Wroclaw Sunday Night

Two blocks to the square. Cool looking restobars line every side – where to eat? A lot to choose from. Let’s look at this side street that… Leads to another square altogether, an even more impressive one with a huge classical looking church. How is this a Sunday night, the place is going off? And it leads into *another* square.

I lose Murphy, look back and he’s talking to a gorgeous blonde. “Would you like to go to a burlesque show?”, she’s asking him. Sounds good, but we need some beers and food first.

“I’ll go to your brothel if it’s got a smother chair.” – Konrad

Seconds later a tough looking fellow is trying to convince us to go to a strip club, and minutes later we get a third offer. That’s a bit annoying, didn’t get this in Prague. A fourth guy pitches us the strip club in French.

This labyrinth of connected squares (five in all maybe?) has every kind of bar and restaurant we could want, but we end up doubling back to a baller looking meaty patio called Craftova with a couple of open seats right next to the plaza. Murphy goes with the lamb tenderloin while I go with “pork nuggets” – it’s not from the kids’ menu but it’s not far off, I don’t give a shit, nugs sounds great right now. The prices are unreal – Murphy’s tenderloin is about fifteen bucks, my nugs are five. The tenderloin comes with approximately two pounds of mixed pickles that are impossible to finish.

Table of four douchebags sit beside us. They’re giggling about the girls. Talking about going to the brothel. They keep talking money. Like they act baller but are cheap as fuck. They’re all yelling over one another and generally acting high school drunk, although they’re probably in their thirties. Murphy looks seriously unimpressed.

It’s about midnight and the square is starting to slow down so we discuss taking it easy, getting in an early night and being responsible grown-ups, but there’s an outdoor area called “Neon Side” with a bunch of old-fashioned neon sides, surely we can check it out before tucking in early?

The signs are nowhere to be seen but we find plenty of drunks and hookers, and somewhere to our left is the alluring sound of Sepultura’s Roots Bloody Roots. It’s a metal bar and a quick glance inside shows people stomping around madly and headbanging. We’re on the case.

This place is awesome. The music is killer metal tunes, one after another. There’s a bust of Satan in Baphomet style looking down approvingly at us. The bartender is an aquamarine-haired bombshell. Drinks are cheap. I stick with beer for now, Murphy dives into some double beams.

Multiple crews are bouncing around, some locals, some tourists, but one force of nature stands out, a local guy named “Path” (???). He’s grabbing everyone by the shoulders and throwing out high fives. He says we don’t sounds like Canadians, like he doesn’t believe us or something? (More of this later) To make himself heard over the music he wraps his hands around our ears and then breathes out deeply while yelling, basically wet hot breath all over the side of your head, down your neck and dripping off your shoulders. Ugh

The tunes occasionally deviate from metal, at one point Killing In The Name Of is cranked and the dance floor / mosh pit explodes. Sabotage follows immediately after and the place is raging.

Thomas is an Irish fellow with a large group of predominantly British, keeps breaking away from the pack to air-drum with a wild look on his face. Works in construction and is a proud patriotic Irishman, brings up the diaspora and gets misty-eyed when he discovers Murphy’s surname. Great sense of humour, I jokingly call him a cunt and he takes it like I hope he would.

Speaking of cunts, there’s a guy who looks like a slightly beefier version of Connor McGregor – I’ll call him Max McGregor – who’s a total jackass. He’s so shitfaced I can’t tell whether he’s speaking English or Polish. Keeps running into everyone and slurring nonsense. He doesn’t stick around long.

A fire breaks out on a table – what’s going on? The UK people set something on fire? The bartender comes over to give them shit but doesn’t kick them out. Things are getting wild

Polish ska? Oi! Oi! Oi!

I ripped the side of my cargo pants pocket. Things are getting sloppy

“You can’t shit here, this is for women! See the triangle???

Path is drinking from my beer with a straw, leaning over and just slurping it up. “I’m not stealing, I’m borrowing!” He’s also trying to bum cash off us.

We’re drinking with a cool chick named Laura from Manchester. Path is getting super creepy with her, trying to convince her to undo the top couple buttons of her dress. “Just one, two buttons. We need to see. Please.” The guy’s getting handsy, real scumbag. He keeps coming back to bug Murphy about it, to help him convince her. Making eye contact and motioning to do it. Fuck off Path.

The bartender asks if I want another beer, I’m thinking about joining Murphy in the whiskey but decide to think about and gesture to her “five minutes, I’ll see”. Then there are five beers poured, she insists I asked for them. “This is a misunderstanding!” I yell. “Fuck you!”, she responds. Yeeesh. Fine I’ll just buy them and pass them around. It’s $13 CAD for the round.

Twenty minutes later I realize buying beer in fives is great and order another five.

There’s a sad looking guy at the bar listening to his own music, I try to offer him a beer, cheer him up, he won’t talk to anyone. Slap him over the shoulders, still nothing. Murphy tries, nothing.

It’s like 3:30 now???

I see a ruckus break out. I think Path tried to grab the sad guy and the sad guy said fuck this. A bunch of us jump in to regulate – me, two or three UKers, a couple of the bar staff. Path lost his glasses, I pick them off the floor before they get crushed. I’m hoping they kick Path out but instead they kick out Gloomy Gus. On his way out he takes a swing at a bartender, misses, gets thrown through a table. Good times

Someone grabs me and yells “You are a prisoner to Polish punk culture!!” Holy shit I’m wasted

I stumble out the door. Where’s Murphy? Fuck it it’s like five a.m., I stagger in what I think is the direction of the hostel. I have to get through two locked gates and Murphy has the keys. Both have intercoms – at the first I explain “My name’s not on the registration but just let me in, it’s cool”, they buzz me through both.

An unimpressed night clerk asks me what room I’m in. I don’t know, whatever room Jonathan Murphy is in. She raises an eyebrow but digs out a box of extra keys – about a hundred of them – and looks for the one I need. “This isn’t a lot of fun”, “Sorry, what were you doing before I got here?” “Nothing, so I guess this is better than that”.

She lets me in and I collapse.

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