I came to Kruger National Park to chase lions and rhinos, and I
The biggest surprise was how quickly
I came to Kruger National Park to chase lions and rhinos, and I
The biggest surprise was how quickly
For years I’ve dreamt of becoming a pro wrestling superstar, smashing chumps over the head with chairs and flexing my glistening muscles for my adoring fans. But I’m lazy and usually hungover, so I’ve never bothered to make my dream a reality. Fate, however, decided that
hammering big, sweaty blokes in the ring pummeling idiots in the squared circle was my calling and so, by pure chance, I ended up as a wrestling legend. This is the epic story of how I became the Heavyweight Champion of Portugal.
I spotted a poster for Centro Treinos Wrestling taped to a pole while I was drinking in downtown Lisbon, and decided it’d be a laugh to rock up and see the show. I followed the directions on the poster, keeping an eye out for a grand arena fitting such a renowned organisation, but when I arrived at Maria Pia Sport Clube it was the size of a Polish shithouse. Loud gangasta rap music was playing inside, so I finished my beer and raced in.
The ring was set up in the middle of a run-down outdoor basketball court, with a dozen or so curious onlookers scattered around. When I swaggered in to take my seat, the fans rose to their feet and started cheering me, so I hammed it up and flexed my guns. With my chiseled physique they obviously thought I was one of the wrestlers, so I played along and slapped high-fives and took selfies with my new fans, until I felt a spirited tap on my shoulder.
I turned around to see a huge, scary-looking guy snarling at me. He had a shiny gold belt wrapped around his waist, fancy tights on his bottom, and was obviously furious that I was stealing his spotlight.
“Yo gringo,” he spat. “Why don’t you sit down before the Champ makes you sit down?”
When I didn’t do as I was told, the brute pushed me to the ground, leading to a round of furious boos from the audience. I was shocked, hurt, and angry, but knew there was no point in fighting back against such a monster. I grabbed a cheap cup of beer, sat back and dried my tears as the champ introduced himself as ‘Pai Grande’ Leo Rossi.
The first couple of matches weren’t too bad, and I actually had a great time sitting out in the sun and watching people fight. The first contest had some creepy masked dude named Symbiote punching on with a handsome, long-haired fella who the two ladies in the crowd (both morbidly obese and lacking in teeth) were going gaga for. After that was some weird intergender match where another masked duded named Red Eagle kicked the shit out of some sheila called Claudia Bradstone. It ended when Symbiote raced in to beat the crap out of them, setting up a tag team main event classic for the ages: Symbiote and Rossi vs Eagle and Bradstone!
Then some cunts came out and waved their Star Wars lightsabres around for 45 minutes. Their toys must’ve had flat batteries, because they didn’t light up and they had to make the noises with their mouths. I was hoping Darth Vader would rock up and behead hem, but ti wasn’t to be. They didn’t seem to know what they were doing and it had nothing to do with wrestling, so I drank heavily and ended up furiously banging on the club’s only toilet door. After what seemed like an eternity, it flung open and an obviously annoyed Rossi stumbled out, bringing a putrid stench with him.
“I thought I told you to sit down and shut up, amigo,” he snarled, before pushing me into the toilet and slamming the door, trapping me in there with the crawling smell of his diarrhea.
I finally busted out during a match between some big-titted stunna and a dweeb called Nelson, and when that was done Rossi and Symbiote sauntered back out. The bullies were talking shit and acting like tools, and when Rossi saw me he almost lost it. They had a hard-hitting encounter with their opponents that spilled out onto the basketball court, and when Rossi dragged his victim near me, he told me I was next. I wasn’t going to hang around and wait for that, so I grabbed my folding chair and brained the bastard with it.
Rossi was furious! With blood pouring down his head, he chucked me into the ring and screamed that he’d put his championship on the line against me. The crowd roared as I took him down with a brutal DDT, but he popped up and hit me with a wicked senton bomb. I gave him a blistering Samoan drop, but Rossi hit back with a sickening sidewalk slam. I wish I had photos of this, but as you can understand, I was a bit busy. After half an hour of blood and beatings, I chokeslammed him onto a pile of thumbtacks and then made him tap out with a Boston crab. The referee handed me the belt and I was chaired into the streets of Lisbon by my supporters while Rossi wept in the gutter. Finally, I had fulfilled my destiny.
I lost the belt in an armwrestle with a vagrant later that night, but I had become the most feared wrestler on the planet. Every man in Portugal wanted to shake my hand, every woman in Portugal wanted to shake my penis with her mouth, so I could no longer stay in Lisbon. I fled to the airport and hopped on the first place to my nearest safe house… a little shack in the south of Brazil, where I knew someone would be waiting to look after me…
The medieval town of Sintra is less than an hour from the heart of Lisbon by train, and is home to a really cool castle, so you’d have to be a complete Wally not to go out there. The town itself is situated in a lush valley, with the ancient monuments perched high up on the cliffs surrounding it. There are Thai tuk-tuks to take you to the top (but, sadly, no Thai ladyboys to take you to the brink of orgasmic bliss), or else it’s a pleasant walk up the hill. The trail winds along cobblestone streets and through centuries-old villages, all to the sounds of birds singing.
Castelo dos Mouros was built by the Moors (Dudley, Mandy, Roger and Billy) in the 10th century to defend the city against evil, bible-thumping Christians, but these days has been overrun by Chinese tourists. It costs eight Euros to visit, so I waited until the guard was looking the other way and snuck in. Shit, no wonder the bloody Christians conquered the place so easily!
IT’S HIP TO BE SQUARE
Portugal once suffered from the highest rate of drug abuse in Europe, so back in 2001 the government decriminalised Persian Rugs and saw a massive drop in the number of people wandering around with needles in their arms. You wouldn’t know it from walking around Lisbon’s many scenic town squares, though, because they’re absolutely crawling with crack-peddling cretins, deadshits and low-lifes.
It’s a shame, because the architecture surrounding the squares – Praça do Comércio being the most prominent – is stunning, with beautiful old buildings running up the surrounding hills and impressive statues gazing proudly over the city. It’s kinda hard to soak in the historic ambiance when some fuckwit in a fedora is trying to sell you a bag of cocaine. I’m always one to make the best of a bad situation, so I grabbed some magic mushrooms and a handful of Viagra tablets off a scummy-looking little bloke, and spent the night wanking myself off while watching episodes of Powerpuff Girls back at the hostel. Good times!
PUNK IN DRUBLIC
Grab a few dozen cheap cans of Super Bock from a shop, find a park without too many vagrants in it, quaff the booze, argue with a dog, pass out in the sun, shit yourself. It’s one of Lisbon’s greatest cultural experiences!
1. I FORTE THE LAW
Lisbon doesn’t have a spectacular harbour like Sydney, Hong Kong or Woy Woy, but it is on the water, and has a few things to offer those who are after a stroll along the agua. The 25 de Abril bridge looks a bit like that one in San Francisco, but hopefully not as many people commit suicide by jumping off it. Maybe it’s because the bridge is next to Santuário de Cristo Rei, a statue of Jesus that looks just like the one in Rio. I like to think the big fella has a quiet word with anyone feeling blue enough to end it all.
A short powerwalk along the Tagus River reveals the enormous Padrão dos Descobrimentos, a 52-metre-high monument to Portugal’s history of exploration. It was finished in 1960 and boasts 33 statues of famous Portuguese explorers, all of whom have funny names. It costs five Euros to climb to the top, but I didn’t because I got distracted by a chick with big tits and forgot to.
The best thing to see along the waterfront is the 500-year-old Belém Tower, which was originally built defend the city before being converted into a place to imprison homosexuals. Once it became obvious that the homosexuals quite enjoyed being locked up in a dungeon with dozens of like-minded individuals, they were all drowned in the river and it was converted into a regular prison, with only a three percent drop in the amount of gay sex.
2. BOUND FOR GLORIA
Lisbon is really hilly and the Portuguese only have little legs, so they built a bunch of funicular railways to carry them home after loading up on bacalhau and vinho verde. The most famous of the three remaining funiculars is the Elevador da Glória, which was handily located just around the corner from my hostel (which was very handy for getting home after drinking my body weight in cheap supermarket beer).
Gloria was opened in 1885 and rolls a few hundred metres from Baixa up to Bairro Alto. It costs three Euros to head up or down, so it’s best to buy a transport day pass for six Euros and ride the bloody thing all day long. The best part is that when you get off at the top, you can dance around like you’re in the opening of Full House.
3. BLISTER IN THE SUNSET
There are few things more enjoyable than smashing ice-cold beers while watching a glorious sunset in an exotic city. Alright, maybe watching the Raiders beat Manly 50-0 in the grand final with an endless supply of free beer and meat pies at hand would top it, but you get the point. Lisbon is an ace place for watching the sun go down because it faces west over the ocean and has heaps of stunning lookouts.
Miradouro de Santa Catarina and Miradouro Santa Luzia are great spots, but the best I found was the snappily-titled Miradouro da Nossa Senhora do Monte. The name means ‘Our Lady of the Hill’, and it’s easily accessible by wandering through the Graca district’s labyrinthine alleyways until you either stumble upon it or die of starvation. Situated in the grounds of an ancient church, the view is tops, but the best thing is that there’s a bar serving nice big jugs of Sagres (and some overpriced food, so bring a bag of chips). By the time the sun finally disappears, you’ll be so smashed they’ll have to roll you back down the hill!
There have been three perfect moments in my life; watching Paul Osborne’s around-the-corner offload to Dave Furner during the 1994 grand final, seeing my girlfriend for the first time, and soaring above the unreal azure waters of Interlaken. But they say the darkest night is before the dawn, and that was certainly the case during my first solo paragliding trip through Switzerland.
Interlaken has dozens of launches, but I decided to head to th 1060m-high Luegibrueggli (know as Eggs by the locals) for my first flight – mainly because it’s easy to get to by bus from the middle of Interlaken. After 20 minutes scraping up the hill from town, and a brisk walk through the woods, I found myself in a tiny clearing looking out over the most beautiful lake in the world. I set up my gear, took a deep breath, and cruised out into the clear Swiss air.
It took me about five seconds to realise something was wrong. Very, very wrong. After narrowly missing a tree after launching, I realised my left brakeline was tangled, meaning I couldn’t steer the bloody thing and was being dragged dangerously close to town by the swelling valley breeze. I was a kilometre above the Earth with barely any control over my glider, a thin stream of urine dribbling down my leg and regret on my mind. I needed to use all my experience as a pilot to somehow drag my glider down to the green valley floor, and drop into the tiny landing zone. When i finally landed safely, I took a moment to scrape the fright shite out of my pants and reflect on how close I’d come to disaster.
As I sucked on a frosty can of Tell that night whilst watching the sun set over the Alps, I was still thinking about what had happened. I’m so proud of myself for having reached a stage of my flying that I can travel to a foreign country alone, find flying spots, check out the conditions and take to the air by myself, but I always have more to learn. Today’s lesson was patience – and to wear dark-coloured undies when I fly a new spot. The next day, I promised myself, would be perfect.
With great conditions forecast, I took the bus all the way up to the 1280m-high Waldegg (known as Eggs by the locals) launch. After quadruple-checking my lines, I once again launched into the beautiful alpine valley, and this time everything was absolutely perfect. I hooked into a thermal and climbed up into the clear, blue sky, as the magical scenery shrank beneath me. Dozens of other gliders were dancing through the sky and heading off in all directions, and I managed to cross the valley and play above the monumental peaks of the Andes. Finally, I was able to see what all the fuss is about when it comes to Swiss flying – and I was doing it completely alone.
After a couple of hours of the best paragliding imaginable, the wind picked up and it was time for me to head down, down, down to the ground. I spiralled towards Lake Thun, watching its crystal clear water rush towards me as I ended my ride. And then, just like that, it was over. As I packed up my wing and graciously accepted an ice-cold Rugenbräu from fellow pilot Hans, I looked up at those indomitable mountains and smiled as I thought about cruising over them. Paragliding is all about ups and downs – both literally and figuratively – but the apex of this wonderful sport surely exists in the pristine skies above Interlaken.
Switzerland is best known for reliable watches, multi-purpose knives, successful tennis players and its lively gangsta rap scene, but all I was really interested in during my visit was climbing a really big mountain and then paragliding into wild. So after bidding adieu to Hamster I headed straight for Interlaken, an adventure playground high up in the Alps that offers something for everyone.
Switzerland (not to be confused with Swaziland – if you’re not sure which one you’re in, just look around and count the black people) is about the size of your average Manly fan’s penis and has great public transport infrastructure, so it’s easy to explore. With some time to kill in Geneva before catching the train to Interlaken, I took a stroll through the buzzing city centre and along Lake Geneva’s lively waterfront. The mixture of history, culture and architecture makes for a stunning place to spend an arvo – shame there was a half-pissed Aussie ruining the authentic Euro feel of the place.
A few hours on a modern train brought me to the fairytale village of Interlaken, with it’s shimmering lakes, cute houses, thunderous mountains and swarms of Chinese tourists. Ignore the throngs of selfie-snapping shitheads and it’s easy to fall in love with the place. The sweet scent of freshly-baked bread and cakes wafts through the streets, and the sound of energetic music competes with bird songs for attention. There’s something beautiful to see on every corner, it’s easy to get around, and there are usually paragliders soaring through the air, so it’s pretty much a slice of heaven.
As the name suggests, Interlaken is in-ter-middle of a couple of wonderful lakes. The water is cold year-round, but slug a few cans of Quöllfrisch and they’re fine to swim in. There are dozens of hikes to take on, a couple of funicular railways that look like they’d be plenty of fun(icular) if they didn’t cost so much, and the opportunity to go bungy jumping, sky diving and jet boating. Whether you’re poor as a dog’s foot or have cash falling out your anus, there’s no reason to be bored in Interlaken.
A word of warning, Interlaken is more expensive than a Filipino mail order bride, and even a night in a bog-standard hotel costs as much as buying a three-bedroom house in Wyong. Luckily, there’s a cheaper option – the less-than-salubrious Balmers Tent Village. The beds aren’t comfortable, the toilets aren’t clean, and the whole shebang feels like its going to blow away in anything more than a gentle breeze, but at least it’s in the price range of your average drunken Aussie. The fact the old birds I was sharing my tent with brought me breakfast in bed each morning didn’t hurt, either (even if it left me wondering whether they’d been sucking me off in my sleep).
Interlaken is the heart of the rugged Bernese Oberland region, but there are lots of great little villages surrounding it, and they’re all worth checking out. I caught the train to Grindelwald – which is sure to put a grin on anyone’s face – and was astonished by how beautiful it was. The mountains are so enormous and imposing they even put the Andes to shame, and as the sun peeked through the clouds and shone off the verdant green pastures and eternal glaciers, I really felt like I was somewhere special.
There’s a cable car to the 2166m-high First summit, but it costs $90, so being a
work-shy deadshit budget-conscious backpacker I decided to hike it instead. It’s not a particularly tough trip, and the views are unreal, but it is pretty bloody dangerous. Not because of avalanches or rockslides, but because the path up the hill is shared with Asians scooting back down on go-karts. Our little Oriental mates aren’t great drivers at the best of times, and their skills don’t magically get better when hooning down the side of an astonishingly steep mountain at 150km/h.
When I made it to the top I looked out in wonder at the magnificent landscape in front of me, then got the hell out of there before anyone could ask me to join the search party for the half-a-dozen Chinamen who zoomed off the cliff to their deaths that afternoon. All in all, not a bad way to check out the Swiss Alps, but now it was time to fly over them…
Travel blog-writing wankers with sticks up their arses will tell you that you can’t experience everything Rio de Janeiro has to offer in just five hours, but they’re wrong – very fucking wrong. With my bus from Floripa taking six hours longer than it should have, and a flight to the northeast of Brazil booked for the same night I arrived, I had barely any time in Cidade Maravilhosa (roughly translated as… I dunno, something about cicadas), but I saw it all. Every last bit of it.
So bloody well take that.
Yes, just like dancing gay champion Peter Allen did several decades ago, I gave in to the rhythm and let my feet follow the beat of my heart as I strutted down the streets of one of the world’s biggest cities. Unlike poor old Pete, I didn’t go around shaking other blokes’ maracas, so I might escape his tragic fate.
Here’s some of the cliche sights I saw during those 300 minutes. Big-arsed sheilas in tiny bikinis:
Some dude taking a shit in the street:
Dickheads dancing the Macarena:
A street- wise youth gang busting a groove in a favella:
I even visited the world famous Copacabana Beach, and thought it was a pretty bloody nice place indeed:
All of that stuff was great, but while in Rio I really wanted to see the city’s Big Thing. Coffs Harbour has the Big Banana, Nambour has the Big Pineapple, and Rio has the Big Christian. I knew he was on top of a hill that could be reached by cable car, so when I saw one, I hopped on. The ride to the top of the Sugar Loaf (if there’s a better name for a hill anywhere, I’ll eat my undies) is truly spectacular, and Rio is one of the most incredible and unique cities around. Massive mountains climb out of the rambling buildings, with golden beaches providing breathtaking decoration.
When I got to the top, I eagerly looked around for the Big Christian, but couldn’t find him anywhere. He’s 30m tall, so it’s not like he was hidden behind a palm tree or something, so I asked a little bloke who works there where the statue was.
“Estúpido gringo,” he laughed. “You’ve come to the incorrect hill. Christ the Redeemer stands proudly atop Corcovado, several kilometres from here. If you look behind you, you’ll see him. He is quite majestic.” And then he shoved an empanada in his gob and sauntered off.
But when I looked around, the Big Christian wasn’t where he was supposed to be. There were just clouds. The weather had fucked me again! I was devastated, and lined up with hundreds of other to take a selfie in front of a whole lot of nothin’.
While I was doing that, some self-obsessed creep who was hoping for the perfect Instagram snap started going berserk, ranting about the weather and knocking food off people’s tables. He was so enraged that he almost stepped on a marmoset! He was coming my way, waving his selfie stick around carrying on like a pork chop, but as I turned to run I slipped on a banana peel and went sprawling on the ground. I scraped my knee and started crying, when a fat little brown bloke with a gap-toothed smile and a goofy haircut trotted over to me.
“Such grace! Such courage! Such ability to fall over for no reason and pretend you’re hurt! You’re exactly what the Brazilian soccer team needs to win the next World Cup! Are you available over the next two months or so?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Why… I’m Ronaldo! The world’s greatest soccer man! I’m famous!”
“Yeah, yeah, maybe in Brazil. But in Australia people would walk right past you to get an autograph off Super Hubert. Look, I don’t have time to join your pub soccer team. You’ll just have to go and win your World Cup thingie without me.
Let’s face it, the Russians love to have a good fight. Whether it’s a war against the Western world or a backyard scrap between two boozed-up homeless blokes, these proud Slavic people are always getting stuck into someone. Moscow’s Central Armed Forces Museum serves as a tribute to their history of hurting people, and has one of the world’s largest collections of wartime memorabilia, so I loaded up a hip flask with vodka and headed out into the snow to check it out.
The main halls of the museum hold more than 700,000 relics dating back to the start of the 20th century, with all the usual war-related stuff such as machine guns, blood-splattered uniforms and miniturised battle scenes. There are also some truly incredible artifacts such as bullet-riddled tanks, captured Nazi flags and medals, and the shattered remains of Yank pilot Gary Powers’ U-2 spy plane. Of course, I only found out what everything was after I got home and jumped on Wkipedia, because none of the signs are in English. Unless you’re an expert on Soviet history or can read Pусский, you’ll struggle to work out what anything is. But, much like having sex with a woman, it’s a lot of fun even if you don’t know what’s going on.
Among the awesome things I missed due to not knowing the lingo were a strip of tattooed human skin from a prisoner of the Maidenjak Concentration Camp, the victory banner the Soviets flew over Berlin to signal the end of the Second World War in Europe, and a ping pong set once owned by Adolf Hitler. Alright, maybe that last one’s not right (Hitler strikes me as more of a shuttlecock player), but there are plenty of items once owned by the so-called ‘Naughtiest Boy in Nuremberg’.
Despite being unable to read any of the signs or work out what anything was, one thing was made perfectly clear; the Soviet/Russian Army are the biggest bunch of badarses ever, they’ve smashed every country they’ve fought,and everyone else is a bit shit in comparison. Yes, it’s all a bit biased and patriotic, which is no surprise seeing as the Russians love their propaganda. It’s a facinating collection of trinkets, but don’t expect to find a balanced assessment of Russia’s wartime efforts.
The real stars of the show can be found outside the building, because around the back are dozens of tanks, missiles, anti-aircraft guns, planes and trains. It’s an awesome display of Soviet power and pride, and most of the vehicles are very well preserved – in fact, I’d be worried about littering or jumping on the metro without a ticket in case they govenment send one of the big, scary tanks after me.
It was fucking freezing and I was getting covered in more white stuff than a Japanese porn star, so I started drinking heavily from a bottle of vodka I had stored in my jacket. It was doing the trick, too, because I started to regain feeling in my fingers and my cold, frozen heart slowly started to beat again. The world looked a little brighter, the birds songs sounded a little sweeter, and I skipped gayly throughout the exhibits, finding beauty in their ferocity. Needing to have a slash, I ducked behind one of the gigantic missiles, dropped my pants and let fly with a stream of bright orange piss that sizzled in the frigid conditions.
As I was shaking my willy, I slipped on a patch of ice and bumped into the missile, sending it rocking on its foundations in the gloomy afternoon. Scared that it would topple over, I raced around the other side and pushed it back, but that only caused the missile to swing the other way. I hightailed it back around to the other side, miraculously managing to avoid going arse over tit on a patch of black ice, and shouldered the missile back again. This went on for a minute or two, with the rocket weedling back and forth just a little bit further each time. Not even Jesse Jane has worked so hard to erect a massive missile.
The doors of the museum burst open and a group of heavily-armed security guards scrambled out into the ice and snow, making a beeline for me and the rogue missile. Shouting incomprehensibly and spinning their arms around like windmills, they managed to get the WMD under control, before turning their attention to me. The furious Slavs gripped their weapons and grit their teeth, ready to add one more name to the long list of Russian conquests. I just shrugged, tucked my doodle back into my pants, and raised my flask to them. “If Vlad cracks the shits about this, let him know I’m from New Zealand,” I chuckled, and then swaggered out into the night.
There are more than 13 million people in Moscow, and sooner or later every single one of them is going to cark it. Of course, with the amount of vodka the Russians guzzle, they’ll leave a bunch of well-preserved corpses, but all those bodies have to go somewhere. Not surprisingly, you can’t swing a lynx (they’re native to Russia – I’m an expert on this place now) without hitting a cemetary around here, and they’re absolutely fascinating.
I don’t even know the name of the necropolis I visited, but it was as strange as it was large. Thousands of intricately-carved tombs stretched out for kilometres in every direction, while the forest dumped neon-yellow leaves all over the tombstones. I’ve been to a lot of graveyards over the years (I guess you could say I’m dead keen on them), but this was by far the creepiest I’ve ever seen. The contrast between the well-maintained and highly decorated graves and the ghoulish plantlife was unsettling, as was the near-perfect silence even in the middle of the city, and things only got worse when I realised I was lost amongst the maze-like architecture. It truly was a nightmare come true.
After 15 minutes of trudging in circles, I was in tears and contemplating a night spent curled up in a tomb in order to survive the harsh Moscovan conditions, but then I just sort of found the exit and went home to smash a few beers and watch professional wrestling. It ended up being a pretty good night!
The 1960s were known for two things; spunky hippies who did heaps of drugs and fucked everyone in sight, and the epic space race between the USA and the USSR. The spunky hippies are now saggy grandmothers, but at least the history of Societ space travel has been well preserved, thanks to Moscow’s Memorial Museum of Cosmonautics. It’s a fascinating throwback to a time when anything seemed possible and everyone was staring towards the heavens.
The museum is housed within the base of the Monument to the Conquerers of Space, which is an incredibly impressive structure that rises 107 metres into the bleak Moscovan sky. It was built in 1964, back when the Soviets actually were leading the world in extraterrestrial exploration – y’know, before the Yanks landed on the moon and won the battle once and for all (well, until the people of Nieue claim their rightful place as Kings of Space by landing on Mars).
It’s cheap as chips to enter the museum – about $4 Australian – but for some reason they charge double if you want to take photos. I didn’t pay it and took my camera in anyway – Drunken Aussies 1, Russian government 0. The first thing I saw when I waltzed through the front door was a couple of stuffed dogs, who turned out to be the first canines to survive a trip into space. Where I come from, stuffing a dog means something quite different, but it was nice to meet a couple of dudes who could not only lick their own arseholes, but have achieved more in life than I ever will.
The museum isn’t massive, but there are some cool things to check out, such as the space suit worn by Michael Collins during the Apollo 11 mission, and an intricately-recreated model of the International Space Station. There are also scale models of a whole bunch of rockets, satellites and moon rovers, which are all awesome to check out. All up there are more than 85,000 items to look at, which makes the museum sound huge, but it wasn’t as big as I thought it would be (a sentiment many girls have after a night with me).
Unfortunately, most of the information boards are in Russian only, so unless you can decipher that it’s difficult to know what you’re looking at most of the time. It’s possible to explore the museum with a guide, and they also have headphones available at the front desk, neither of which I took advantage of, so I can’t really complain about being confused about what was going on.
It was this confusion that led me down a dark corridor on a quest for the toilet, then down a set of decrepid steps the plunged deep into the Earth. With my bladder full of cheap Russian booze, I kept moving further into the belly of the museum, ignoring signs that probably told me not to go any further. After walking for what seemed like hours, I came to a door that was slightly ajar, with brilliant blue light spilling out into the rotting hallway. It looked like a dunny to me, so I poked my head through and was amazed by what was inside. A gigantic, disk-shaped craft was parked in the middle of an immense warehouse, and standing underneath it was a groupf of small green men wearing shiny silver suits. Don’t believe me? Just check out this totally legit photo I snapped.
As I stared in slack-jawed wonder, a hatch on the craft opened and three beings climbed out. I squinted against the bright light, and was amazed to realise that I recognised the figures. The first was overweight and wearing a sequined jumpsuit with a cape. Mystery solved, Elvis never did die. The second was even shorter than the little green men, and blacker than an ex-wife’s heart. When he wobbled his head and said, “Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout, aliens”, I realised who he was; Gary Coleman. The third had three legs, a funny little beard and a bit of cardboard in his hands. He strutted over to me, held his hand out, and said, “I’m Jake the Peg, and this is my extra leg”. He then invited one of the younger aliens to sit on one of his three knees and then sang a song whilst thrusting his cardboard around. It was all very strange. I know there have been rumours about Elvis being abducted by aliens for years, and Gary Coleman disappeared under mysterious circumstances, but it made little sense that Rolph Harris would be there. He’s a sex pest, not an alien.
I was getting ready to leave when one more being climbed out of the spaceship. He was about four foot tall and covered in fur, and I immediately knew who he was. ALF! No, not Alf Stewart, but the lovable Alien Life Form himself! I ran over and cuddled the little fella, and we kissed a bit, and his mouth tasted like he’d been eating pussy. He gave me a smile and made me an offer. “You look like a nice guy. Join us on a voyage to the stars. You will live forever as king, and learn the secrets and mysteries of the universe.”
“I’d love to,” I said, reluctantly, “but I’ve got a Russian girlfriend at home who will break my arms if I’m late for dinner. But next time I bump into you, I promise I’ll go off and become a space king or whatever it is you want me to do. Add me on Facebook.” And then I swaggered off into the Moscovan night.