India Day 1 - From Manchester to Madness – First Impressions of Delhi

Location: Safdarjung Enclave, New Delhi

After what feels like a 18-hour blur of motion, I’m writing this from the calm(ish) cocoon of a budget hotel in the Safdarjung Enclave, New Delhi. The journey began at 6am yesterday—a bleary-eyed dash to Manchester, followed by long-haul hops to Doha and finally Delhi. My travel companion Tim and I touched down in the Indian capital sometime this morning, unsure of time zones, dates, or the exact sequence of transit lounges we passed through.

Delhi is… something else.

There’s no easy way to describe it. Within minutes of leaving the airport, we were thrown into a living, breathing, honking, dusty tapestry of chaos. It’s utterly mind-blowing. The heat slams you like a hammer, even in late October. The air tastes like firecrackers and tandoori smoke. Nothing works quite the way you think it should—phones glitch, maps send you in loops, directions are vague and wildly optimistic. Everything familiar is stripped away, replaced by a glorious, unrelenting mess of humanity.

It took us hours to find our hotel. Not exaggerating—hours. But eventually, with sweat-drenched shirts and fried brains, we landed at The Deer Park Hotel in Safdarjung Enclave. It's tucked away on a residential street not far from the city's Deer Park, which is surprisingly leafy and quiet compared to the madness outside. For just £25 a night, the place is a gem—clean, secure, and full of personality.

Our hosts don’t speak English, and we speak absolutely zero Hindi. That hasn't stopped a connection, though. The hotel is run by a guy named Lalid—probably around 30—who's clearly the boss but runs the place with a calm kindness. His sidekicks, Nirmal and Pankat, seem to do a bit of everything: cooking, laundry, even security. One of them sleeps on a blanket behind the front desk. It’s humble, but there’s a kind of functional dignity to it all.

Given my infamous snoring and the extremely affordable local rates, Tim and I went for separate rooms. A wise choice. Mine is simple but cool, decorated with a kind of psychedelic, budget-hippie flair. Think tie-dye patterns, colourful lights, and rickety furniture that somehow works. The bathroom runs the length of the room, with an open window and a makeshift shower rigged into one corner. I kept the door firmly shut to fend off mosquito invasions.

We crashed hard for a few hours—pure survival sleep—and woke up around 4pm, jetlagged and confused but in need of coffee and curiosity. We stayed local, exploring the streets of Safdarjung, which pulse with the kind of energy you’d expect from a city of 30 million. Small food stalls, honking rickshaws, children playing cricket in alleys, men welding in open garages, women shopping in bright saris—it’s a full sensory overload. And yet, it works. Kind of.

Delhi shuts down surprisingly early—everything winds up around 10pm. So we headed back to the hotel, where things got... interesting.

Back at base, the informal after-hours scene kicked in. Turns out our hotel runs a kind of mini black market bar after dark, thanks to a guy named Visham—a guest from Mauritius who’s in town while his wife undergoes medical treatment. He speaks fluent Hindi and English, and quickly became our translator, negotiator, and drinking buddy.

Beer here doesn’t come from a fridge—it’s summoned like a spell. You make a discreet call, and some guy on a moped delivers your drinks under cover of darkness. We ordered four cans each—about £10 total, which feels steep for India, but this is the black market. Spirits appeared too, ordered by our local friends. I’m fairly sure we had more than one delivery and absolutely certain we drank more than we should have.

It was a brilliant night. Laughter flowed, language barriers dissolved, and the strangeness of the day turned into something communal, even joyful. We also counted down Tim's Sober October ten seconds to midnight, with a huge cheer as he cracked open a can of beer to break his month long alcohol fast. As the night / early hours wore on I’ve no idea how much of what was said made sense, but that didn’t seem to matter. This is what travel does—it shoves you into the unfamiliar, forces you to adapt, and gifts you moments of unexpected connection.

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First Impressions:
Delhi is raw, overwhelming, and doesn’t care whether or not you’re ready for it. But somewhere inside the madness, there's rhythm, beauty, and warmth. We’ve only just arrived, and already it feels like this trip is going to change us.

More soon. Probably with a hangover.

Show #85 - Louder Than War Radio

SHOW #85 (Broadcast 31.07.23) (listen)
[Resistance is futile…]

Rabo De Toro – Fake News Knobheads
TV Smith – Fake News
Revenge Of The Psychotronic Man – Fake News
Hoax – Fake News
The Crash Mats – Thundercats
Slund – Get Down With It
The Sewer Cats – Get It
Electric Press – Get Away
BBR – Get Away From Her, You Bitch!
The Mistakes – The Mourning After (*session)
Empty Mourning – Pride
Los Blancos – Christina
BUG CENTRAL – Another Vegan Hipster
Dishope – Hail Saitan Go Vegan
Dan Amor – Is This Reality
Snakes Among Us – Isolated
Sona – Gone But Not Forgotten
MC Mabon – People Are So Stupid
The Assouls – Stupid People
Evil Blizzard – Stupid People
Y Cyrff – Anwybyddwch Ni
Bring The Drones – Ignore The Bodies
Tystion – Yr Anwybodus
Knuckle Scraper – Pizza Suicide
1987tilpresent – Over Polite
Minus – Chaos
Beef – DNA
Rum Lad – DNA
Mr Phormula – Don’t Mind Me
Celavi – Neb Arall
The Dry Retch – Inside
Overpower – Overpower
Maines – Electric Eyes
White Ether – All Things Must Change
PRIMITIVE LIFE – Man Made Disaster Cwlt Draig – Y Ddraig Aur
Lullaby For A Unicorn – Alan Raiders
Ectogram – Byth Yn Bwrw Fel Hyn
Napalm Death – Throes of Joy in the Jaws of Defeatism

Bordeaux Diary: July 2023

Declan & Me vs. Southwest France

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🌧️ Saturday, 15 July 2023 — “Planes, Trains & Baguettes in the Rain”

After a truly cinematic Friday night journey involving planes, trains, and automobiles (not necessarily in that order), Declan and I landed in Bordeaux ready for adventure. We crashed at what was most likely the Mercure Bordeaux Aéroport, though let’s be honest—we could’ve been in a shed with Wi-Fi and we’d have been fine. Unwittingly, we arrived as Bastille Day was ending, hence all the fireworks popping off across the country, which we saw from above as we flew in on this night flight. The French celebrate the Storming of the Bastille on July 14, 1789, which was a pivotal event in the French Revolution, symbolizing the uprising of the modern French nation and the end of absolute monarchy. (UK take note!).

Woke up with big plans and questionable logic: we decided to walk from the airport into the city... in the warm rain. Why? Because we are noble fools. It took two hours of damp socks and determination.

On the way, we found a Carrefour Market (like a French Spar, but French and not grotty). We grabbed baguettes, cheese, and tomatoes—basically French travel fuel—and had a glamorous picnic on a stone ledge outside a cemetery. Based on our path, it was probably the Protestant Cemetery on Rue Judaïque, but we can’t rule out the possibility it was just a really fancy yard.

By afternoon, we checked into the cozy and lively Hostel 20 at 20 Rue Borie, tucked into the Chartrons district. Great vibes, nice people, and just the right level of mildly chaotic backpacker energy.

The rest of the day? Bar-hopping, sightseeing, and wandering through Bordeaux’s beautiful centre, soaking in the architecture, atmosphere, and literal rain. Saw the prominent twin spires of Basilica of Saint Michael (Basilique Saint-Michel) and Grosse Cloche (Great Bell), which is one of the oldest belfries in France located on the Rue Saint-James. Also walked down the side of the huge Garonne River. We clocked a casual 32,000 steps, which surely earns us points. Got back around 11 PM, knackered but smug.

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☁️ Sunday, 16 July 2023 — “Eggs, Lakes & Unexpected Dumplings”

We emerged from bed around 10 AM like victorious slugs and inhaled the hostel breakfast, which involved boiled eggs, cucumber, red peppers, and bread. Very continental chic. Honestly, we felt like stylish goats grazing at a picnic.

The goal of the morning: a walk to Le Lac (yes, that’s its actual name), an artificial lake in Bordeaux‑Lac, north of the city. It’s a proper green retreat with trees, paths, and that weird peaceful energy you only find near still water and joggers.

We stumbled on a pop-up Chinese market—like a lakeside car boot sale mixed with delicious smells and mystery dumplings. It was totally random and kind of amazing. Vendors sold everything from steamed buns to knock-off phone cases.

We then wandered through woodland trails near the lake, where we sheltered under trees from more rain, because apparently Bordeaux in July was feeling dramatic. At one point, we crossed what we’re 99% sure was the Passerelle du Lac, a rope-style pedestrian bridge that made us feel like we were on a budget jungle expedition.

By afternoon, we were back in the city and sauntering from bar to bar again—not for wine (we’re not French, after all), but for the vibes, the fizzy things, and the joy of pretending we were locals who “just happened to walk 26,000 steps” today. Casual.

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😅 Monday, 17 July 2023 — “The Bag, the Bar, and the Bloody Flight”

Our last day in Bordeaux and, honestly, we just wanted to chill out and soak in a bit more of this beautiful city. No plans. No step goals. Just two classy lads, feet sore but spirits high. Declan, by the way, is excellent company—as much my best friend as he is my son.
We did a bit of Bordeaux Cathedral, formally known as the Cathédrale Saint-André de Bordeaux, with its impressive Gothic architecture and also Rue Sainte-Catherine is famous for being the longest pedestrian shopping street in Europe.

We drifted from bar to bar again—soft drinks, rosehip cordials, and the occasional espresso ONLY JOKING! We had beer and more beer!. Somewhere between our fifth sit-down and seventh bad pun, it was time to head to the airport via tram.

Then came… THE BAG INCIDENT.

About halfway to the airport, I had that terrible, soul-leaving-your-body realisation:
“WHERE’S MY RUCKSACK?”
And not just any rucksack—this was the one containing my passport. And we were already on the tram. Heading away from it.

Cue emergency tram exit. We jumped off at the next stop like bargain-bin Bourne identities, waited for a tram heading back the other way, and shot back toward the city.

Miraculously, the last pub we were in had kept it safe—some kind soul had stashed it behind the bar. French hospitality? Fate? Just luck? We don’t know. But we are grateful.

With nerves jangling, we finally made it to the airport… only for RyanAir to delay our flight. Not enough for compensation (of course not—it’s RyanAir), but just enough to ensure maximum inconvenience and zero sleep.

Landed in Manchester at 2:30 AM, and finally reached Bangor by 5:00 AM. Just enough time to squeeze in one glorious hour of sleep before I was due at work. Living. The. Dream.

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🥖 Summary Stats

📅 Day	🥾 Steps	☔ Weather	🍷 Wine Consumed	🧀 Cheese Consumed
Sat 15th	32,000+	Warm rain	Zero	Abundant
Sun 16th	26,000	Light rain	Still zero	Obviously yes
Mon 17th	Unknown (lost count)	Mostly dry, until RyanAir rained on us	Still none	Somehow, yes

Barcelona Mayhem: Punk, Pints & Pyrrhic Victories

Day 1 – Thursday 18th May 2023: Classic Welsh Send-Off & the Journey Begins

We kicked things off with a classic Welsh send-off, gathering at Llandudno Junction station—me, Carlos, Steve, Mic, Tim, and his dad, Keith. The atmosphere was already buzzing. The train took us to Liverpool Lime Street, where we stopped for a few pints at the Crown Hotel—a proper old-school pub full of stained glass, polished wood, and that comforting scouse hum.

Then it was on to the shuttle bus to the airport and a smooth 2-hour flight to Barcelona.

After landing, we made our way to our large but totally antiquated apartment near the old Bullring. The place had charm, doors that didn’t shut, a shower with a mind of its own (and creaking floorboards) in equal measure, but it was home for the rest of the week—and we were ready.

We dropped our bags and headed straight out in search of drinks, after all this was a pub-crawl disguised as a cultural getaway. At the first bar we found, Tim, parched and ever the optimist, walked up and asked the barman:

“A pint of John Smith’s, please.”
The barman blinked. Then, in total confusion:
“Fish and chip?”

We lost it. That line became the running joke for the rest of the trip.

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Day 2 – Friday 19th May 2023: Sagrada Awe, Subway Wanders & 6am Madness

We kicked things off with a bit of culture—a visit to the Sagrada Família. I've seen it twice before, but honestly, it never gets any less jaw-dropping. Gaudí’s unfinished masterpiece is like a gothic dream crossed with an alien spaceship—spires twisting into the sky, stonework so intricate it feels alive. Spiritual or not, you can’t help but feel something. Never got to see inside though as we'd still probably be waiting in the queue to get in now!

From there, we crisscrossed the city on Barcelona’s brilliant metro system. Clean, efficient, fast—ideal. But those long underground tunnel walks between stations? Absolute calf-killers, especially in the heat and after a few Estrellas.

The day turned into a rolling pub crawl. We wandered through neighbourhoods, ducking into bars with cold beer and wild soundtracks. One spot had weird cocktails, another had punk posters peeling off the walls—each one a little gem. The city became a blur of laughter, glasses clinking, and music blasting from open doors.

Eventually, we got back to the apartment—but crashing wasn’t on the cards.
Instead, the six of us ended up throwing our own party. Just us, but the way we were carrying on, it felt—and definitely sounded—like the flat was packed. The music was loud, the drinks kept flowing, and somehow the neighbours didn’t complain.

We finally called it a night at 6am. Or more accurately, we called it a morning.

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Day 3 – Saturday 20th May 2023: Camp Nou Majesty, Loudmouths & Late-Night Kebabylon

After a much-needed lie-in and a recovery session that involved more coffee than conversation, Steve, Mic, and I headed out for something special: a night at the Camp Nou.

Even walking up to it is a buzz. The scale of the stadium is something else—88,000 seats, wrapped in concrete history. You don’t just watch football here; you feel it. Every seat, every chant, every echo is soaked in decades of glory, heartbreak, and pure passion.

We watched Barcelona take on Real Sociedad. Barça had already sealed La Liga, but Sociedad came to spoil the mood. A quick goal from Merino, followed by Sørloth’s second-half finisher, gave them the edge. Lewandowski pulled one back late, but it ended 1–2—Barça’s first home defeat of the season. Still, the atmosphere was electric, even in defeat.

After the match, we linked back up with Tim, Carlos, and Keith at an Irish bar. They were already a few pints deep and full of life. We settled in... until we encountered a bloke from Leicester with a voice so loud it felt like your brain was short-circuiting. Every sentence he shouted was like a fire alarm test in a broom cupboard.
We made a sharp exit.

Next, we stumbled into a bar with a YouTube jukebox—and that’s when things got surreal.

We queued up a few tracks, and suddenly Spam Javelin’s “Nazi Line Dancers Fuck Off” was blasting across a bar in Barcelona. Then up came The Affliction, Steve’s band, with their classic “Good People.” Watching our own noise on-screen with strangers around us—absolute magic. Punk DIY dreams made real, one blurry video at a time.

We stayed for a couple of hours, revelled in the weirdness, and then, like true champions, finished the night at Kebabylon—a spiritual experience in the form of greasy late-night food.

Back to the apartment and asleep by 4am, dreaming in feedback and falafel.

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Day 4 – Saturday 20th May 2023: Cable Cars, Card Swaps & a Feast Fit for Kings

By Day 4, we were craving something less hectic—and daylight. After dragging ourselves up, in a post-vegetative state, we stumbled out and hit up the Mercat de Sant Antoni Sunday market—a few minutes from our apartment. The place was alive with locals: stalls piled high with books, vinyl, comics... and kids swapping Pokémon cards like it was some underground trade summit. No official tournament, just pure trading chaos at benches and corners, like Sunday morning Pokémon capitalism in action .

After breakfast we made our way down to the Port Vell cable car (the Transbordador Aeri del Port) from Sant Sebastià across the harbour. Ten glorious minutes of floating above the Mediterranean, with glittering sea, docked yachts, a huge Virgin cruise ship, and the city’s red roofs stretched out beneath us. We hopped off at Miramar, our spirits lifted by the sea breeze.

Down we slid on the Montjuïc funicular—a swift, scenic link from the tram network into the leafy slopes of Montjuïc—before strolling/staggering through gardens and fountains, catching glimpses of Barcelona from above. A perfect antidote to the previous nights' chaos.

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As the sun dipped, we recharged at the apartment, then headed back to the old Bullring (Las Arenas) for a proper dinner. We picked Pura Brasa Arenas, a brasserie inside the converted bullring/shopping centre by Plaza España.

The feast was modest—I lied:

• Steve demolished a steak the size of a cow. No exaggeration.

• I tackled a mac & cheese portion so massive it could’ve fed a vegetarian brigade.

• Keith got stuck into a full meal and single-handedly polished off a bottle of red like it was lunch.

Massive portions, bold flavours—and nobody left hungry.

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We rolled back to the apartment under the city lights, feet sore and stomachs full. No late-night rager tonight—just content, comfy, and oddly proud we managed to keep the rest of the trip from spiralling. Sometimes, relaxing counts as an added bonus even on a boys' trip abroad. Although Keith and Mic did stay out and rolled in about midnight and raring for a party!

Day 5 – Sunday 21st May 2023: Homeward Bound (Eventually)

And just like that, the end crept up on us.

We woke up slowly — more like resurrection than waking, really — and began the familiar dance of packing up, finding passports, checking pockets for keys, chargers, dignity. The apartment looked like it had hosted a student rave and a tactical retreat all at once: pizza boxes, empty bottles, broken bottles, mystery socks, and hangovers hanging in the air like incense.

Still, spirits were oddly high. Probably because we’d somehow made it through five days in Barcelona without any major injuries, arrests, or international incidents.

We grabbed a final coffee (or whatever form of caffeine we could hold down), and made our way toward El Prat Airport — swapping war stories from the week, quoting barmen and loud Leicester lads, arguing about who snored the worst (me), and whose turn it was to forget something important (Michael).

A 2-hour flight later, we touched down in Liverpool, dragging ourselves back toward Llandudno Junction, where it had all begun.

Somewhere between the pints, the platform announcements, and the last of our leftover Euros being blown on crisps and snacks, it hit us: we’d nailed this trip. Loud, messy, no sunburn and brilliant —  nailed it.

Back to Llandudno Junction, back to Wales, and back to normality — or something close to it.

Postscript: A Sad Note

When I got home, the comedown hit harder than usual. Not just because the trip was over — but because I found out that Algy Ward had died.

If you know, you know. His basslines weren’t just riffs — they were anthems. And The Damned's Machine Gun Etiquette wasn’t just an album — it was a way of life. That record is one of my all-time favourites, and Algy’s playing on it still knocks me sideways. Loud, tight, fearless. Pure energy. The best heavy metal bass player punk ever had, in my book.

He never played it safe. And neither did we, not on this trip. So it feels right to raise a glass — belatedly — to Algy. A legend. A lifeblood. A part of the noise that made us.

ALBUM REVIEW – ARME / Rhys Trimble / Wolframite – Un Dictionnaire De Déesses

Defiling convention and spunking in the face of the world as we know it,  AntiRock Missile Ensemble (ARME) / Rhys Trimble / Wolframite toured France last year and ‘Un Dictionnaire De Déesses’ is the result of a three day recording session at Les Ateliers de Bitche, Nantes in November 2022. On hearing this you’ll be forgiven for assuming this session was in fact a bring-your-own-ket orgy at a leaking nuclear power facility, and you’d be on the money (shot).

Rhys Trimble is also responsible for pyromanic-punksters Lolfa Binc and audience culling Anxiolytics, both never to be forgotten experiences in their own right. And tonight Matthew he is ranting, grunting, shuffling and screaming through ‘Un Dictionnaire De Déesses,’ performing nine pieces of not-normal anti-jazz. The fact that opening track / song / thing, Llidiart Cinio is silent for the first three minutes, sets the tone.

I do love this kind of shit and the madness of it all – Sirène tries to get going amid feedback and eerie slowed down voices, before Trimble drags himself from the mire, reciting something incomprehensible (language unknown). Whereas the temptation to smash in with loud guitars and drums would have been too much for me, this uncomfortably dies teasingly away and into Ictus, which dies even more.

Epone staggers to the fore. The musicians all want to attack, but who goes first? Someone is in pain, it could be bassist Julien Ottavi, gruffly wailing as the crescendo consumes all around. Closing track Emma O is full of the chaos that makes a barfight in Kinmel Bay seem like a church fete.

Those guilty of being accessories to this crime against music are Benjamin Bourdel, Jean Grimault, Julien Ottavi, Francesco Petetta, Jenny Pickett, Philippe Simon, Anthony Taillard, Rhys Trimble and Gabriel Vogel.
May God have mercy upon your souls.

Budapest (2) - MJ and Thermal Bathing

Touchdown in Budapest, Hungary—and back to the Avenue Hostel, where I’d randomly stayed a few years ago with The Boys. This time, I was with my son, Declan, 23, on his first proper taste of my kinda travel.

We grabbed beds at £7 a night, not exactly five-star but unbeatable for backpackers and perfect for our mission. Declan has always wanted to go travelling, so I suggested trying out a few city breaks first to see if the solo travel life suited him. After all, it's not all Instagram sunsets—there are highs and lows, and sometimes things get a bit lonely out there.

So he booked Budapest, and then—maybe anticipating some of those lows—asked if I fancied tagging along. Naturally, I said yes.

That night, we hit the bars and had an absolute blast. One of the highlights? Szimpla Kert—Budapest’s most iconic ruin bar, set inside an abandoned factory and transformed into a multi-level art bar. Graffiti, bathtubs, disco lights—it’s like drinking inside a surrealist daydream.

Back at the hostel, however, the vibe shifted. Turns out I was the one who snored like a freight train, and likely ruined sleep for everyone else in the dorm. 

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Day 2 – Wednesday, 11th Jan: Pilgrimage to MJ

We spent the day walking miles through the city—Buda Castle, Parliament, the Fisherman’s Bastion. Then we made our way to a hidden gem of pop culture oddity: the Michael Jackson Memorial Tree.

Yes, it’s real. Outside the Kempinski Hotel, fans have created a bizarre shrine—posters, candles, trinkets, and heartfelt notes all pinned to a tree. We couldn't resist. Declan did a dramatic prayer-like recital of Beat It on camera, which quickly morphed into a film idea:

A spoof documentary about obsessive MJ fans making a sacred pilgrimage from Abergele to Budapest to find the tree.

Later, we hit the bars again and had another cracking night out—some lively spots in Pest, including a great little roadside bar near Parliament (called PRLMNT Bar). We got in around 1am knackered but buzzing.

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Day 3 – Thursday, 12th Jan: Thermal Baths & Budget Beers

Breakfast? A Hungarian hot dog—meaty, spiced, and just the thing before a soak. We queued up for the famous Széchenyi Thermal Baths, which opened at 10am.

Built in 1913, and funded under the rule of King Franz Joseph, the baths are powered by natural hot springs. They’re the largest of their kind in Europe, and honestly, it feels like stepping into another world: baroque courtyards, columns, statues, swirling steam, and elderly locals playing chess in 38°C water.

And yes, plenty of Instagram bikini girls doing their thing while everyone else floated by like confused walruses. We stared a bit, not gonna lie.

Later, we wandered across the Danube into Buda—the quieter, older half of the city (Budapest = Buda + Pest). Over here, things were way cheaper. The litmus test? The price of a pint: £1.67. So of course, we drank accordingly.

Declan, already hooked on the freedom of the trip, whipped out his phone and casually booked a solo Ryanair trip to Prague in three weeks. No hesitation. He’s got the bug now.

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Day 4 – Friday, 13th Jan: Pool, Sights & One Last Look

With our flight not until 9:45pm, we had one final long day to soak up Budapest. Sadly, no beers for me today—I’d be driving us home from Manchester Airport later.

So we played some pool, wandered through side streets, and took in the city one last time. No big plans, no wild missions—just that perfect, mellow end-of-trip energy. We hit up a few more sights we’d missed, grabbed a bite, and let the city close its chapter at its own pace.

Even in the drizzle, Budapest still shines.

We made it to the airport, boarded our flight home, and just like that—it was over.

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Hamburg #3 - Palpitations, Poor Decisions & A Dutch Detour

 

I think it’s Friday, or is it Saturday, or wacaday? today. Woke up feeling pretty fucking weird. Heart racing. Palpitations. A genuine moment of “Am I having a stroke? Or a heart attack? Or both?”

I lay motionless in my hotel bed in Hamburg, staring at the ceiling, trying to slow my breathing and wondering if this was it. Spoiler: it wasn’t. It passed after a couple of hours, but it was enough to shake me. I blamed it on the 4 or 5 coffee liqueur shots I had at some dodgy pub last night. Not grown-up. Not funny. And certainly not clever — well, it might’ve been last night. Today, it was just grim.

After two solid days of excess, my body was politely suggesting I might want to calm the hell down. But life had other plans — we were flying to Amsterdam. Oh dear.

Truthfully, lying there all palpitated and panicking, all I wanted was to go home, crawl under a blanket, and drink herbal tea. But you don’t abandon the lads mid-tour. The show must — and will — go on.

And Amsterdam? It was a blast.

We didn’t do the stereotypical tourist stuff — no weed, no window shopping in the red light district. We just did what we seem to do best: drank, walked around aimlessly, and spent a fucking fortune. Every bar, every round, every bite of food felt like a robbery. Amsterdam is a beautiful city — and she knows it. And she charges accordingly.

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Saturday – Cold, Fucked, and Full of Regret

3rd December 2022

I woke up in what can only be described as a hovel. My hotel room, somewhere along a dirty canal, was freezing cold, dark, and depressingly damp. My throat was sore, my mouth was dry, and I’m fairly certain my drunken snoring had led to an elongated uvula — that dangly bit at the back of your throat — making swallowing uncomfortable and life generally unpleasant. It felt like someone had replaced it with Anne Frank's diary.

At some point in the night, I’d stuck an electric heater on the bedside table, switched it on, and fell asleep with it glowing next to my pillow. Genuinely lucky I didn’t burn the whole canal-side building to the ground, with everyone in it. Stupid boy.

As for Amsterdam — it was a bridge too far after the chaos of Hamburg. My body was done. My brain was mush. My wallet was empty.

Steve and Carlos, in a moment of clarity (or defeat), decided to head to the airport four hours early because they were — and I quote — "cold and fucked."

That left Tim, Mic and me to wander around this overcrowded city being cold and fucked. It was too busy, too chilly, and we were too hungover to enjoy it properly. Amsterdam, we love you, but next time, maybe after a detox retreat.

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Was so glad to be home, tucking into a post-holiday biryani and vowed to maybe not drink for a month. Or a week. Or... well, let’s not make promises.

Hamburg #2 - Bobble Hats, Anti-Fascists & Warm Wine

Let’s be honest — there was no Thursday morning. Unless, of course, you count being ushered out of a smoky bar at 6am by a bartender who clearly had more patience than we deserved.

We slowly resurrected ourselves, one by one, zombie-like, from the comfort of hotel duvets. The St. Pauli Hotel had done its job: kept us warm and close to the action — and apparently not far from the river either. After wobbling down a series of narrow, graffiti-tagged stone steps behind the Reeperbahn, Carlos, Steve and I made it to the waterfront, where the brisk air slapped the fog out of our heads.

The river, by the way, is the Elbe, Hamburg’s great working waterway. It was grey, moody, and industrial — much like how we felt, and how we like our music (some of us). Still, there was a kind of beauty to it, especially in the stillness of the morning mist (or was that just our hangovers clearing?).

We wandered along the riverside promenade and eventually found salvation in the most unlikely of places: a McDonald's, where hot coffee became a lifeline. We had one round... then another. Gradually, Tim and Michael trickled in, both looking like they'd had a near-death experience — which, after last night, might not be far off.

With caffeine pumping through our veins, we headed to a proper Hamburg institution: the Millerntor-Stadion, home of the cult football club FC St. Pauli. Unfortunately, no match during our visit — their last game had been a 2–0 win against Holstein Kiel a couple of weeks ago, just before the World Cup break. Still, we soaked up the atmosphere of the place and had a good nose around the club shop. I couldn’t resist buying a St. Pauli bobble hat. I can never have too many hats — especially ones with meaning.

Because this club isn't just about football — it's a movement. FC St. Pauli fans are famous for their anti-fascist, anti-racist, and pro-LGBTQ+ stance. Their stadium is covered in rainbow flags, skull-and-crossbones emblems, and banners calling out injustice. It’s punk, it’s proud, and it felt good to support a club with that kind of heart.

From there, we wandered toward one of the coolest hidden gems of the city — the Alter Elbtunnel (Old Elbe Tunnel), completed in 1911. The tunnel snakes beneath the Elbe River, linking the Landungsbrücken piers to the industrial docks on the other side. We descended via a clunky lift, walked the entire tiled passageway under the river, took a look at not much on the other side (let’s be honest), then headed back through the echoing space. Still, it was a cool, surreal experience — like something out of a noir film.

We kept things gentle for the rest of the afternoon. But let's be real: it was only a matter of time before the hair of the dog came barking. And bark it did — straight back into the smoky, late-night bars of Hamburg. This time, we found ourselves in a lively pub full of locals watching Germany crash out of the World Cup, having drawn 1–1 with South Korea. The mood? Quiet rage and disbelief, especially as Japan beat Spain in the other group game. For a moment, our Welsh hearts felt a flicker of shared pain, but only a moment,and only a flicker.

Later, as the evening deepened and inhibitions faded, we took a curious stroll down the Reeperbahn, Hamburg's notorious red-light district. It's equal parts fascinating, seedy, and hilarious — and yes, we had a giggle gawping at the windows of the “working girls,” neon glowing through fogged glass like another scene out of Blade Runner.

We ended the night on a far more wholesome note at the St. Pauli Christmas Market, also known as “Santa Pauli.” Leave it to the Germans to combine festive cheer with saucy humour — this market had everything: mulled wine, bratwurst, Christmas lights, techno DJs, and even cheeky adult-themed Christmas stalls. Naturally, we embraced it all.

We sipped on Glühwein (German mulled wine — sweet, spiced, and very boozy), browsed overpriced trinkets we didn’t need, and spent way too much on food. But it was December, it was Christmas, and it was Hamburg. That’s what you do.

---

Coming up next: Will Friday be a quiet one? Probably not.

Hamburg - World Cup Woes and Travel Anticipation

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.

La Palma - Days Five & Six – Landslides, Queues and Escape Plans

La Palma → Tenerife → Manchester

The night was long, loud, and wet — not in the fun way. Rain hammered the roof with the sort of aggression usually reserved for angry drummers, and at some point, the power gave up entirely. A blackout in the jungle. Perfect.

We were up before dawn, stumbling around the Treehouse in phone-torchlight, stuffing wet clothes into wet bags, trying not to trip over buckets catching leaks. By 6am, we were on the road — or, at least, trying to be. Halfway to the airport, the road simply… ended. No sign, no warning — just a giant wall of mud and rock where tarmac used to be. A landslide. Proper movie-scene stuff.

A winding detour got us to La Palma Airport (SPC) just in time to find everyone was there. We hadn’t seen this many people since we landed. Clearly, the cancelled flights were starting to catch up with the island.

Announcements echoed through the terminal — all in Spanish, naturally. The only thing we understood was the rising tension. A large queue was forming, and after a few confused conversations and several blank stares, we realised: that was our queue. To find out what the hell was happening with our £11 flight to Madrid.

Three hours later — three hours of fluorescent lights, snaking lines, and low-level existential dread — we finally reached the Ryanair desk, where we were politely but unceremoniously told: flights cancelled. Find your own hotel. Claim it back. Come back on Thursday.

Thursday!?

It was Monday. We were done. Wet, wired, and running out of dry pants.

Room with a ceiling view

Regrouping was essential. We found a last-minute room in Santa Cruz de La Palma — pure luck, as most other travellers were now scrambling for accommodation like musical chairs in a monsoon. Beer was required. We hit the town.

Over drinks and damp tapas menus, I scoured the internet (thank god for 4G) and found a flight still running to Tenerife South the next day — one corner of the Canaries seemingly untouched by Hermine’s wrath. It would mean a transfer on to Manchester, so no Madrid unfortunately. Two tickets: £398 (thank you Mastercard). Not quite the £11 steal we’d booked originally, but it was a way off the island. We’d fight Ryanair for the refund another day. Tonight, we drank.

Tuesday morning. Still raining. Still pitch dark. Our taxi rolled up like something out of Blade Runner: Island Edition, headlights cutting through the mist as we threw bags into the boot.

Back at the airport, the flight was — of course — delayed. Just 30 minutes, though. But with only a narrow window to make our connection in Tenerife South (a big, chaotic, shouty airport), tension was creeping back in.

Fortunately, our pilot had apparently had enough of La Palma. He floored it. Shaved twenty minutes off the flight. Legend.

We landed, legged it through the terminal like wet rats with a mission, and made our Manchester flight with a few minutes to spare.

By 9pm that evening, we were back on home turf. Damp, dishevelled, knackered — but victorious.

---

Final thoughts?

La Palma: raw, surreal, unforgettable. A place that throws beauty, chaos, silence, and storms at you in equal measure. We came for volcanoes and red wine; we got rockslides, floods, cancelled flights, and some of the wildest swimming conditions known to man. And I’d do it again.

Though maybe next time I’ll check the weather first. Or at least turn my phone on.

La Palma - Day Four – Storm? What Storm?

Still raining. Still absolutely lashing it down like someone opened the Atlantic sky and forgot to close it.

We made a second (doomed) attempt to reach Roque de los Muchachos today — determined to see the island from its highest peak before we left. But any hope was quickly dashed. The roads were a mess. Not just puddles and potholes, but full-on rockfalls scattered across the tarmac like nature was playing Jenga with the mountainside. After swerving around one too many boulder-sized “souvenirs,” I called it. Not worth wrecking the Fiat, or ourselves.

Plan B? Embrace the chaos.

So we spent the afternoon hopping between deserted beaches, watching the rough Atlantic ocean crash and rage. It was mesmerising, almost theatrical — the kind of waves you’d normally watch from a documentary voiceover, not from a black-sand shoreline in a rain-soaked t-shirt.

At one point, huddled under an abandoned BBQ hut on a rocky beach with the rain hammering down, we cobbled together lunch: slices of wet rye bread, a tin of something mysterious, and this absolute gem we’d found earlier — Sendi, a mustard-dill sauce (German, I think?) that tastes like someone spiked honey mustard with fresh dill and made it magic. Weirdly perfect on rye. The bread was a bit soggy from the weather, but we were too hungry to care. Possibly one of the best accidental meals I’ve ever had — a soggy, mustardy, storm-lashed triumph.

Somewhere between beaches, we learned the culprit had a name: Storm Hermine. It had officially hit La Palma — a full-blown tropical storm. Locals were being advised to stay indoors. Government announcements. Weather alerts. Civil protection warnings.

And us? Blissfully sauntering around the island like characters in a Wes Anderson film — entirely unaware, thanks to our noble “no-scroll” policy and the complete absence of Wi-Fi at The Treehouse. Digital detox goals achieved, apparently. Though, in hindsight, a little push notification might’ve been handy.

By the time we made it back to the house (via the now river-like volcanic track), it felt like we were starring in a mildly chaotic survival documentary. Rain battered the roof, trees groaned in the wind, and the living room had developed its own charming little waterfall — straight through the ceiling. The bedroom wasn’t faring much better, with water dribbling its way down the walls like a bad art installation. We moved the bed just in time to avoid a full soaking. Getaway cabin in the woods? More like punk-rock ark.

Catching the leaks

Then came the kicker: flights in and out of La Palma? Cancelled.

Oh. Shit.

We're now stranded on a storm-lashed island, huddled in a damp cabin halfway up a volcano, listening to garage punk and hoping the ceiling holds. And honestly? There's something kind of brilliant about it. Uncomfortable, yes. Slightly terrifying, also yes. But unforgettable? Absolutely.

And somewhere — probably buried in a soggy backpack — is Nick Kent’s The Dark Stuff, now less inflight entertainment and more disaster-holiday bedtime reading.

Let’s see what Monday brings. Preferably a dry towel and a clear flight path.

La Palma - Day Three – Rockfalls, Rain & a Punk Pilgrimage Postponed

By the time we emerged from the Treehouse this morning, the sun had all but vanished behind a thick, low-slung ceiling of cloud. Then came the rain — not gentle, poetic drizzle, but a torrential, relentless downpour that left no room for subtlety. Warm, wild, and biblical. Proper lluvia de puta madre.

Our plan had been a pilgrimage of sorts — to hike to Roque de los Muchachos, the highest point on La Palma, and the namesake of a punk band we (Spam Javelin) have shared stages and shouted choruses with more times than I can count. But with visibility reduced to zilch and the mountains swallowed by clouds, the idea of scrambling along cliff edges in soaked boots lost some of its appeal.

Instead, we pointed the Fiat 500 toward Los Tilos, a lush, fern-draped part of the island known for its waterfalls and laurel forests — a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, as it turns out, and technically part of Parque Natural de Las Nieves. The roads, slick with rain and eerily deserted, wound deeper into the forest. We swerved around rockfalls, some still fresh enough to leave clouds of dust in the air. The road to the falls was officially closed, of course — another victim of the storm — but with waterproofs zipped and curiosity piqued, we decided to go on foot.

It felt like entering another world. Thick vegetation, steaming under the rain, footpaths cutting through dripping forest and sheer cliff faces. On the way, we met two drenched girls who — in broken English but clear concern — warned us of falling rocks. We thanked them, and pushed on cautiously, sticking to the far edge of the road and avoiding anything that looked remotely unstable.

About three miles in, we reached a dramatic gorge — dry now, but clearly capable of hosting epic torrents when in full flow. But before we could reach the waterfall proper, our way was blocked by a padlocked gate. Beyond it, the path snaked along the side of a near-vertical cliff. Could we have jumped the gate? Easily. Should we have? Not in a million years. It looked stunning — and genuinely dangerous. We stood there in silence for a moment, soaking it all in. The sound of rain on the leaves, the mist rising off the valley, the sheer scale of the place. Even without reaching the falls, it was breathtaking.

Back at the car, soaked to the skin and still buzzing, we decided to head east to Charco Azul, a natural seawater pool in San Andrés. By the time we arrived, the rain had turned torrential again, and the place was utterly deserted. Shops shuttered, streets empty, waves pounding the seawall like a war drum.

Perfect.

We slipped into the lagoon — just the two of us — protected from the wrath of the Atlantic by high black volcanic walls. Waves smashed against the other side, occasionally surging over the barrier in huge salty bursts, while massive black crabs clung to the rock, seemingly unimpressed by our aquatic enthusiasm. It was exhilarating, slightly mad, and completely unforgettable.

Two soaked Welsh punks swimming alone in a rain-lashed volcanic pool as the Atlantic roared around us.

La Palma doesn’t make things easy — but that’s exactly what makes it worth it.

La Palma - Day Two – Into the Ashes

Our first full day in La Palma, and I realise this trip almost completes my personal tour of the Canary Islands — Lanzarote’s surreal lava fields, Fuerteventura’s endless sand dunes, the pine-forested peaks of Tenerife (twice), and the jungled ravines of La Gomera. Does a layover in Gran Canaria count? Probably not, but it’s on the list all the same.

Today, I set my sights on something a little more haunting: the volcano caves near Todoque. I’d read about the lava tubes formed during past eruptions and thought a journey south would make a good day trip. But what began as idle curiosity turned into something far more intense.

Driving south through the sleepy town of Los Canarios, the road began to twist and drop — and without realising it, we were suddenly in the heart of the destruction zone from the 2021 eruption of Cumbre Vieja.

It hit hard.

A temporary road has been carved directly through solidified lava — a jarring black scar running through what used to be homes, gardens, lives. One moment, you’re passing banana plantations and sleepy whitewashed villages; the next, you’re cruising through an alien world of twisted, frozen rock. The lava didn’t just stop at the edge of town — it devoured it. Entire ground floors of buildings are buried, their upper stories bizarrely poking out like surreal sculptures in a charcoal sea.

We pulled over at one point, near where Todoque used to be. What was once a village is now silence and ash. You can trace the path the lava took from the ridge above — a vast, brutal black ribbon stretching down from the Cumbre Vieja like a wound. It’s breathtaking in scale, yes — but it’s also horrifying. You don’t just see the eruption's impact; you feel it. The weight of it. The stillness after chaos. I forgot to take any photos, was just dumbfounded at the sight around us.

After some quiet reflection, we carried on through to Los Llanos de Aridane, one of La Palma’s livelier towns, where life feels like it’s cautiously returning to something like normal. The drive back was a little more optimistic, passing through the island’s famous tunnels — I believe they're called Túneles de la Cumbre — piercing through the central mountains, linking the wetter east to the drier, sunnier west. It’s a bit like driving from one island to another in the space of five minutes.

But before heading home, we made an impromptu stop at Playa de Tazacorte — a black-sand beach on the island’s west coast. The sea, though moody, was calm enough to tempt us in. We stripped down and dove into the Atlantic, swimming under moody grey skies with jagged cliffs rising all around us. The sand here is volcanic, fine and jet black — strange at first underfoot, but warm and soft once you surrender to it.

Swimming there, with the weight of the morning’s volcanic devastation still lingering in our minds, felt weirdly cathartic. The ocean didn’t care. The island was still breathing.

Back at The Treehouse, the emotional weight of the day gave way to a different kind of haze. We opened another bottle of Teneguía, cranked up some more fuzzed-out punk rock, and got... well, fairly drunk under the stars. It felt necessary — a toast to the resilience of this little island and its people, and maybe a way to process the weird emotional cocktail of awe, grief, and admiration I’d just experienced.

Tomorrow, we hike — and maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally learn how to say una cerveza más without sounding like a total tourist.

La Palma - Day One - Treehouse Unplugged

 

Bleary-eyed but buzzing, Tracey and I rolled into Manchester Airport in the pitch-black hours of the morning, chasing the tail of summer to the Canary Islands. At precisely 5:45am, our flight took off bound for Gran Canaria – officially Aeropuerto de Gran Canaria, though by that point, I was too busy fidgeting with my seatbelt and cracking open Nick Kent’s The Dark Stuff to care. A raw and, at times, electrifying collection of essays — the perfect high-altitude escape. As the plane hummed over the Atlantic, I silently vowed to write more, read more, and scroll a hell of a lot less. Social media, after all, has become a digital landfill: toxic, noisy, and rarely nourishing.

From Gran Canaria, we caught a connecting flight – one of those rickety, charming little propeller planes – to Aeropuerto de La Palma (SPC). As we descended toward the island, it became clear: La Palma is wild, green, and refreshingly unpolished. But there’s a catch – barely anyone here speaks English. And my Spanish? Basura. Complete and utter trash.

Nevertheless, we picked up our hire car — a cute little Fiat 500 that looked more at home on a Milanese boulevard than the rugged volcanic tracks of this tiny island. Still, it handled the heat and hills like a champ. And it was hot. Proper, unrelenting, Sahara-winds-through-your-hair hot. If only I had hair...

Our base for the next five days was “The Treehouse” – not quite in the trees, but tucked away down a brutally long and rocky volcanic track. I found myself deeply grateful that this was a rental and not my poor, battered car back home. The house itself was…romantic, in a minimalist kind of way. Spartan, stripped-back, and blissfully without Wi-Fi – which meant no doomscrolling, no inbox refreshes, no TikTok rabbit holes. Just a solid 4G signal that let us stream some grimy garage punk on Spotify as the sun went down and the red wine flowed.

Speaking of which – the local tipple? We stumbled across a bottle of Teneguía, one of La Palma’s volcanic reds. Rustic, earthy, and just wild enough around the edges to suit the mood. It paired perfectly with a balcony view of the sun dipping behind silhouetted banana palms and distant lava fields.

By nightfall, the stars began to show — and they really show here. La Palma is a designated “Starlight Reserve,” and with no light pollution, the sky turned into something out of an observatory dreamscape.

This place is already working its way into my bones. It's raw and real and beautifully inconvenient. A reminder that sometimes the best kind of luxury is the kind that strips everything away, not adds more.

Tomorrow: volcano trails, black-sand beaches, and hopefully less butchering of the Spanish language.

Hasta 

Moscow, Merseyrail and a Midnight March

 

It all started with a summer’s afternoon drive to Abergele to ditch the car, followed by hopping on a train to Liverpool with Declan and Rich. The journey, as ever, was a mix of quaint rural views and general chatter. The Merseyrail stretch as always was an epic endurance test: station after station after station... It felt like we stopped at every brick shed with a platform between Chester and Liverpool.

And let’s not even begin on the Merseyrail guards, who seem to fancy themselves as some sort of rail-bound Gestapo — checking tickets with an officious flair and glaring at anyone who dared sit with their feet on a seat. No toilets on the train either, of course — just in case the trip wasn’t uncomfortable enough.

But we made it. Our destination: The Quarry, a DIY venue tucked into the alternative seams of Liverpool’s underground. We were there for Moscow Death Brigade — the balaclava-wearing, antifascist, techno-punk-rap outfit from Russia. Live, they’re pure intensity: no breaks, no filler, just pounding beats, spitting rhymes, and circle-pit nonsense.

Asfixia Social kicked off with brutal energy, a hybrid blistering punk riffs, swaggering rap verses, ska interludes, metal‑tinged breakdowns, and Brazilian percussion. Yeah they're from São Paulo, Brazil and on their 'Planet Is Alive' tour.

Then came Old Radio, a band that only seem to come out on special occasions, and tonight was just that. Good to see/hear their ska'd punk sound and energy.

But alas, we were slaves to the timetable — the last train out of Lime Street loomed, so we had to leg it. We hit Rhyl at 1:45am and there were no taxis. Seriously. This is Rhyl in peak summer — where were the drunken holidaymakers spilling chips and fighting at the taxi rank? Where were the cabs?

Nowhere.

So, we said goodbye to Rich and then Declan and I did the only thing a men can do when faced with five miles of empty road and no options: we walked. Mild weather, thankfully. And there was some late-night drama in Towyn to keep things interesting — a group of travellers in a full-on brawl with themselves and the police. A roadside festival of fists, blue lights and confusion.

Eventually, Towyn became Belgrano and Belgrano became Pensarn and Abergele loomed into view like a sleepy promised land. Declan peeled off home and I got back behind the wheel for the final stretch — a quiet, questioning one-hour drive to the caravan, spent wondering:

Why the hell didn’t I just drive a bit further and get the train from Rhyl?