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| They say Guinness doesn't travel well. But Tim does |
There I was, begrudgingly packing my rucksack with all the energy and enthusiasm that Wales showed in their 0–3 defeat to England in the World Cup. It was a dismal performance, the kind that leaves you sighing at the TV and questioning your life choices — like choosing to care about football in the first place. And seriously, a World Cup in November? In Qatar? Right in the middle of the domestic football season? It felt like the sporting equivalent of serving a roast dinner at breakfast.
Still, I had something better to look forward to — a midweek escape to Hamburg with the boys: Tim, Mic, Carlos, Steve, and me. A much-needed getaway to forget the football and replace the gloom with bratwurst, beers, and bad decisions.
Wednesday, 30th November – Arrival in Hamburg and the Madness Begins
We landed in Hamburg late, groggy but buzzing. After navigating the usual airport shuffle, we made our way to the St. Pauli Hotel, our home for the next few days. Nestled in one of Hamburg’s most iconic districts, St. Pauli is the kind of place that wears its heart — and tattoos — on its sleeve. Known for its punk-rock past, rebellious spirit, and wild nightlife, it's a melting pot of music venues, dive bars, eccentric locals, and late-night kebab stalls that feel like they've seen things.
The moment we dropped our bags, we hit the streets in true Welsh fashion — no time for naps, we had a city to conquer.
But there was one thing we hadn’t anticipated: smoke. Thick, curling, ever-present cigarette smoke. In bar after bar, it was like stepping back into the early 2000s. The air was dense, our throats burned, and our eyes watered. None of us smoke, and we’re used to the clean-lunged laws of the UK — so it hit us like a hangover before the first pint.
Still, we powered through, fuelled by lager, laughter, and the kind of chaotic camaraderie only old friends can bring. The night turned into early morning in a haze of neon lights and half-remembered conversations. We laughed too loudly, danced too poorly, and talked nonsense to strangers who were somehow kind enough to tolerate us.
One moment sticks with me, though: being politely (yet firmly) thrown out of a bar at 6am by a weary bartender who just wanted to go home. “Go sleep now,” she muttered, shaking her head with a tired smile. And honestly, she wasn’t wrong.
Next up: exploring Hamburg by daylight — assuming we make it out of bed.
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