So we had arrived in our Zürich hostel, where we were greeted with a free beer. This was a good omen for Switzerland; fine beer, chocolate, muesli, and scenery (ranked in order of importance FYI). The guy that owned the newly opened Langstars hostel was a wise backpacker with much experience with interrailing. Which was great, because we had none. So far, a bag had been stolen and we ended up crashing in Rob’s parents French house waiting on a ticket for him, so we were obviously quite thick. We had an unlimited ticket, and the owner offered to show us a route you can do around switzerland in a day, something similar to a hop on hop off bus ticket trip thingy.

The following morning we got up early, and headed back to the train station, where we got our first train to Luzern. Seeing as we were trying to travel around Switzerland in a day, we decided to stay here for the guts of an hour. In this space of time we ate massive sausages in the train station (don’t even think it) and visited a ‘modern’ art museum. I use inverted commas here because I feel like were robbed of good money just to be weirded out by massive figures of melted wax, a creepy loop of the same piece of  Tchaikovsky’s ‘Nutcracker’, and some more melted wax figures. Anyway back to the train station we went and hopped on the next train to Interlaken.

The 2 hour journey brought us slowly up through the Alps; tracks guided through gentle valleys with colossal mountains as backdrops. These 2 hours Rob and I spent in almost complete silence, only to be broken by ‘Wow look out this window’. The views were stunning. The archaic houses resembled something similar to images my imagination had made in the past about places such as here; quaint, dainty, and sleepy. These individual towns were nestled in between mountain ranges, icy blue lakes and clouds. We climbed further up through the Alps, still feeling dumbfounded as we stared at snow-capped mountains from down below in a stifling fogged heat. I tried my best to recall as much of my leaving cert geography as I could while I watched the waterfalls drip, but it didn’t matter. An ignorance about the mechanism of a waterfall would only allow me to appreciate it.

Interlaken is a town located between two large lakes, located high up in this scenic landscape. the bus ride between train stations made me question the high amount of sex shops and fast food outlets located along Interlaken’s main street, and how perverted and hungry people in mainland Europe must be. Maybe they’re just less embarrassed about it. Maybe we’re all too shy here.

The 3rd and penultimate train lead us to Bern, the capital of Switzerland. This decent through the Alps glided past the most vibrant lakes and rolling hills. We were getting tired at this stage and just hopped on our last train back to Zürich as soon we arrived into the city. The sun set as we travelled from Bern to Zürich. We drank that night in the hostel’s bar and thanked the owner for introducing us to a part of Switzerland we could only have dreamt of. We thanked him by buying lots of beer from him. Ah beer.

We left the next morning for Frankfurt. Some of you may wonder why we chose here. We ask ourselves the same question. Frankfurt is a business metropolis, home to the most dense skyscraper region in Europe, and a tonne of sex shops and strip shows. Rob, once again, in all of his astounding wisdom, found us a fantastic hostel located just above ‘The World of Sex’. As I grew more worried about Rob’s accommodation choice, we ventured into the central district of Frankfurt, only to find a market located further down the street. Here we got more sausage (Currywurst this time- highly recommended) with some Apfelwein- thats apple cider to you and me. The following day we did a tour of Frankfurt which took up the best part of a half hour. We then walked pretty much the same route around the city, then retired for more beer. If you’re looking to be unimpressed, but comfortable knowing there are €2 bottles of Beck’s in your hostel then Frankfurt is the place for you dear friends. Frankfurt’s highlights; cheep beer, amazing Kebabs, and a ridiculously large train station.

So far, Europe had taught me that it was sex obsessed, beautiful, intrinsic, unique in about every mile, and fun.

In the next post; Berlin and Prague.

I honestly can’t describe it in one word, because I feel that it wouldn’t do it justice, but I know I’m always going to remember it.

And so we began in Paris. By we, I mean myself, and my friend Rob. I had been in Paris previously but it was more of a glimpse than a proper stare. I know that it’s pretty cliche but it was my favorite city of the entire trip because it was really breathtaking. Don’t laugh at me, it was. The old narrow metro system, the quaint low rise buildings, and impressive architecture lined along the avenues had a real charm. But every city has it’s negatives. I mean we’ve all dealt with casual public urination, and junkies in our own home town so to think you won’t get it on the continent is pure idiocy. Then again, attempted muggings while you’re trying to find the Sacré Coeur (Sacred Heart Church) isn’t just ironic, it’s scary. But you take it in your stride, and box clever. My little tip, take advice from Lonely Planet guides and not your own estimation of how close something is. However this didn’t stop Rob from getting his month long pass stolen in a Restaurant across from the Main Strain Station (Gare du Nord). Thus ensued my attempts at employing 5 years of French into navigating our way through the Parisian legal system in order to get a police report. No one speaks English in Paris, FYI. Doesn’t matter though, got it sorted, and all my years of verb conjugation and grammar lists didn’t end in vain. Ms Felton would be proud.

So our route ended up changing. As we waited impatiently on the arrival of Rob’s new pass (which was covered by insurance, praise be to the baby Jesus) we thought that maybe this was a sign to alter our route. Switzerland seemed quite appealing, so it was the beginning of our journey through the Alps, and into the heartland of mainland Europe.

After 9 hours on the train, traveling across France by TGV (fast trains) then through Switzerland to Zurich, we arrived in our Hostel, in an area widely known as the main red-light district. Rob seemed to have a nack for choosing great hostels in these areas. Filthy bugger.

Anyway, in the next post; The Switzerland day trip, Germany, and Prague.

Andrew

I was bored with facebook this afternoon, mainly because the Leaving Cert has somehow invaded my life, ONCE AGAIN. A year on for me, and all it has taught me, is its’ uselessness. It doesn’t determine who you are, how smart you are, your potential, or what you should be. It’s a test. Another test.

So, in my wisdom and avoidance, I decided to clear out my wardrobe. So far, I haven’t found anything that interesting except for what looked like Narnia, and ‘Alison Liu’. A Hispanic maid would have been better at this but you’ve got to do your own dirty work.

I also found a box I like to keep stuff in. Get your mind out of the sewer; it has mementas, memtis, mentos… things in it that I want to hold onto. Calling it a memory box is kinda sappy so I won’t. In my memory box I have some really random stuff. I think I started keeping things in it since I was about 8. Old head on young shoulders, what can I say! So I’ve 10 years of pictures, cards, and other things built up in this old and dusty wine box. It’s a little weird looking at these things because of the memories they bring back.

There’s a story in here I wrote when I was in 4th class. It’s not great, I must admit. It involves a group of six kids, and a magic bike. I won’t divulge anymore information, it’s ridiculously embarrassing, except that the place it was set in was called ‘Kreebble’. What the f**k was I thinking. Bloody kids. There’s an event booklet for when I won that Bank of Ireland award. It’s my claim to fame, and I can’t see that coming off the old CV for a good few years yet. In the blurb about me, it says how in my application I said how much I wanted to own my own international business one day. The science is working out well then. Love it when a plan comes together.

There’s some mass cards, one very special one. Some prayers. Some poems. Some not so happy memories. Some words. “To my beautiful son, you mean all the world to me. Love Mam” Memories arent’t always good. I think the bad ones aren’t there to remind us of bad times, they’re there to remind us we were human then, and are human now. *Queue Moby music* *Floating red balloon* *Fading background*

There’s a guitar pick in there. I have never owned a guitar, nor have I ever had lessons. I’ll just put that one in the bin. There’s a booklet from my Confirmation mass. What an important event in my young life, I must remember to keep that one. *Cough*. There’s an essay I kept from English. It was the one Ms Carmody said made her LOL. I’ll cherish that one forever. There’s my invitation to meet good auld Mary Mc herself in the Áras the other year. Mary Mc cordially invited me! Love that woman. There’s a scratched CD. If I remember rightly, it’s the first CD I ever bought. There isn’t a hope in hell you’re going to find out what it is. All these reminders just scrape the surface of a pile of ‘things’. My things.

All these mementos represent a point in my life. Where I was someone. Someone not that different to the person I am today. The person who held onto these memories found them of some use, and believed they would be again in the future. Some of them represent who or what I was or wanted to be; whether that is a writer, an entrepreneur, a son, a wannabe musician, a politician, a priest (perish the thought), or a DJ. It’s who I am, what I was, and where I thought my life could lead. I still think my life can go in any direction. There are always bumps along the way, forks in the road, put downs, pick ups, laughs, tears, and whatever. This ‘memory box’ reminded me today that no test, no person, nothing can stop you from being who you are supposed to be. You always get where you are meant to go in the end.

Fuck the Leaving. You are you, not your exam number.

But that’s not really what annoyed me about the programme. The discussion that was taking place was one of utter  frustration; the state of Ireland’s economy. If I was to describe the economy in one word; chaotic. That’s me being polite, it’s more like; fucked. It looks like 2013 will be a worse year for the country and we either have to grow some balls and do something drastic to frighten the EU or get ourself some nice bondage outfits because we are going to be Europe’s bitch. Bad image of Enda? Me too.

Ireland won’t be in good health in a short time, but we will get there, somehow

Ireland has been in the eyes of the world in recent months for all the wrong reasons. We are the tits of Europe, so it seems. But in the past couple of weeks, we’ve been given so many opportunities to show that Ireland is still the island of the céad míle fáilte, agus an craic. With the arrival of the Queen and her Gaelic fluency Ireland was thrusted into a media spotlight where the best of the country was shown in what seemed a week long ‘Fáilte Ireland’ ad. I had a real sense of pride in the country. Espicially Mary McAleese, she was like Ireland’s Mammy, with the welcome we’re known for.

Then came Obamarama. Even though he was here shorter than it takes to cook a good ham, it was inspirational none the less. The little town of Moneygall was the epicenter of the universe when Obama gave a toast, followed by the downing of his pint of Guinness. There’s just something about the whole ‘Oirishness’ of it all that just made me fall in love with the country again.

“Never has a nation so small, inspired so much in another.”

Up yours Pat Kenny. For the next while Ireland needs to live off the pride in our country in the pursuit of happiness, not austerity and fear. Keep quiet for a while, and be proud in who we are, otherwise things will just seem worse.

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad. A light heart lives longest.

I just dropped the R bomb. I know.

It’s a tough question to ask, but ‘What does religion mean to me?’, or more pressingly, ‘What is my religion?’

I get confused about this sometimes. I could sort it out in my head in 5 minutes about what I believe in, but to say that it is what’s preached on Sundays by Father John would be a lie (and Jesus don’t like them lies, Lord no!). Basically, I attend mass the majority of the time, but I’m not entirely sure why.

In Ireland, most of us are raised in a traditional Roman Catholic ethos. We attend primary schools where making your Communion and Confirmation are bridging gaps, and catholicism is shown in a bright and shiny light (with a halo one might presume <insert gratuitous chuckle here>). We colour in lovely pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, and we learn the moral stories which are meant to be a compass in our childhood, in order to become great human beings, and live the word of the Lord. I am almost certain someone reading just thought to themselves “such shit”.

It’s either the truth, or a bloody good story that some people read too much into.

A lot has happened to me, and the Catholic church as a whole in recent years. A little too much for me to have the same, carefree, ‘yeah let’s go get summa that fine tastin’ holy bread’ attitude I once had as an adolescent. Smutty, sex starved, paedophile priests, and a disillusioned, hard done by, ‘always me’ person don’t add up to make a wholesome religion one would argue in favor of. Ambiguous, I know, but a belief system is never concise in itself.

A lot of people brand themselves as an atheist. A lot of people are lazy. Coincidence? I think not. There is no reason to call yourself an atheist other than, you truly believe in not believing, or you never liked going to mass or the whole idea of Catholicism, and you weren’t bothered enough to find a belief system in which you feel comfortable. Then there are people who call themselves agnostic, that is believing there is a deity, perhaps, but that it is unknown or unknowable. I want to fit into this category, I do, but it doesn’t feel right for me. To me, it feels like a little bit of a cop out.

I don’t want to get to deep, but I like to think there is someone/thing there, someone/thing looking out for me, but pushing me on my ass every now and then so that I don’t get lazy, or too absorbed in what is happening around me and not within. I won’t say anymore, just take it at face value.

It is something that should be taken seriously for around 30 minutes, for yourself to feel good, then left for another while to stew in a pot of self absorbed morality and ‘do-goodness’.

Next time you’re thinking about religion, remember:

“Religion started back, way in the 30′s when people were getting too sick of depression, and needed somewhere to go on a Sunday to gossip and buy some jam, i.e. The morning after the night before.” – Ghandi

Today, I officially commenced a 2 week break in which I plan to watch shit TV, eat shit food and have a shit sleeping pattern. Pure bliss in my opinion.

I have to admit it, college life is tough, but sweet baby Jesus the North Star of Jerusalem, I wouldn’t change it for the world. The absolute bant is unreal. I’m waiting for the day when we’re kicked out of a lecture. Gotta stop sitting beside Holly, otherwise I won’t be able to blame my poor grades on Grace Morgan and her testicle scarf. It’s so damn elusive. The picture below is a bit of an exaggeration, but I’d be certain Grace would jizz if she saw this.

I plan on updating this a bit over the fortnight. So, HEY, you 12 fans, get ready for some Class A blogging. (Class B, C, crap, ya know, whatever).

On a final note, remember, bad decisions make good stories.

Andrew

Then before you know it, the lights come on, and you see some beast who shaved her sideburns and slapped on some PVC for the occasion standing in front of you, moaning, because Kesha stopped. The adrenaline in your body slows down, because the music that was pumping it through your arteries has ended, and you start frantically looking for your mates (primarily to avoid the Beauty and the Beast -minus the Beauty part- moment with your one). Everyone pours out onto the road (and you’re in trouble if its Harcourt Street) looking for the cheapest form of transport, and if you’re in the mood, something greasier than half the population of students now lining the footpaths of Dublin’s drinkin’ crater.

It depends on the night, but you need to take an exact amount of drink for a night to be going swimmingly. Enough to not care about all the annoyances (the prick who spilled their drink on you, or the prick who peed on you at the urinals, or the prick who spat on you in the smoking area, and the sticky floors) but not enough to be totally inebriated that you can’t read the time on your phone, (wait a minute lads, where the fuck is my phone? That prick must have stolen it, the prick!).

The right amount of alcohol should cause the following; Slight grinding of the teeth, and or gums, ridiculous and copious amounts of shit photos that will be deleted, dubious amounts of hugs from strangers who are your ‘new best friends’, a slight stumble into a wall and or door, a chance to make a complete tit of yourself on the dance floor without anybody caring, or noticing for that matter. The wrong amount of alcohol should cause the following; Grinding of the gums until you taste blood, waking up in the morning wondering where all your money went and or wallet, not being able to find your photos (the prick stole that too), grinding against complete strangers because they are your ‘new best fuck buddy’, crashing into a wall and or door and injuring yourself, and last, but not least, flashing someone on the dance floor.

All it takes is that extra Jagerbomb, or shot of tequilla, or the extra pint, to end up being the friend that everyone is sick of going out with cause they keep getting sick on you.

But hey, don’t worry about it, there’s usually some Superquinn sausages in the fridge, and some panadol in press to cure what ails ya. Mind you no amount of paracetemol, or even codine, could cure the hangover of a ‘facebook tagging’.

Good luck to yas all!

I’ve had throngs of people person asking me to write something, and as of that, I can’t disappoint my fans!

First things first. Merry Christmas! Ho Ho Ho <Please Find Gratuitous Winter/Christmas Related Images Below In Order To ‘Brighten’ Things Up>

2010 has probably been one of the toughest years for me yet. In general, I don’t like to sit around moaning about what’s wrong, and do the ‘poor me‘ routine, but when the end of December starts to rear her ugly and unusually man-ish head, reflection is usually a good idea.

I do think that sitting down and reviewing what has happened in the past year is a good thing, because we learn from our actions and our own/others’ mistakes (most of the time).

I must admit, I really am glad this year is coming to an end. I was thinking today (a rare occasion), while doing the Christmas food shop, about my mam. I guess I don’t talk to people about it as much as I should, but today, with the trolley on my own, I felt lonely. I’m not trying to be sad or depressing, but it was a tradition on the 23rd for us to do the shop together. 2010 had too many ups and downs, but triumph in times of adversity is a skill that is only ever learnt, and never taught.

“By three methods may we learn wisdom: First by reflection, which is noblest; Second by imitation, which is easiest; and Third by experience, which is the bitterest.” – Confucius

This year it was difficult trying to follow tradition, so me and my sister Aimée started some of our own traditions. We made a big steaming vat of mulled wine. We are playing Santa for each other. And we got the dog a stocking. It sounds loser-ish, but recently I was talking to someone, and they were telling me about how Christmas changes for everyone, whether it be losing a family member, or creating a family of your own, or whatever it may be, Christmas can never stay the same idealistic, childhood ‘It’s a wonderful life’ way. So our plan is to drink, be merry, and look after the dog.

“A new years resolution you might say!”

“No, fuck off”

Here’s to 2011, and may it be all we hope for

For those of you who have lived under a rock, Fantasia features eight animated segments set to classical music selections. I remember going to see Fantasia 2000 in the iMAX when it used to be in town, and it didn’t make such an impact on me as it did this time.

Music was never really a big part of my life until I was well into my double digits.

Some of my first purchases of music comprised of some really embarrassing cassettes and compilation CD’s (we’re talking Now 56). I don’t know when but at some stage, I found ears, and a love for music.

Fantasia brought it all back to me. The images that Disney created alongside the music was really astounding. I was mesmerized by all the colours that were put against the famous classical music by composers such as Bach and Tchaikovsky. I’ve never been a major fan of this genre but the images that can be created to the sounds created was really incredible.

I also thought that it would be probably be even more amazing if you were stoned. Gotta try that some time.

Music has become a huge part of my life. I’ve never been able to play an instrument, or read music, but it does’t mean that I can’t have a passion for it. I think its the same for a lot of people. Music is there for us to enjoy, and solely for that reason. When I’m pissed off, there’s a song for me to be pissed off to. When I’m buzzin’, and I mean proper buzzin’, there’s a song there too. Or even if I’m fed up with shit that’s going on, music is there for ya. I really wouldn’t like to live in a world where music didn’t exist. It’s a part of me, it’s a part of my soul and if it was to go away it would be a part of me stolen.

Fantasia reminded me about how much I love music. Gotta go stick them earphones in.

The words in this photo really sums it up

I can safely say that I hate the bus.

This morning I was running late for college. Nothing new there, but when a bus is involved, everything becomes at least 50% worse. I have gales blowing at me, getting smacked in the face, and all I want is to see that yellow top peaking around the corner. Some wanker starts smoking in front of me. Here the wind gets a double blow attack on a shit morning. Smoke sufficiently placed in my lungs, and I’m still waiting. I wish Dublin Bus would get some sort of GPS thing going here.

Then it dawns on me. Forgot the lab coat. Feck. Head back home the exact same minute a bus comes, but I count myself lucky, as its one of those old buses. I thank God I’ve escaped that asbestos filed tin. Its a sign. Today is gonna be a good day people. Get back to the bus stop, and I’m back waiting again. Never mind, bus is due at 10, I’ve five minutes to spare.

Listen to a bit of music perhaps? Nope, earphones are broken. Text someone say heya, wait, do I still have free texts? No? OK let’s look at who we have here at the bus stop, are they entertaining. Nope some guy in a hoody and a pair of shorts. Wait, double take, shorts? What the hell. Right OK, note to self, sit upstairs if he sits down, and vice versa. I’m always amazed at how often I ‘judge a book by its cover’, but I mean come on, shorts? It’s November man!

10.10, where is this bus. Guess I’m not making that tutorial so. 10.15, definitely not making that tutorial. 10.20, I wonder how they’re able to fit so many people on 4 wheels. 10.21:30, remember a bus has 2 floors. 10.21, get on the bus, finally. Shit it’s another old one. What’s this OAP bus revival day? I sit down and all I want is to be back at home. I get a warm feeling whenever I think about my duvet. With its warmness, and featheryness and confyness and goodness.

Damn, this bus is going through the Airport. I like the way the airport is looking, fair play to them. Wanted a job in there, turns out I was 2 days late for an application. Christ, a plane must have just landed, there’s about 20 French people getting on. Oh great, they’re all sitting around me! Woohoo! Wish I had my iPod so badly. 10.45, try and remember some French from school. 10:46, give up cause it hurts my head. 10.47, what’s the word for bus in French again? 10.47:13, oh yeah its ‘bus’ but said so you sound French and pompous.

Get into town, only to have to get another bus. Bloody Gealt sits beside me this time. Win. Urine in the morning, nothing like it. Guess that’s my appetite gone for the day.

Just get me home.