5: Prague Diary

Sunday 15th Day four.

This was my favourite day of the holiday and one that I will never forget. We got up, had breakfast and decided to go into town and get the fixings for a picnic to take up to the castle with us. It was a scorcher of a day and we did away with the number eighteen opting to walk the couple of miles into town instead. The first half mile or so was up a bloody great twisty twiney hill. I thought that it was going to be tough going with my bad back but it was a breeze and I hardly even felt it. The walk was great, but we hadn’t banked on everything shutting for the Sabbath and most of the shops were closed. I’d really enjoyed the walk and my back held out and only started aching once we were in town by Dominoes. I did have a new problem though, my pumps had rubbed my feet like hell and I had blisters on my blisters. I had to find some flip flops from somewhere, any other day it wouldn’t have been a problem but on a Sunday it was a tall order. However we found an open Bankrot, a chain of discount shops that you see over there on virtually every street corner. I bought a pair of real, leather sandals for under a fiver and Russ bought me another pair in a different colour.

After a restorative latte in Dominoes we managed to find a supermarket and bought loads of stuff for a picnic. We came away with ham salad, grated cheese, crisps, fresh strawberries and pineapple, cream cakes and we already had buns made up in the fridge. We bought pop for me and beer at ten pence a litre for Russ. I wanted to walk back to the hotel but the sandals were new and, despite them being soft leather, we knew that once we got home we still had to go out again and walk up to the castle and back. We didn’t have long to wait for the good old number eighteen.

The walk up the hill in the heat was a lot more difficult than it had been the night before, though the heat wasn’t the only problem. As us ladies do when going on holiday, I’d packed a couple of girl things into my case to give the old man a buzz. One of these was a remote control, twelve function, love egg. In my infinite wisdom before setting off I thought it was the perfect time to let it see the light of day—or not, when you think about where it’s—never mind. Just before leaving I nipped into the bathroom and inserted the day’s entertainment.

Part way up the hill I told Russ what I was ‘packing’ and gave him the remote. He put it into his pocket and, like any little boy with a new toy, wasted no time in playing with it, which was a pleasant distraction from the gradient of the hill.
‘Crikey,’ he said, ‘It’s not exactly silent, is it?’ I’m sure I managed some reply.
About half way up the hill Russ opened a bottle of pop and passed it to me. It was fresh and gassy and the bubbles went up my nose making me want to sneeze. Too late, I clenched my pelvic muscles, but the sneeze had already done the ach and was well into the choo. Instead of holding the love egg in, squeezing my muscles only aided in pushing it out. If I’d been wearing a skirt and no underwear, which is sometimes the case in summer, it would have shot out, rolled down the hill and probably tripped up about a hundred people. My clothing prevented this and there it hung, in suspended animation, neither in nor out, while Russ, oblivious to my dilemma continued pressing buttons. We were on ultrasonic-pulse-wave on the highest intensity setting. ‘Turn the bloody thing off,’ I moaned through gritted teeth.
Russ took this as a moan of ecstasy rather than agony, ‘Too, intense for you, love, try this one,’ he continued clicking buttons until I was boss-eyed and bow-legged. Between power surges I managed to convey my discomfort and he finally turned it off. Men reading this won’t get how uncomfortable my situation was, but any lady who has incorrectly inserted a tampon will understand what it’s like when it’s half in and half out. I tried various styles of walking that would allow me to suck it back up again, or indeed fire it out completely; I didn’t really care which at this point. Nothing moved it. All I needed was three seconds to get my index finger inside the leg of my shorts and give it a quick shove in an upwardly direction and the missile would be nestled back in the comfort of my cervix. I looked both ways; there were about fifty people ahead of us on the narrow path and about two hundred behind making their way up the hill. I was half way up a mountain with this thing rubbing and creating friction with every step. I may have answered the eternal question about how spontaneous human combustion is possible. It was obvious; they had a bloody love egg starting a fire in their souls.
I had little choice but to solider on. The thing was about the size of a ping pong ball, though more eggy in shape, but it felt like a cannon ball. We made it into the castle grounds and followed the sign pointing the way to toilets. After five minutes we still hadn’t found them. I couldn’t go on any longer the friction was killing me. There was a grassy banking that was almost filled with people taking in the sun. We found a space, but if I’d stretched my arms out I could have almost touched the people to either side. One way or another that thing was coming out—now. I covered myself with a towel and Russ tried for distraction while I did a swift heave-ho-out-we-go. ‘You haven’t taken it out, have you?’ Russ said, sulking.
‘Bloody right, I have. I’m not risking that again,’ I wrapped it in a tissue and discreetly transferred it to my handbag. Even when I try my very best I’m about as seductive as Nora Batty. Despite that, Russ had rolled towards me to shield himself from the other sunbathers. He had an erection to be proud of that came and went at pleasant intervals throughout the day.

The castle turned out to be non existent, there weren’t even any ruins. Presumably, once upon a time, a fortress stood in those grounds, but today all that’s left is the most beautiful church and a little keep. The grounds were immense and from the ramparts you could see miles down the river in one direction and right across the city in another. On the way back down from the lookout spots we made our fateful mistake, we sniffed. Following our noses in the direction of the wonderful food aroma we looked over a wall and saw a barbeque in full swing. Sod the picnic, there was no way that we could ignore those smells. We’d walked for miles and although we hadn’t felt hungry until the moment we smelled that food, we’d built up an appetite. We sat at a table right in the sun and for about a pound each we had a fantastic lunch; it was one of my favourite meals over there. I had barbequed chicken and Russ had the pork loin. They both came with salad and three slices of onion bread and although it was simple fair cooked on an open griddle, it was the tastiest thing we’d eaten to date. I had fresh orange juice and Russ had a beer and the bill came to about three pounds. The deserts looked amazing but we just didn’t have the room for them so we went to find somewhere to sunbathe, intending to go back later to finish off with something cold.

In the end we settled on a grassy banking that we had almost to ourselves. Russ spread a towel and we lay, him topless and me in my bikini, soaking up the sun. We each had one earphone of his walkman and listened to Roger Waters like a pair of con-joined twins hitched at the ears. It was bliss, but as it got hotter my mind kept conjuring up memories of the wonderful desserts waiting for us back at the barbeque café. After a couple of hours in the sun we wandered back up there and Russ had a creme caramel and I had fresh raspberries with ice-cream and hot raspberry sauce topped with whipped cream, it was a fantastic. It was the perfect end to a brilliant day and we still had the night time to look forward to.

Russ had been horny all day, maybe it was the sight of me in a bikini that did it. By now, anybody that knows me is splitting their sides laughing just as I almost split my bikini trying to get in it. Anyway, fact remains, that Russ was up for some good old fashioned loving when we got back to the hotel. We made love and he had a shower. While I was having a Jacuzzi and getting ready for our night out Russ went down to the hotel bar for the cocktail hour. The bar was stocked with about half a dozen bottles of spirits for nearly a hundred people. Russ ordered two Black Russians because that’s about the only cocktail that we know the ingredients of. The lady didn’t have Tia Maria, but offered to put something else in it instead and recommended something that tasted vaguely like coffee. Neither did she have any vodka and had to rush out to the shop and buy a bottle. Because cola out there is so expensive, compared to spirits or beer, the cocktails came sans mixer. In other words, we got the alcoholic part of the cocktail but had to whistle for the soft bit. For a four star hotel it was a strange set up.

It was Sunday night and so far we hadn’t seen much in the way of evening entertainment, in fact, we hadn’t seen any. We were absolutely determined to find some live music, or a singist or even karaoke—something— anything…

…we didn’t.

We followed pretty much the same recipe as the night before; we walked for miles, though not for long and ended up in Dominoes. When we went in a gang of lads, obviously on a stag night and obviously British, had taken up the entire top end of the bar. We entered and a cheer went up from the lads who were also pissed off with the unfriendly nature of the Czechs and happy to see and recognize other Brits. I asked them if they’d mind if we sat on the end of their table and, as they didn’t, we had a good crack with them until they moved on to the next pub.

And then it was just the two of us again.

I told Russ that we didn’t need anybody else to have a good time and set out on a hard and fast mission to get pie-eyed. That Finlandia vodka has a lot to answer for. It’s smooth on the throat, easy on the belly and has a kick like a kangaroo. I can sup the Robin Hood vodka with the best of them, but until you’ve tasted Finlandia, you’ve never drunk real vodka and I certainly couldn’t drink so many of them. Towards the end of the evening I sat a couple of rounds out and only had an orange juice which did me the world of good and saved me from a hangover the next morning, something that Russ wasn’t so lucky with. We sat alone and drank in there all night. We were smiley, polite and friendly with all of the staff who were pleasant but cool in return.

At the end of the night Russ went to the loo and I said I’d order one last round in. He said that he’d had enough and couldn’t manage another one. His face dropped when he came back to our table and I told him the drinks would be along in a second. He was still protesting until the man came with two hot, steaming cups of coffee and then his face lit up. That coffee certainly hit the spot.

We’d had good, if not overly friendly service all night. In Prague the etiquette is to sit at your table and be served by bar staff cum waiters. After the first couple of drinks we only had to raise our hand and two more drinks would arrive for us. They always brought us a separate glass of ice and a spoon to spoon it into our glasses with. The two bar staff had been backwards and forwards to us all night, something that doesn’t sit well with me having been used to getting up and going to the bar for my drinks all my life. I was a bit frightened of the bill but when it came it was only twelve quid. I couldn’t believe it. The same amount of drink, (and cheap doubles drink at that) at home would have cost us about sixty quid. I insisted that we tip them well and we left them a tip of ten pounds which was the equivalent of forty quid to them.

They’d served us well all night and I felt that they deserved it.

Prague has always been a quiet country. The men are hardened drinkers but they never seem to over do it or cause any trouble. About ten years ago they had this sudden influx of British louts that they were completely unprepared for. They’d never seen anything like us before. And now we invade in force. The Brits arrive in large groups. They drink until they fall over; they smash up their bars, vomit in the street, insult them and fight with the Czechs, the other tourists and even with themselves. Is it any wonder that these people don’t like the Brits?

In Gorge and the Dragon the night before, we’d seen some lads getting thrown out just because they swapped their t-shirts with each other. They were doing no harm, causing no bother. But they were still thrown out because they were Brits on the piss. Because of the reputation that the yobs of our country have given us, the Czechs don’t like any Brit. We are all tarred with the same brush and treated with disdain.

I can honestly say that I don’t dislike any other race of people. All men and women are equal and we all have our good and bad points. But, although I understood the grounding behind it, I found it very hard to like the Czechs. I found them cold and unfriendly, unwelcoming and impossible to make friends with in just a week.

We’d had a perfect day and a very nice night and I’d enjoyed every second of it and got the makings of a nice tan to boot.