss, however, would be wrong. It was merely coincidental that it happened at such a point. It may have hit home and reinforced the ideal that I needed to lose weight - but it was certainly an issue that had already been circling me in the lead up to the new year. 
If "non-league bullies prompt obese lardarse to lose nearly half his body weight" makes for more of a sensationalist tabloid style story though, feel free to go along with it. 

The predominant factor for needing to lose weight was mainly my health. Around this Christmas point, I was struggling  to walk more than 5 minutes without needing to use my asthma pump. This was undoubtedly also caused by my suicidal tendency to still smoke heavily at weekends at this point but it had been progressing to a stage where my lack of breathing was of major concern. My prescription rate for requiring new inhalers had reached its frequent rate during my time on earth. I smoked my last ever cigarette on the early hours on that Boxing Day.

I'd even been reaching a point where at night time I was struggling to sleep sometimes because I could hear my heart rate palpitating. Now that's pretty scary. And worrying. I don't think it's melodramatic to say that if I continued for much longer with my then-lifestyle that I would soon have suffered a heart attack or contracted other potentially fatal coronary-related diseases. I had pretty much driven myself to the brink with my careless, carefree, do-what-I-like attitude towards drinking and eating, stemming from my general apathy towards leading a fulfilling life. 

Of course, the self-image side of things also served as an incentive to lose weight. For who wouldn't it? Around this point it had reached the stage where I found myself untagging 97% of the photos I had tagged in on facebook, due to the sheer contempt of my own appearance.When it is coming down to that you know that it's a necessity to start taking action. 
Family photos at Christmas were ones that were particularly strong at hitting home; I looked revolting. A novelty, an embarrassment. I knew that I had piled on the pounds in my post school years but I think I had seriously underestimated just how much by until these latest ones emerged. 

New Year's Eve, 2013

Christmas Day 2013

I knew I would have to take serious action if I wanted to live beyond my mid twenties and thus began a new diet on 6th January. By the time I returned to Stonebridge Road for the play-off final in May, I had already shed more than five stone, making that victory all the more sweeter knowing that I was (probably) now slimmer than some of the ghastly figures who had once laughed at me. By early July I had already reached my initial target loss of 6 & half stone. At my last weigh-in before Christmas I had reached a body weight of 12st 3lbs; a total of 8st 4lbs vanished in less than 12 months. 

I think it would be fair to say that it's with matter-of-factness rather than arrogance that I can claim to have done rather well. It is a rapid rate to have achieved such a loss and especially when you consider I have managed to balance it out well by allowing myself to unwind, indulge and enjoy myself at weekends and on european trips away. 

However, my "achievement" is somewhat lessened by the fact I would describe my weight loss as easy, rather than strenuous. Once you get yourself into a routine, and find yourself increasingly buoyant from how much you are losing, it is a piss-of-piss to maintain that continuity. All you require is to not lax on discipline and have a strong element of self-trust. If you are truly committed to achieving your goals then the buzz of losing weight should be enough to see you through. I lost 12lbs in the first fortnight and at that point I knew there was no option of going back. 

I found myself enjoying eating healthily and my newly found positive attitude to food, learning all about cuisine and even beginning to cook for myself. It helps that I'm not a macho male dickhead enough to sneer at the thought of eating bulgar wheat and dried apricots. I wouldn't think it's uncool to opt for a falafel pitta bread over a 8oz steak burger. Fresh fruit and vegetables deserve to be embraced rather than mocked. Constantly eating shit, processed foods, however, does. You are not cool or anti-establishment for wanting a vile McDonalds Muffin delivered to your house for your Sunday hangover; you are in fact a bellend and nobody cares. 

People have always assumed that my speedy weight loss is a result of some meticulous and intense eating and exercise plan in which I have North Korea levels of restrictiveness on what I can do. That is hardly the case at all. My programme has pretty much been a cliched, simple case of "eat healthily and be active". That's all there is to it, in my view. I won't lie, I immerse great pleasure in the type of people who pay £40 to subscribe to herbalife and think that drinking a few genetically modified protein shakes will have them looking like Cyndi Lauper (or whoever the fuck is currently the embodiment of mainstream beauty these days) by the end of their programme. The same types who appear bedazzled when I inform them that I don't go to the gym or go out running. 

That's not to say that I don't take care over what I eat. At the turn of the year I still suffered from the indignity of being a checkout operator. One of the very few benefits of this mind-numbing role is that it enabled me to closely study the calorie, fat and sugar contents of the vast majority of our Sainsbury's products. I would do so with great interest - it enabled me to learn just how horrific dairy products, chocolates and biscuits were, while I soon learned the joys of how beneficial things like chicken and non-oily fish are. 
That might all seem pretty basic stuff but I was astoundingly ignorant towards food content before - I had always adopted an "I'm not listening" attitude to food. But hereafter I would stick to using skimmed milk, avoid the vast majority of cheeses and only use cereals with a low fat content. Breakfast would typically be weetabix or porridge; lunch a huge bulky salad usually accompanied by snackajacks and several fruit, while dinner would be varying - whatever me old dear had knocked up. She had catered towards me slightly by introducing regular chicken wraps as a meal and rice dishes like jambalaya would become more frequent - but overall I benefitted from a wide range of cooking.

And as for exercising - the stress some people place on the need to do complicated workouts is completely unjust and unnecessary. From my experience it's getting a healthy diet that is the prerequisite towards losing weight - not intense exercise. Don't get me wrong - I kept active. I regularly walk at least one of the 3 mile legs to or from work. This is hardly sacrificial - it only takes 50 minutes and a good walk is useful for helping to cleanse your soul or examine dead seagulls that you encounter on your footpath. 
It also helps that working in retail I am constantly on my feet since exiting checkout work - all that rushing around and lifting is much more of a workout than it would seem on the surface. 
But other than that - my level of exercise has been fairly modest. I went through a spell where I would go swimming once a week, and swim 30/40/50 laps dependant on at what stage my fitness had built up. My hectic working schedule has prevented me from going in months but I found it a great way to knock off a few calories, improve my body strength and fitness while doing something I enjoyed. 

Slightly less repulsive, Christmas 2014. 

Without wanting (but failing) to sound like a classic case of "first world problems", I will say that the transition from being a fat, useless no-hoper to somebody who can now be seen as more than just a novelty is less rainbows & butterflies than you would imagine. 

Losing weight doesn't suddenly mean you have a personality transplant to go with it; it doesn't mean that you automatically extinguish all your unlikable features and traits, become confident in your looks and suddenly gain arrogant levels of self-confidence and feel like you can take on the world. Au contraire; quite the opposite has occurred with myself - at times I've had a crisis of self-identity and my crippling lack of self-belief and confidence has remained a burdening issue. There have been spells where I've tried to remove myself and distance myself away from certain things, whether it's been for my greater good or not. 

However, I don't want to leave this blog on a sour note by documenting any personal issues that have clouded me at points over this year - energy is best consumed on reflecting on the positives and looking onwards to what the future can bring. 

2015 is a year in which I need to push myself onwards, strive to keep improving and bettering myself a person. I have laid the groundwork on over the course of this year but it's no use if I choose continue to build upon that. Cliched? I know. Gay? I know, you homophobe. 

Some of you may or may not know by now that I have decided to go to university next year. I have managed to blag myself a place into University of Leicester, a top 20 ranking institution and will be studying a history course that interests me greatly. Given I will be turning 24 in September, I know this probably seems that it's come at least 5 years too late to suddenly act upon the decent A-Level grades I attained. However, I'm rather glad the path I have taken has worked out this way. I would never have possessed enough maturity or desire to attain and see out a degree had I entered university at 18. I now feel in a place where I want to push myself academically, want to learn and to develop myself as a person. 

Of course I do harbour some concerns and fear going into it, that's only natural. In my current job at Sainsburys', there is a worrying volume of postgraduates who are still here; one of whom even has a bioscience masters from Surrey! I have friends and acquaintances who worked hard for good degrees but are still working in modest jobs. 

Then there is the age gap. Technically - at 23 and a bit - I am still young and fresh-faced enough to go out and enjoy myself and involve myself socially. However - the maturity difference between someone my age and an 18 year old is more startling than you'd imagine - and I'm not just referring to my rapidly receding hairline! I was reading through one of my blogs on here from a few years back and I winced in embarrassment at my old self; both in my writing style and the way I used to behave. Who the fuck in their right mind would drink Carlsberg? 

I have become prematurely middle-aged over the past 18 months with my newly discovered fondness for real ale, european cities, cooking & cuisine and fine arts. I still retain plenty of my immature aspects and part of me will always remain a working class scumbag - but it's still only natural to worry over how you'll fit in and adapt to new surroundings and people. How will people respond to my quirks, my shit catchphrases, my odd sense of humour? But this is something that I need to undergo to try and make myself more personable and in all honesty - less of a prick. Become more accepting and engaging of other people, while learning how to accept to myself. 

That said, there are also plenty of beneficial factors to beginning university life so late. I'm sharper, older and wiser than I once was. My 5 years of experience in working mundane retail jobs have given me that sense of perspective which should enable me to push on. I have several months to try and prepare myself for my degree both academically and financially. I will, for example, be making a serious attempt to learn German to prepare me for a likely year out studying in either Munich or Berlin. My history-graduate sister has also already plied me with several books to absorb in!

I need to concentrate on the positives, try and cast aside my doubts and general negative outlook and focus on what should be an amazing experience. I have been given an excellent opportunity by a proper university in a proper city, one with top-level student satisfaction rates and it is a chance that I fully intend to grasp. 

2015 has potential to be an amazing year. Dover Athletic's FA Cup adventure continues; we have serious potential and genuine aspirations for a top half finish and plenty of great away days/weekends to follow in the likes of Lincoln, Halifax, Wrexham, Chester and Kidderminster. I'm re-entering Germany in February to take in games at Eintracht Frankfurt, FC Koln and Ajax, and have a few far-flung adventures later on in both Istanbul and Seoul. The two weeks I am spending in the latter should be an incredible life experience in an area of the world I am still yet to visit. And then of course there is the whole matter of joining university.

The year just gone will take some living up to, though. Thank you to everybody who has encouraged or supported me along the way, to whom I probably don't show enough appreciation of. Thanks to all of you who have helped create many amazing memories - it truly is a pleasure for once to be able to look back on a year with fondness rather than one of regret and a lack of fulfillment, as has been the case for far too often. 


Here are some pictures of my favourite 2014 memories to leave you on :-)

The Krakow Derby, February. The atmosphere gave me goosebumps. 

Reacquainting with old Barrow pals in a Cambridge pub. 

Sheer delight at Sutton; our play-off second leg destruction of them with 10 men is the most complete DAFC performance I have ever witnessed. 

.....But we only got there in the first place thanks to Barry Cogan's nerves of steel from the spot on the final day,3 minutes before the season ended. 

Conquering Ebbsfleet for the third and final time. 

Enjoying the title celebrations at Sparta Praha. Bandwagoners!

Pleasantries overhanging the edge of Prague castle. 

Enjoy the communist style stadia at Slovan Bratislava. 

Wasted on lambics in Bruges. 

Vienna Zoo was epic all round but seeing a polar bear in all it's glory topped it.

Toasting our first away day success in the big boys' league with the matchball, from Telford.

Grabbing a last minute equalizer to silence 6,000 Gasheads at the Memorial was one of several unforgettable DAFC moments in the calender year. 

Some might think I'm an oddball for spending my 23rd birthday alone in Germany, but where else will you find such awe-inspiring relic terraces in 4th division football?

With my brother in Budapest. We've lost over 13 stone between us this year, and both managed to bag ourselves a bit of Czech crumpet on this adventure. 

The Bolsheviks make an appearance for the trip to Torbay. 

Getting a bit overeager while closing in on away day success in Alfreton.

An exceptional weekend in Durham also saw us score gold in the shotput.

Spending the early hours of Christmas morning in a Herne Bay nightclub - for only the first time I've been  in 23 years of living here!

Living the highlife with my goggle eyed travel accomplice in Bucharest.

Life was pretty rose after the Cheltenham game. 

More Bundesliga action in the form of Borussia Mochengladbach, a stadium that had always featured on my wishlist.

Lenin meets Callum Snell.

Fair play to Kev; he certainly knew how to knock up some decent scran. 

Travelling and stuff.

2014 has been a remarkable year for myself in more ways than one. Not only am I now physically almost half the man I used to be but I have also managed to cram in an abundance of European trips in what has now become one of my life's biggest passions; travelling. With a weekend to the Romanian capital Bucharest penciled in for next month I will have visited 9 non-UK countries in the calendar year; a haul that includes 6 previously non-visited ones. 

I hate becoming a cliche but I am one of those who has well and truly "caught the bug", having developed an unquenchable desire and lust for undiscovered surroundings. No sooner have I booked up one trip I am also planning another. It's like an obsession for me; my desire to make up for lost time; having spent such a long period of my life restricting myself to no interests beyond following Dover Athletic to whichever slumpit just off the M25 we were playing. 
You might think that sounds daft - after all, I only turned 23 last month. Despite mentally feeling I have reached middle age I do still potentially have a lot of my life ahead of me. But I do feel like there is a period on my post-school life that I need to redeem for. 

One question that is often asked of me and/or sealed beyond the lips of others is; "how do you afford to go away so often on a shelf-stacker's salary?". It's a valid query, though I would like to pedantically point out that my role doesn't entail stacking shelves; I actually do people's shopping for a living. 

The main thing of course is that I have no life. I am a failure of status. I still live at home with my mum, I do not drive a car and have to pay towards the extortionate upkeep of one (nor do I understand why people my age do unless they actually need one), I do not have a ladyship to fleece pennies out of me and my working schedule means that I rarely ever go on nights out in England. Thus it is obvious why I have more disposable income to spunk away and the long, shitty, unsociable hours that I put in during my regular, depressing, everyday life does eventually reap its rewards when I go on these trips away.

I also don't think that the average person is aware of just how cheaply you can do these trips away. I have a weekend off next month which I initially took off for FA Cup 1st round weekend. So the other day I was just having casually having a browse at the ryanair flight finder in the event that Dover revert back to normality with an embarrassing qualifying round exit, a trait which has spanned several decades against such heavyweights like Hythe Town, Dorking and Worthing. 
I was quite stunned upon my search that you could get a return flight to Basle for £17. Seventeen bloody quid! It will cost more for me just to enter Alfreton Town's ramshackle ground next month. We live in a world where it is now obscenely cheap to fly anywhere in Europe thanks to council airlines like Ryanair and Easyjet, thus I really do try and make the most of it and am surprised that more of my generation don't.

Accommodation is very cheap too; you only realise how expensive it is in this country when you get it in other countries. For example, I've recently looked at hotels in Newcastle next month when we play Gateshead away but we've had to settle on staying in Durham instead. There are no properties anywhere closer to the centre that aren't of extortionate value.  
By contrast, a private four bed apartment in our centralised Prague apartment cost just £10 per person, per night, in the warm season (early June). And that was one of the more expensive rooms I've paid for; Budapest was £6 pp, pn for an eight bed private apartment (would have been £4 if we filled out the room), Bucharest next month will be £5.50 a night (though that is in a dorm). Barcelona, which is obviously a more expensive, world-class city, cost £14 a night for a private room in one of the main attraction areas - in late June. And I only booked that at a month's notice. 
I have previously always searched and stayed in the private rooms at hostels but from now on I will cut costs even further by staying in dorms. I have stayed at enough now to know that the perception of hostels being grim, dinghy, unsafe and overcrowded are far from the truth - while they may not be a 5 star luxury they are oftenly comfortable, homely and have plenty of character. You're also likely to meet, speak and make friends with other broad minded travellers like yourself, and it's great speaking to people of other nationalities and cultures. As we found out when we were rehoused to a dormitory in Budapest. For me, a hotel shouldn't be out mind-blowing facilities anyway; it is merely just somewhere to use as a base, somewhere to pass out when you've rolled in at 4am and beyond.
It's always been concerns of safety that has really prevented me staying in dormitories before but find a decent hostel as I always do (always go for a property that scores an overall of 85%+ and 90%+ on location) and you'll be provided with lockers/safes. 

Do you research correctly and snap your flights up early and these trips are very affordable. For four nights accommodation and flights Budapest cost £78, Prague £90, Krakow £120, Bucharest £65 (3 nights). And any country without the Euro currency, or any anywhere in the slavic/baltic/eastern European region tends to be gloriously inexpensive, so you can go out there and eat & drink like a prince on a budget that you would deem slender or moderate (at best) by contrast in the UK. 

So what attracts me to all these European cities and what does define a good trip? I won't try and lie and pretend that I am some really cultivated person who is merely interested in the fascinating historical aspects and that I'm refined enough to just be happy to see all the stunning architecture. 
Though both aspects do draw me in; the aesthetic pleasantness of some of these cities does never cease to amaze. Krakow's main city square was jaw-dropping in the evening time; Vienna's buildings were all flawless even in the outskirts of the city. Each city is so unique with its landmarks and landscapes, character that some of the modernized world cities cannot buy. I do like to get out and sightsee, I'm not a completely uncultured little Inglander as I may seem on the outset. I love my European and contemporary history, particularly in terms of post-WWII relations and the rise & fall of communism, so many of the cities are relevant to what I enjoy learning. 

Of course though, drinking and nightlife are still prominent to me in this stage of my life and are both important aspects - though again, each country has exclusive elements which differentiates one from another - something which can hardly be said of most typical 18-30 tacky holiday resorts. For example, the Ruin Bars of Budapest are like nothing you'll see elsewhere, the fantastic on-site microbrewery pubs we discovered in Vienna and Bratislava have been rarely replicated to such quality elsewhere, while the Poles made me discover that vodka can actually taste damn good and that strip clubs are somewhat arousing entertaining.. 
Eating and dining are also an important aspect for me. Being the least fussiest person in existence and being completely open minded to all sorts of cuisine I adore the typical stodginess that archetypes typical European food. While most of the dishes tend to be similar across these countries I'm always on the prowl to try the localized delicacies, such as the wonderful goose liver of Hungary, or the sheep cheese dumplings with pork fat that tasted so divine in Slovakia.

Football, too, is something I try to incorporate into most of my trips, and on the odd occasion is the sole purpose. Some may find that sad but why devoid yourself of your favourite interests?  Watching it in different countries usually always provides a fascinating experience, particularly in terms of atmosphere, stadium and matchday culture, that again, differentiates from country to country. 

So, if you are for some reason not bored out of your skull reading me drone on here, I will present to you my personal experiences of each and every non-UK city I have visited this year........




Krakow, Poland.
Zagreb aside, which I found to be more mediterranean in terms of its culture, this was my first visit to anywhere most would consider Eastern Europe. "Poland?? what on earth are you going there for?" remarked one daft bint at work. Though to be fair, years ago I would have harboured similar ignorance.

The reality is actually that those of who have been fortunate enough to visit Krakow would instead feel pity for those who haven't. It is an absolute top city, one I consider a 'must visit', which has provided me with two life experiences that will remain forever unforgettable. (Unless I of course contract amnesia or another memory-loss related illness).

Indeed; although the concentration campsites of Auschwitz and Birkenau are some 60 odd kilometres outside of the city, it is a tourism trade (if you want to call it such a thing) that is closely associated to the city because of the proximity and you'll find various outlets in the city offering tours. 

We booked our trip through the hostel and agreed to do it on our first day there - get the solemness of the occasion out the way with so the weekend could end on a positive note. It was all very well organized, travel to and in between the camps and a personal tour guide came to around £20 worth of polish zloty. You can of course decide to make your own way there and not use a guide but I think it is better this way. 

I'm normally a pretty emotionally sterile person but the whole experience really does hit you in a way that is quite hard to explain, as anyone who has ever been will probably tell you. You are visiting the province of a site of organized mass murder; the location of where the worst crime in humanity ever took place. It was difficult to concentrate and listen to the guide through the headphones at times because I was so numb and deep into thought. 

I've always been hugely interested in world war/modern history so this was one hell of an experience. I do wish though, however, that I'd read into and polished up on my knowledge before arriving; reading the book that I bought whilst there afterwards made me realise things that would have clicked whilst I was there. I'd particularly highlight reading detailed into Dr Josef Mengele and Irma Grese. 

The skies were set grey and bleak during the day and the atmosphere was just.... well, I'm lost for an adjective; it's everything you would envisage. The memorial message inscripted at Birkenau is most important and poignant in reminding why we visited. 

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it"

A place that each and every person must visit if the opportunity ever arises for that very reason. An overwhelming and harrowing occasion, yet it must be done. 

Fortunately my other unforgettable life experience on this trip was for more upbeat rationale and nope, I'm not talking about my first ever visit to a strip club. I am of course talking about the Krakow derby, which also took place on the very same weekend. 

It would be unfair to just write a few paragraphs about the game dubbed as "the holy war", as it deserves a whole blog post dedicated to it. But even then, not even such great writers as like Shakespeare, Dickens, Golding and Katie Price possess enough linguistic ability between them to articulate into words that would serve the atmosphere at this game justice. It made the Yellow Wall at Dortmund by comparison seem like a tea party. 

Granted, it was my first real experience of a such an intense and vitriol-filled derby (one that saw 8 ultras killed in a city battle in 2005) and that there are even greater spectacles in Europe, like the Belgrade derby (which is later on the bucket list). And this is a derby that has come under greater policing measures in recent years which has restricted the amount of violence, pyrotechnics and whatnot.

But the whole thing was just incredible to witness; it was difficult to focus on the football at times because the choreographs and noise decibels coming from the Wisla ultras were so absorbing. Fair enough, my usual idea of a good atmosphere is twenty portly blokes going away to Basingstoke and warbling "Chris Kinnear's black and white army" a few times before retreating to the bar early once they've gone two nil down to two awful goals, but you'll have to take my word for it. 

For the record, Wisla did triumph in an entertaining game - they were 3:1 victors which included a few top-draw goals. But it's the insane atmosphere which I will always remember it for. I highly recommend to even non-football fans to go out there and witness a derby, or failing that another high profile game. The games against Legia Warsaw are meant to be even more fanatical. 

Fan cards which you need to register for at the stadium with a passport. Common occurrence in Europe these days.

No Pyro No Party and all that.

Anyway, onto Krakow itself. The city is majestic, extremely pleasing on the eye with a real medieval and gothic vibe with its architecture - with the main old town square hauntingly beautiful in the evening time. It has to be said that this is largely attributed to vast amount of palaces and churches; while I may be largely anti-religion - it really has provided some of the world's best buildings and art. It also helps that Krakow came out relatively undamaged from World War II so it has retained its rich cultural heritage. There is also a Jewish quarter to the city, which is similar to many other cities across European. 

Most of the bars in Krakow continue the theme of castle like interior; proper caverns with many of them being based underground. It was the first one we entered that we rapidly established a love of Polish vodka, having been encouraged to divulge by the bartender. The thought of drinking vodka straight in the UK is something that wouldn't even cross my mind in the UK, yet for some unknown reason their recipe makes it a fully-quenchable, genuinely likable drink. And it still retains its high 35%+ volume. Strange! Across our four nights there we would drink it oftenly along with a beer, usually trying it in all sorts of different fruit flavours. 

It was in the first bar where we came across a Scottish ex-pat, previous owner of said bar, who gave us some useful intel on the city. His most notable advice was a phrase that we have since repeated since; Martyn being able to perfectly mimic his broad Glaswegian voice - "Ya wee lads need tae get ya get yaeselves to a titty bar" before adding "Never, and aye repeat never pay on card. They'll focking sting yae. Always ask for a price". 

We acted upon his good words, well, me and Martyn certainly did with the other lad, thumb-stricken Chris, (probably) sensibly opting not to join us on our seedy visits. 
For some reason the lure of strip clubs has always evaded me before but this time I wanted to make sure I tried the experience, just for the craic. I must admit, I'm far too childish for it, I can't help but laugh and giggle, particularly when the strippers try and entice you for all your worth into getting a private dance. 
But I won't lie - I enjoyed visiting the three or four we did, sometimes it's nice to just chill out with a few beers and look at some tits and arse, as much as any male tries not to be misogynistic its just human nature. We'd had a few nights there where we were so tired out from tourist activities that it was a preference to going out to try and a wild nightclub.

It's a way of living out there, so many different strips competing with each other. Me and Martyn ended up in one where we were the only 2 customers in there. This provided me with one of the funniest things I have ever seen to date. Martyn, seeing the glances from the hot stripper across from us (who quite clearly was aiming to entice some zloty out of the fat, desperate, sex-starved Brits) decided to vigorously pat his chair, as an invitation to come over to us. This may not seem that amusing in written form but trust me, I burst out laughing with equal measurements of cringing feelings at the same time! He clearly felt like he was the don in that situation, in control. The look on his face as he did it was something else.
God bless Martyn, he may not be everybody's cup of tea but he sure does provide value, if nothing else, in social situations. 

The best bar we found out in Krakow was the aptly named The House of Beer (www.houseofbeer.com) which became a favourite haunt of ours on its beer list alone. It had 9 rotating draught beers, featuring several strongly hopped ones straight out of the bearded craft beer enthusiast's manual, while it had enough variation of the bottled stuff to end thirst problems in Malawi. This alone made up for the slow bar service and the ridiculous lack of facilitating for bowel movements - one pubicle in the entire pub per sex- in which is a popular pub. So it's probably not best advised having a session in there if you suffer from having a weak bladder. 

I didn't keep note of any of establishments but on the Old Town strip you'll struggle to not find any lively bars and clubs in which you can have a good time. I do have one outstanding memory of a karaoke bar on our final night there in which Martyn produced the worst ever rendition I have ever suffered through in my entire life. I'm certainly no Pavorotti on the microphone myself and am not in a strong enough position to sneer at other people's vocals but christ, his attempt at Don't Look Back In Anger fails to make me look back on it with any feeling but that. 

In terms of cuisine and drink - I've already expanded on vodka for the latter and you should be familiar with many of the branded Polish lagers; tyskie and lech being readily available pretty much anywhere, along with Zwyiec and Warka. So if you enjoy your strong pilsener styles then you are very well catered for - though that isn't to say you won't find variation in Poland. Most bars have a quantifiable bottled selection as well - the pick of the bunch for me was Okocim Dark, which was a very pleasant drop when you consider the brewery is owned by Carlsberg. 

My favourite local delicacy in Poland was pierogi, a plate of small potato dumplings that are traditionally stuffed with cheese, potato, grounded meat or sauerkraut. While a little bit greasy from the butter they are fried in, they sure as hell are tasty and worth indulging in, if like me you enjoy stodge. 

The best restaurant we found in Krakow however was a Mexican establishment (Manzana - in the Jewish district), which is a cuisine that is probably my favourite when it is done well. My goat's cheese enchiladas turned out to be an inspired choice from an expansive menu and I almost felt guilty that the sizeable and delicious portions from the main course, starter and drink accompanying it only totalled to the equivalent of around 10gbp. 

Also, a special shoutout to our uncultured, thick-as-shit, little-Inglander, goggle-eyed friend who ordered some "chicken fadge-eaters", causing fits of 'hilarity to myself, Christopher and the waitress, who couldn't quite believe such ignorance towards such a mainstream dish. Bless him. 

Poland was superb, it really was, if I didn't have so many other countries and places I want to visit then I'd go back in a shot. Contrary to the stereotypes they get labelled to here by our racist, right-wing press I found them amongst the friendliest locals I have encountered as well. We were only outside the airport for 2 minutes before geezer saw us looking like useless, confused tourists, and interrupted to offer us advice on the best way to get into the centre. That's not something many of us do with tourists in our country, though I concede we perhaps don't rely on our tourism trade and need to welcome outsiders as places like Krakow do. 

Lille, France
It's quite a stretch to include this as part of my overseas travels, given that this was a day-trip purely on the grounds of a footballing basis. It was actually Martyn who initiated and planned this trip, for a change. He has previously been acquainted with Eurolines coach company whenever he has needed to organise budget travel visiting his Dad in Germany, which regularly involves changing at Lille. So it would be a logical pattern to take in a game at France's third biggest club (going by the reasoning of average attendances) with the city only being an hour's drive from Calais. 

The thing with Eurolines though is it isn't actually that cheap for the service you get, and is particularly bad value when compared with budget flights. But with the convenience of the town of Dover being a gateway over the border, a £44 fare for a return journey isn't too horrendous in the grand scheme of things. The real downside was that our outwards journey to France was via the eurotunnel, while our overnight coach ride back was via ferry. Ideally on a day out you'd prefer that situation to be reversed. 

I try to be open minded with every place that I travel to and not get bogged down by preconceptions that people attach to certain countries. So the 'cheese-eating, surrender-monkey, garlic quaffing, immutable, rude people' tags I tried putting aside for the visit. Though I have always been bogged down with propaganda from others that Paris is just a grimmer version of London; aside from the obvious attractions it's crammed with beggars and the streets are filthy. So it's never really been a country that has appealed to me too greatly. 

But, from the several or so hours I spent in France there would be little to dissuade me from that negativity about the country. I concede that Lille, and northern France in particular, is hardly somewhere that ranks highly on the average travellers to-do list. It's like a tourist over here formulating an opinion on the country after spending a couple of nights in Skegness. 

However, given it is the fourth largest city in the country, and pretty prosperous in terms of financial status and industry, I was pretty unimpressed. The very inner city centre and the main square were pleasant, but the leading streets immediately outside it were run-down, graffiti-clad and felt a bit unsafe. 

The most striking thing about France though was how fucking expensive it was. I knew it was hardly cheap but it seemed to be on a par with Scandinavia in terms of what I read about beer prices. The cheapest we paid for a half litre was €5, and we visited 1/2 dozen watering houses. In the evening we settled in a small, off-street bar with some dodgy looking characters that we liked because the beer was 'cheap'. But essentially we were paying €2.40 for what was less than half a pint! 

The metro system was impressive though and very modernized, as seems to be the case anywhere outside of the London underground. The ground, which opened in 2012 after replacing their run-down, carcass old stadium, is situation 6km outside of the city centre and with a capacity of 50,000, will be one of the main venues in Euro 2016. So if, as many of you seem to have planned, head over there for the tournament you may be able to replicate the experience for yourself. 

I try not to criticise all recently-built stadia, as many others do, as I'm sensible to realise that they are created with the purpose of increasing capacities and providing new viable facilities, when many existing ones have grown the end of their course and are beyond redevelopment. Nobody can expect a home in it's infancy stages to possess the same level of character and homeliness that the predecessor did. 

Even so, Stade Pierre-Mauroy was fairly unexciting in its architecture and design. It's a decent venue, don't get me wrong. Reminds me of a slightly smaller Emirates, with the three-tiered design, and excellent views across the stadium. But from the outside it's revolting, an ugly metallic block and not easy upon the eye. 

One of the few inexpensive expenditures for the day was the match ticket. Purchased online and printed from home, at €15 for the cheapest seats in the house it equated to being cheaper than DAFC admission for conference south football last season. Obviously I understand that a club who have 10k spare seats every week playing at the highest level can afford to subsidise with some cheaper areas of the ground, plus the cheap admission fee was offset by scandalous prices inside the ground; a half-litre of non-alcoholic kronenbourg totalling a staggering €7, and soft drinks were not much cheaper. No thanks. 

And in terms of quality and entertainment of the match, even €15 was vastly overpriced for showing on offer. A real terrible contest; Lille, even having seen star players like Eden Hazard and Dimitri Payet move onto pastures new in recent years, still possess enough quality in their squad to put in a better showing than we saw against lowly EA Guingamp, a club based westwards in Brittany and famed for being one of Didier Drogba's former haunts. The only player to put in any kind of decent showing was Florent Balmont; a balding, ageing, diminutive midfielder who buzzed around everywhere, despite having never previously heard of him. 

The visitors missed a golden one-on-one, spurning the chance wide shortly into the second half, in which was one of the games very few notable incidents. But just as it appeared we would return across the Channel Tunnel having witness a goalless bore, up popped household name Soloman Kalou into injury time to steer the ball home from a cross. GOAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL! Exciting right? Aren't last minute mentallers great? 
Well, not quite. The cantakerous old cunt situated behind me, irked that I was still standing 15 minutes after the ball had touched the net, aggressively tapped me to pull me back to my seat so he could continue watching the aftermath in his tranquility. It's a shame I didn't polish up on my French beforehand so I could translate my "piss off you fucking old fart" response, but here's hoping he had a reasonable enough grasp of my fine BRITTISH QUEENS INGLISH. 

The atmosphere weren't bad. Lille are very ultra style in terms of support; their main singing section behind the goal with lots of flag wavers, and were very consistent in producing noise, which sporadically broke across the entire ground. Like most supports really. Guingamp fans, situated above us, apparently only took 110 to this game. Granted, it's a club punching above its weight in a small province, playing on a Sunday afternoon in what actually turns out to be a near 6 hour drive away. (You only realise how big other countries are once you look outside the Britain map!!). Fair play to those that travelled - they made a fair bit of noise and were unlucky to get nothing out of the game. 

Yeah, not really a looker is it? 

The Guingamp masses.

Yeah I know, I'm inept at taking panoramic photographs. 

That said, the whole matchday experience isn't one that makes me eager to return to the country in a hurry, even though I am aware that clubs such as their fierce rivals Lens, Marseille and St Etienne, to name a few, are meant to have passionate and lively home supports. The expensiveness was the main downfall if I'm honest, but it doesn't appear to be on a same level as neighbours Belgium in terms of lax matchday restrictions on alcohol, standing etc. 

On the crowded metro back to the centre we got chatting to a pretty Welsh lass, studying in the country, who clocked onto our boisterous, little-Inglander, cockney-vermin accents and struck conversation with us. She actually seemed to be quite charmed by Martyn, who then decided to completely mess up the predicament by quipping a very sick "I'm sweating like a........" gag, which is too offensive for me to finish here. Bless him, he does his best to live up to the social-atom bomb tag at times. 

We found a cafe in the centre afterwards which again, was vastly overpriced, but I'd be lying if I said my goat's cheese crepe was anything but delicious. My accomplices' pizzas were sizeable and looked PROPER in terms of production and freshness, so I'll begrudgingly give the Froggies a thumbs up on the cuisine mark. 

Despite an agonizing journey back on a crowded coach jammed with whiny children, and all pitfalls of France aside, it was actually an enjoyable day out. While France consequently doesn't feature high on my return list, I'll be open to trying out some of the more appealing Southern destinations in the future, which I'm reliably informed are lovely. And being the cultural upstart I've turned into I'm a huge merlot fan, so I'm sure somewhere like Bordeaux would be worth venturing into. 

A micropub selling some superb own beer. Just a shame how overpriced it was.

Like I say, not all ugly.