Tag Archives: kebab

A Goose in Turkey

Those half-Asian-half-European women are the hottest in the world, so when a bloke I met in a pub told me about a city that’s half in Asia, half in Europe, I knew I had to go there. Next thing I know, I’m in Istanbul, Turkey, marvelling at what is a bloody great city. The sprawling metropolis is divided between the two continents, and as a result the clash of cultures and ethnicities is truly dizzying (or maybe that was just the dozens of kebabs I’ve eaten over the past few days).

Istanbul is a bloody big place, with more than 15 million inhabitants (making it almost twice the size of Wyong), so there’s something interesting to see around every corner. The most popular tourist sites are in the Sultanahmet district, and include the Blue Mosque, Basilica Cistern and this really hot chick called Fatima who dispenses handies behind the local kebab shop. They’re spectacular and worth going to, but a word of warning – the Turks don’t allow alcohol inside the mosques and enforce a strict dress code. I had to guzzle my can of Efes and cover up my Bintang singlet and ripped Stubbies before going inside.

The mosques stand regally beside the Bosporus, which is the dividing line between the continents and where the locals go to swim on hot days. From the look of the water I reckon it’d be more sanitary to go down on Candice Falzon, but chubby little Turkish blokes don’t mind diving in. It was a bit of a freak show, and I saw some doodles flapping around in the breeze that would scare Elton John straight. There were no hot babes in bikinis swanning around, though, so I didn’t waste too much time hanging with the boys by the water.

If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to be a slice of meat crammed into a doner kebab, head along to the Grand Bazaar market. It’s the best place for pirate DVDs, snazzy suits, and Turkish confectionary that will rot your teeth out, but it’s also the most overcrowded market on the planet. The crowd doesn’t walk down the narrow alleys, it swarms, and there’s little choice but to push grannies and children out of the way as you flow along. After that, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m pregnant. Ahmet, call me!

Istanbul’s wild mixture of influences means there’s some areas that look like they’re straight out of Paris one of the non-shit Euro capitals, with delightful coffee shops and up-market restaurants. There are also parts that are third-world shitholes, with a surprising amount of people walking around without their full compliment of limbs. I even saw one poor bastard without nose! He was standing there by the Galata Köprüsü, drinking can of Coke, trying to look cool, with a gaping hole in the front of his face. How did he smell? Terrible!

If the sight of blokes with missing body parts doesn’t put you off your food, you’re in for a treat. The Turks love their tucker, so there’s shitloads of restaurants and they’re all cheap and good quality. A couple of dollars gets you a plate piled high with chicken, beef, rice and salad, with an icy cold can of Coke to wash it down (because they don’t sell beer in most restaurants for some dumb reason). Heart attacks, obesity and not being able to fit through doorways seem like minor inconveniences when eating your way through Istanbul.

As for the women, the divide is as big as anything else in this city. Around 15 per cent of them are beautiful and slim and dressed nicely, whilst the remaining 85 per cent are older than time itself, seem to have subsisted on kebabs and lard, and wear bags on their heads. I’m all for ending the oppression of women, but I have no desire for them to come out from under the burkhas.

A long day on Istanbul’s busy streets caused me to really work up a thirst, so I hit the bars around Taksim. There are plenty of them, they’re cheap, and the beer’s cold enough to freeze a platypus’s lips. I was enjoying my fifth schooner of Tuborg and watching the rain tumble down when a tubby, sweaty bloke sat next to me and wrapped his flabby arm around me. He smelled like he’d eaten a bad kebab the night before and not changed his shorts since.

“I came halfway round the world to get away from you pricks,” he slurred in a thick Kiwi accent. “Nah nah, jus’ kiddin’, I love youse Aussies. Well, at least when youse ain’t fuckin’ wombats! The name’s Derryn, but you can call me Derryn the Dude.”

And that’s how I met Derryn the Dickhead.

Derryn hung around like bad case of herpes. He kept trying to kiss the barmaids, and every time one of them walked past he slipped his cock out of his shorts to show them. Luckily, it was too small and shrivelled for them to notice.

I used every excuse in the book to get rid of him. I told him I had an early flight, my dog needed walking, and faked a heart attack, but he wouldn’t leave me alone. I even told him Split Enz are a pack of poofs and Sam Neill couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag, and he just giggled and ordered another round of beers. When I finally cracked the shits and walked out, Derryn the Dickhead was right behind me, with his ballsack hanging out the bottom of his shorts.

I was lurching through the bustling streets, trying to lose the Kiwi cockhead, when a big-titted Turkish woman leant out a window and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Güzel bir türk kadını becermek ister misin?” she asked, and I felt like I was getting sunburn from her breath. After seeing my confused face, she asked again. “Do you want to fuck a beautiful Turkish woman?”

I was about to say thanks, but no thanks for the kind offer, when a familiar arm draped around my neck. Derryn looked at the prostitute with love in his eyes, rifled around in his pockets for a handful of Lira, then held them up to the woman. Her moustache twitched when she saw the paltry number of coins.

“How much sex can I get for this?” Derryn asked.

“About two inches,” huffed the hooker.

“Alright, baby,” Derryn cheered as he swaggered in the brothel. “Can I get change?”

Say hello to Sarajevo!


Sarajevo gets a bad wrap, mainly because he’s of people have been massacred here over the years. But it’s actually a cracker of a city with plenty of culture, a great nightlife, and a unique personality unlike any other I’ve experienced. It’s not hard to see why it’s knows as The Jewell of That Sort of Southern-Middle Bit of Europe.

There’s also this dude!

For a lot of people – myself included – Sarajevo is still tied to the Yugoslav Wars, and the signs of that are still here. Bombed out buildings still stand on the outskirts of the city, and cemeteries dedicated to the thousands who died in the conflict are absolutely everywhere. Seriously, in Bosnia you never have to look far to find one, and paddocks full of pointy white tombstones are one of the most noticeable things about this country. But Sarajevo is so much more than that.

Alright, maybe they look a little bit like tampons

It doesn’t really feel like a European city, and reminds me more of being in Asia. The Old Town district is crammed with stalls and restaurants, with people hurrying in every direction and the smell of cooking meet wafts through the air. Wild dogs look for food in alleyways while homeless people in rags beg for change. Every so often some weird music will start playing and some dude will start yodelling through a megaphone, as part of the Muslim call to prayer. It’s a unique place, with a bigger mix of cultures than a Sasha Grey gangbang video.

I wish someone would push me in a stroller

After my long bus ride, I was pretty thirsty, so spend the afternoon and evening drinking beer in a number quality establishments, including a shack called the City Pub, which filled up late and became rowdy as the band took to the stage. I found out something about myself last night – I really like Bosnian rock music, even if I can’t understand the words. It’s loud and fast, with great choruses and booming guitar solos. After drinking beer all afternoon, I was singing along and dancing with my new Bosnian friends, acting like a fuckwit.

Play Freebird!

Not surprisingly, I woke up with a rotten headache that made me wonder if a large Bosnian man had climbed in my window while I was sleeping and danced on my head. There’s only one cure for a hangie like that – a kebab. Or, in this case, two kebabs and a plate of hot chips, with a can of Coke to wash it all down.

Eat that, bitch!

Feeling better than ever, I jogged (well, walked… slowly) up to the Yellow Bastion, which provides a brilliant view out over the city. There was a really hot sheila getting married up there, so I pulled my hoodie over my face, lest she see me and immediately leave her hubby, leading to hundreds of angry Bosniaks chasing me through the streets of Sarajevo.

Mr Handsome goes to Bosnia

As I was trotting along with a kebab in one hand and a beer in the other, I saw a bunch of champions in fancy clothes playing trumpets and making an awful racket, so I headed over for a closer look. They started walking off down the street, and I followed them to see where they’d end up. People were lining the streets, clapping and cheering, and after a few minutes I noticed that they were just cheering for the band, they were still doing as I went past. That’s when I looked around and realised that the people I was walking with weren’t just regular street trash, they were all wearing nice clothes with medals pinned to them. I wasn’t following the parade, I was part of it!

I’ve got something else you can blow, luv!

Nobody seemed to mind, so I just kept going, waving at people as I passed them. When we finally reached some sort of cathedral, me and the rest of the group assembled on the stairs while the band banged out another song and some dickhead with a camera snapped photos of us. I made sure I gave him my biggest smile, then stood there for the next hour or so while some bloke chatted to crowd in some language I don’t understand, before ducking away when the band started up again.

Don’t worry, he’s ‘armless!

I finished the day with a steaming hot burek in my mouth. No, burek isn’t the name of the handsome man who dances outside my hostel, it’s the Bosnian national dish, and is basically mince meat in pastry, so it’s like a pie! I was about disappointed that the little bloke in the restaurant didn’t squirt any tommo sauce on it, but it was a delicious way to end the day.

It might look like a dog turd, but it tastes great!

Slovenian Shenanigans


After a big day of exploring Slovenia’s lovely Lake Bled, I decided to have a quiet one today. Nah, that’s a load of shit, I walked over 30km and checked out two of the most incredible places a fella could ever hope to visit. Unfortunately, Scarlett Johansson’s vagina wasn’t one of them.

Vintgar Gorge is about four kilometres north of Bled township, and there is apparently is a bus that goes to it, but I wasn’t able to find it. So, like a drunk who spent his last five bucks on another schooner, I decided to walk it, and the journey wasn’t too bad. It took me through fields and traditional Slovenian villages, before finally spitting me out at the gorge.


The River Phoenix

Vintgar is stunning. A series of rickety-looking wooden walkways take visitors through deep canyons, while incredibly clear water rushes underneath. Lush vegetation thrives on the edges of cliffs in a world of almost unbelievable beauty. It feels rustic and wild, and it wasn’t hard to imagine myself as some sort of long-haired Indiana Jones, exploring some incredible land for the first time.

I have no fucking idea why my leg is up like that

Well, except for the fact that there were pensioners everywhere. Seriously, hundreds of the old bastards infest the Vintgar Gorge, complaining about haemorrhoids, asking what time dinner is, and pushing their little walkers along the walkways. I was stopped six times to help fogies change the ringtones on their phones and was asked three times what an internet is. Dad, if you’re reading this, and want to head to Vintgar, you’ll find plenty of people to talk to about listening to the wireless, and how good Errol Flynn was as an actor.


He only dreams in black and white

Crowds aside, Vintgar is an awesome place and comes highly recommended. If you don’t reckon it’s grouse you need your head read, because it’s bloody tops. In fact, Vitgar is considered the second-most-beautiful gorge in the world, after ‘Gorgeous’ Gorge Rose.


I’m too sexy for a diet, too sexy for a diet

A trip to Vintgar fills up about half a day, and I thought about spending the rest getting drunk and trying to impress Slovenian chickie babes with my kangaroo impressions, but a lazy arvo wasn’t on the cards. Instead, I walked back to Bled (we’re up to 11km already, in case you’re not keeping count) and then hopped on a bus out to Lake Bohinj, which takes about 45 minutes. Like Lake Bled, Bohinj is as pretty as memories of a lost love, but it’s also almost completely undeveloped and really quiet. I didn’t see even one Chinese bloke with a camera while I was there.

Don’t go flipping off waterfalls

The lake is absolutely stunning, with a sheer mountains rising out of the water on both sides. It’s a lot bigger than Bled, and the track around it probably runs for 18km or so. A trot around the water is a real adventure, but totally worth it due to the kick-arse views. Don’t try to walk around it all if you’re a salad dodger, though, or you’ll probably have a bastard heartie.


At the western end of the lake is the Vogel ski resort, where all sorts of people in funny-coloured outfits slide down snow on little bits of wood. It’s not winter at the moment, though, so nobody’s doing that, but the cable car to the top of the mountain (1500m) runs all year round, so I wasn’t going to miss out on the chance to take a ride on it.

Higher than Charlie Sheen on dole day

It’s a tranquil and awe-inspiring ride that provides a few minutes for careful reflection on life. Actually, that’s not quite true, because the little bloke who runs the cable car was blasting songs by Eminem and other angry rappers as we climbed to the top. He was furiously shouting about ‘fucking up yo bitch’ and stuff like that, which went some way towards destroying the ambience of the ride. When I stepped out at the top, I was relieved that he didn’t headbutt me.

Cold as fuck, but hot as hell!

The cable car rises 1000m in less than five minutes, and it’s like a different planet at the top. There’s still plenty of snow up there and it’s bloody cold, but at this time of year it’s basically deserted. It’s eerie seeing restaurants sitting empty and frozen, while chairlifts swing silently, waiting for the next ski season.

More white stuff than a bukkake party

The weather wasn’t great, so the view from the top of Vogel wasn’t as spectacular as it could’ve been, and it wasn’t long before I was back on the Rap Express, dodging “fucks” and “niggaz.” Not actual niggaz – there aren’t a whole lot of them in Slovenia – I mean angry words spat by Slovenia’s answer to Slim Shady. From there, it was another 10km back to the bus stop, by which point my feet were aching more than a hooker’s smoo when the Harlem Globetrotters are in town.

This is reasonably pleasant… Bloody hell, I’m sick of writing captions!

All up, I walked 32km, but if you’re worried about me getting all skinny and gay-looking, don’t. I recharged my batteries by smashing a large kebab pizza (yes, that exists!), a massive bowl of hot chips, and three pints of beer when I finally made it back to Bled. If I’d been there with a pretty lady, she would’ve called me a fat cunt and gone to bed with her back turned to me. I wasn’t that lucky, though, so I just had a wank and called it a night.


Ljubljana – the gorgeous Euro town with a name like a bad Scrabble hand


Ljubljana is a bloody hard name to pronounce, and it’s not a destination you’ll find in a whole lot of travel guides, but it is a lovely little (and I mean little) city that is worth being drunk and jobless in. I should know, I just spent a night there.

Sexy in Slovenia

There aren’t a lot of sights to see in the Slovenian capital of Ljubljana – there’s a bridge with dragons on it, and three bridges that are really close together – but it’s a wonderful little place to wander around. Nowhere in the centre of town is more than a few minute’s walk away, everything of importance is right next to a river, and there are bars and restaurant and cafes everywhere. It’s basically a Greatest Hits list of every European city, but smaller and easier to explore.

Make sure you don’t get crushed by all the people!

The most notable feature of the city is the massive fuck-off hill in the centre of it, with a castle on top of it. There’s a little train than runs up the side of it, but I just walked up the bloody thing, which is a nice adventure in itself. There are trees everywhere and the view from the top is sublime, but don’t bother paying to go into the castle at the top – it cost seven Euro spacebux, and there are better views elsewhere on the hill if you look around. Fuck, I even found a place to crab dance!

I’ve got crabs!

Lju… oh, fuck it, I can’t remember how to spell it. Anyway, this place is becoming increasingly popular with world famous celebrities, so it came as no surprise that I bumped into popular Aussie comedian Carl Barron, who was walking through the streets with his young son. When I trotted over to say G’day, Carl took one look at me and said, “Shit, now I’m only the second funniest Aussie in Slovenia” and gave me a high five!

Tell us a joke, Caaaaaaarl!

One thing that needs to be pointed out is how good the street food is here. You’ll never have to go far without finding something to stuff in your face. I’m talking about kebabs and burgers and stuff like that, but they’re all cheap, delicious, and huge. Sorry, I thought I was talking about my ex-girlfriend there!

This is going straight to my hips!

Despite being a capital city, Ljubljana only has around 250,000 people, so it really does feel like an overgrown country town. There are no trams zipping through the streets, and not many cars. Life’s a bit slower, which makes it a fantastic place to relax. There are even dickheads riding through the streets on fucking tractors! I’m sure if I looked around I would’ve found a hillbilly rooting a chicken.

Contestants on popular Slovenian television program The X-Tractor

I was in Ljubljana on a Saturday night and Sunday morning, and the whole place was full of life the whole time. Bars and restaurants were full to overflowing during the night, and there were bands and entertainers all over the place during the day. It would be a great place to visit for a few days if you had someone to sit by the rivers with, drinking good beer and talking shit, but seeing as I left my pretty girl in Riga, one night is more than enough for someone on their own.



I ate a kebab the size of my head


I spent most of today traveling between the Polish cities of Warsaw and Krakow, so I didn’t get up to much besides getting drunk on a train while watching a woman breastfeeding in the seat opposite me (she didn’t offer me a sip, in case you’re wondering). But I did get a mouthful of meat and, fuck it, I’m going to tell you about it.

When I booked my accommodation in Warsaw, I didn’t choose the shithouse Bed4City flophouse simply because it was the cheapest place I could find. I also went for it because the joint is located above a massive kebab shop. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was booking myself a date with tone of the tastiest hunks of beef I would ever wrap my lips around. I even ended up with the sauce all over my face!

I wish they had a hole in the wall, so I could just suck the meat through that

I didn’t manage to stop in at the Amrit kebabery yesterday, but with a long trip ahead of me today, I made sure to stop in for a feed. And bloody hell, am I glad I did! A beef kebab cost me 18 Polish Slutzkies, which I thought was a bit steep, but it was worth every cent. The kebab I was handed was immense, with half a cow stuffed into a huge bread roll, with tomatoes, hot chips, lettuce, onions and plenty of other stuff. Under most circumstances I’d rather let a clown shove an umbrella up my urethra and flick the open button than leave food on my plate, but I had to be judicial about what I could stuff into my face, it was that big.

It tasted wonderful, and to anyone who says that size doesn’t matter, you’re a nuffie. Um, except women who want to make sex with me, it’s cool if you do.

I would’ve had a post-kebab cigarette if they let me

I waddled up to the train station after that, and almost had to be rolled onto the carriage. The train trip from Warsaw to Krakow is pleasant, if uneventful. The scenery changes from the harsher and uglier landscapes and villages of the north of Poland to the rolling hills and quaint villages of the south. I haven’t had much time to explore Krakow yet because I’ve spent the evening drinking beer and being told to turn down my music by the no-fun-allowed German bloke in the room next to me (who’d better become a fan of Cold Chisel quick smart, or he’ll have a bad night – I’m in Poland, dickhead, do you think I have much sympathy for the plight of a bloody German?). But tomorrow, I’ll get out there and check it out.

This is either Krakow, or Narara

But if I start the day with another kebab that size, I might have to get some little Polish bloke to cart me around in a fuckin’ wheelbarrow!

Kebab of the day: If you can’t work that out, you’re dumber than Todd Carney.

Beer of the day: had a great little beer called Wojak, which has a picture of an eagle on it. Maybe it’s eagle piss, I dunno, but it tastes good. If it is eagle piss, I’ll buy a bird and get it to urinate in my mouth at regular intervals.


Climbing Peter’s Steeple


After such a sombre few hours at the Salaspils Concentration Camp, I climbed back aboard the train and was pleased to find myself sitting directly across from one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen in my life. Seeing as my Latvian is somewhat lacking, I went with the old classic of a wink and blowing a bit of a kiss to let her know I’m single and interested, but she just looked at me like she’d caught me eating urinal cakes. Broken-hearted, I put it down to the fact that Latvians aren’t exactly the most excitable bunch and trundled off the train – at which point I realised that my fly was open. And it was just the day that I’d decided to wear my undies with the holes in them. Sorry, pretty girl on train.

It’s Latvia’s answer to Red Rooster

After downing my sorrows with a few tins of cheap beer in one of de repeblik de Riga’s many parks, I decided to spend the arvo getting high. No, not by smoking drugs like my ex-girlfriend some sort of crack whore, I mean I climbed up something really tall. Yeah, I got on top of St Peter’s steeple, which sounds like how I spent most of my afternoons back when I was a choir boy.

St Peter’s Church was built back in 1209, so it’s old as fuck, so I’ve got no bloody idea how I was able to catch a friggin’ elevator to the top. Maybe St Peter was a time travelling space mutant or something, who knows? I asked the woman who runs the elevator but, in true Latvian style, she just humphed and went back to Tindering blokes on her iPhone.

Please swipe right on me, Ursula!

“Hey, I can see my moped from here!”

The view from the top is stunning, and despite the high price (nine Euro Spacebux) it’s the only way to get a true appreciation of the layout of the city. I could look out and see the spot where I drank a beer in the park with a homeless Romanian dude, the place where I was almost arrested by Latvia’s Finest, and all the spots where I was turned down by Latvian women. It was grouse.

I was up the top there, all alone, when the doors to the elevator opened and a loudmouthed American wearing a bright red shirt with pictures of fruit on it stepped out, his trap flapping enough to create a stern breeze that almost knocked me over. “Oh yeah, greaaaaaaaaaat,” he said upon seeing the view. “Oh, it’s sooooooooo high. Geeze, guys, they should’ve given us oxygen tanks before we came up. These Europeans are just so dang good at building towers and it’s not, like, every singly building in America is bigger than this.”

Looking back over the Robert Hughes Tower

The Seppo’s chums guffawed at his razor-sharp wit and started slapping each other high fives while everyone else in the placed rolled their eyes. The loudmouth went back to talking about how much better is at building things, and it really ruined the mood, so I knew I had to do something. The enjoyment of everybody was in my hands (I know a little Thai chick who works at the massage parlour who says the same thing), and I knew I had to do something.

The next time the fool started yapping on about how America is better at building things than anyone else, I piped up and said, “Yeah, you know what else America is really good at building? Dickheads like you, mate.”

Admit it, I’m sexy

The loudmouth was shocked into silence while the other tourists cheered wildly and started jumping up and down with joy. Even his friends shook their heads and left him by himself, on ther verge of tears. Once again, I had saved the day, and I took my rightful spot as the hero of Riga.

As for what happened after that, well, that’s a story for another day, but the end result is that I’ve decided to hang out in Riga for another couple of days, rather than heading off to Sigulda as planned. Don’t worry, the Tour is still in full swing, with my next stop being the lovely city of Tallinn, in Estonia. Hope they’ve got plenty of booze…

Beer of the day:
I smashed a lot of beers today, so let’s give it to, I dunno, Livu. It tasted pretty good and didn’t give me diarrhea, so it’s good as gold according to me. Honestly, there’s not a bad beer over here – just walk into a shop, grab a mixed-bag of cans, and get fucking smashed!


Kebab of the day:
Wanting to provide you, my drunken readers, the best guide to the many kebabs of Europe, I needed to find a third restaurant to eat at today, which proved a challenge because there are only two kebab shops in Riga’s Old Town. I finally tracked down Kebab Fix over near the railway station, and I was a bit suss on it from the get-go. As well as being tucked away near a supermarket, it was run entirely by teenage girls. Well, looks can be deceiving, because the wrap was awesome! It was stuffed with meat and coleslaw (which works!) and was all tucked in nicely, so they get extra points for style. All in all, it was the best kebab so far.


Did I find the greatest love the world has ever known?
The closest I went was accidentally knocking over this weird scarecrow woman while feeling her tits. Awkward.