Bulgaria...Fuck Yeah!

The defining lynchpin behind the blog came during my week-long trip to Bulgaria. My brother (Gary, 26, cack at song lyrics and rhythm) and I flew out on an aeroplane to meet our good friend Dan (25, fan of old school hip hop and fine dining) in Sunny Bay, a Bulgarian tourist hotspot. The combination of not having a camera (or any other instrument to log our activities and indeed recall ANYTHING we did) along with reading Gordon Smart's Sun articles were all the motivation I needed to start writing. Jeez Louise, Gordon Smart is a prick. "Snoop Dogg saved Glastonbury", he writes. Snoop the Loop was an undeniable success but insinuating that the rest of the festival was a "flop" made him look like a prize pump-head. Maybe if he'd have gotten out of the press tent...

According to my Lonely Planet, Bulgaria is very different to what it was 10 years ago. Even on the popular tourist strip, there is evidence of its past, present and future (hello, cranes). Being locked behind the Iron Curtain for 40 years or whatevs is going to take its toll in a whole heap of ways. You could see in the old people's eyes how much they have seen in their lifetime - far more than any of us could probably imagine; especially the posh A-Level kids we met whose idea of 'bad times' was comprehensive education. However, I could sense an air of contentment amongst the older folk and I dug that. The rest of the Black Sea Coast appeared to be full of misery and is predominantly made up of phenomenally attractive (but miserable) women and the line up from the 'World's Strongest Man 1997' (the saddened losers of the contest, that is). It was just ridiculous.

Aside from the 'phenomenally attractive women', Bulgaria is not too dissimilar to Scotland (my beautiful friend Holly Andrews being an exception - a direct descendent of William Wordsworth no less). For starters, there's the greasy food. The chef at one quiet inland restaurant we found (who dropped some VERY LOUD GERMAN TECHNO for the waitress to deliver a sizzling hot plate to one confused customer) found it appropriate to batter my £15 swordfish. Then of course there was the language barrier, the wind and the misery. Also in regard to their EU membership, you get the impression that both countries are just 'happy to be there'.

Having been to Poland with Dan a couple of years back, I had expected to pay a small amount of 'Scoobies' (the currency of any country outside the UK in mine, Dan's and now Gary's head) for beer and the like, with everything else coming in relation and proportion. Despite the disgustingly wonderful price of beer (90p for a pint of premium lager as well as the £1.20 for 20 cigarettes), it was a bit of a shock when you quickly realise the bulk of Bulgaria's mafia-run economy is heavily reliant on taxi fares and the human requirement to do a wee-wee. In one taxi we got in at Nessebar (a 9,000 year old town where artistes flock to sell their sculptures, paintings and AK-47's), the meter was doing a cracking impersonation of a stopwatch. As for the paying-to-urinate scandal, the free use of the bar toilet was becoming a deal breaker with the promo peeps. "I give you free shot?", they'd say. "Throw in a free wee and it's a deal".

Going out in the evening was fuuuun. With very few English people around, we gave the line "are you English?" a good run out. Let's face it - it doesn't work so well back home. On the first night, having been thrust into a club called 'Iceberg', we came across a group of three English girls. I say they were English, they were definitely from Wrexham which I'm convinced makes them Welsh. Dan and Gary quickly bonded with two of the girls (well, Dan and 'Georgie bonded. Not even God knows what Gary did) whilst I was lampooned with the boring, tee-total girl with a boyfriend who, after a pleasant conversation about ducks, decided to take the 'let's-talk-about-the-time-I-saw-someone-on-my-farm-get-crushed-to-death' conversational road. Pffft. I longed for Kelly the Australian promo-girl who had got us in the club. Ahhhh...lovely Kelly. Having quickly established some common ground with our big love for Justice, we continued to chat over a drink and soon found that we shared even bigger mutual loves for Krafty Kuts, as well as Aussie artists such as The Bloody Beetroots, Cut Copy and The Presets. Alas, it wasn't until my last evening until we saw each other again. Flip!

Over the remaining nights, we experienced a washed-up Artful Dodger, coincidence (where it transpired that I was talking to Ellis, a lad who my friend Sarah, Dan and myself had taken on a day trip to Bridlington when he was 11, as well as meeting a delightful girl called Alice who knew cousin's brother, Stavros), radical international relations (where Gary went from being pick-pocketed by gypsy prostitutes to being worshipped by a clearly naive Bulgarian babe) and soggy grinding (in which I shan't go into detail).

On our 'quiet night', we took an evening stroll down to the mafia-run marina to eat some fine mafia-cooked fish with the mafia-ruled locals. The aim of a post-meal drink was quickly hampered when 3 girls from the Midlands sat next to us. With the girls being between 27-29, twinned with Dan's line of work and our hometown of Halifax, mortgages quickly became the topic of conversation with Dan bearing the brunt of some gentle-medium abuse. Luckily, the retro 80's tunes were enough to distract me from the conversational mire and soon got my groove on - much to the delight of the Katie Price-wannabe who, with her hair slicked all the way back to the early 1960's, was clearly enchanted by my moves (ZING). Before we knew it, it was 4am and back to the shop for more beer and on to their apartment for possible romance and iPod-breaking. It was good to know that the 'quiet nights' can escalate Balkan-style just as well as back home. If only Gary had read the 'Wing-man' textbook...

Music-wise, the nightlife's offerings reflected much of Sunny Beach; tacky and very repetitive but easy to get caught up in it all. Aside from my freaking brilliant rendition of Limp Bizkit's 'Break Stuff' at the karaoke bar, the (what seemed like) 8 song loop was impossible to escape and as such, most of it was bizarrely embraced as if it were a warped form of Stockholm Syndrome. The tracks that David Guetta wasn't involved in included:

Stromae - Alors en Danse (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7pKrVB5f2W0)

There's no getting round it - this track is absolute dog shit. But for some reason, we just didn't hate it after 3 days.

Yolanda Be Cool & DCUP - We No Speak Americano (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3jrXw97egoM)

For days, I was convinced that this was the commercial breakthrough for French electro-swing outfit Caravan Palace. It's safe to say that this is the definitive summer dance track and to be fair brought with it some belting dance choreography that the world had being crying out for since the Whigfield/Macarena era.

Luckily, we had Justin Beiber and some new MTV friends to fall back on at the apartment. Dan and I were particularly impressed with EVERYTHING about Selena Gomez (and The Scene - but enough about them). According to my sources, Selena is a ma-hassive mega star in America and is another in a long line of Disney Channel products. She played her first ever UK show in April and I for one would like to be on her.

Selena Gomez & The Scene - Round & Round (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UfcvO2t8Ntg)

The trip to Bulgaira has brought to an end a pretty redonkulous few months for me. Incorporating an amazing birthday party, academic and professional triumphs, incredible live music (Rage, Parklife, Glastonbury...) and comedy (Flight of the Conchords, Peter Kay, Adam Watts...), a successful house move and everything in between. I'd even even put it out ther and suggest that these have been some of the bestest times of my life (ahhhhhhhh).

Simon.

N.B. Deck shoes make for a high standard of skidding on airport floors.