India Day 3 - Train to Moradabad, Taxi to Rishikesh

 

Delhi Dust, Train Chaos & Finding First Class

New Delhi, India

We left our emergency hotel, strictly bed and no breakast, slightly disoriented, under-caffeinated, and already behind a schedule that didn't really exist. First stop was McDonald’s near Kashmere Gate Metro Station—the one inside the bus terminal complex. It was early, not yet 9 a.m., and already the place buzzed with commuters grabbing quick breakfasts before plunging into the capital’s daily chaos.

As we sat near the automatic doors, a young boy hovered outside, watching closely. He waited until a table cleared and he darted in—snatching up a leftover tomato sauce sachet, which he tore open and sucked dry like it was nectar. The image stuck with me. You always read about poverty in India, but when it’s a kid scraping ketchup off a wrapper beside your breakfast tray, it hits hard. This was real.

---

The Great Delhi Gauntlet

We stepped out into the smog—Tim, ever the practical one, pulled on a face mask. I laughed it off, pretending the smoke didn't bother me. (Spoiler: it did. I coughed like an old smoker.)

Our goal: New Delhi Railway Station. We entered the Kashmere Gate metro interchange, Delhi’s largest and most hectic, connecting the Yellow, Red, and Violet Lines. After a few minutes of deciphering signs and jostling with commuters, we turned around and decided to get a TukTuk to the massive railway hub, which took about 20 minutes and was far less hassle, but also death defying and VERY noisy. Sounding your car horn is compulsory in India (or Delhi at least).

---

How Not to Buy a Train Ticket

If you've ever tried to buy a ticket at New Delhi Railway Station, you’ll understand the word “chaos” doesn’t quite cut it. With absolutely no clue where to go, we were quickly approached by a tout who confidently took over. “You want ticket? Come, come.”

Suspicious but lost, we followed him. He ushered us toward a counter, where—miraculously—we were sold tickets heading east to Moradabad for just a few quid, plus his 50p “guide fee.” Fair enough. Tim decided we’d head that way, then switch lines north to reach Nainital via Kathgodam.

---

Platform Madness & a Bit of Luck

We made our way to the platform and stopped dead. It was unlike anything I’d seen: families camping on blankets, kids asleep under benches, vendors weaving through crowds shouting “chai! samosa!” and thousands of people jostling for space. The train arrived and stretched on for what felt like a mile—an enormous beast, heaving into the station.

The train is going east toward Moradabad, we joined the flood of bodies pushing into the carriages, unsure of where to sit (being politely British while everyone scrambled). It was sweaty, hectic, disorienting. People kept moving us on, indicating we were in the wrong seats. The ticket inspector found us and guided us forward through the crush of bodies to our assigned sleeper car—a four-bed compartment that felt like a tiny oasis. In First Class A/C, no less and tucked away far up the platform, it was a clean-ish, cool carriage. We sank into padded seats and accepted biriyani and chai from a uniformed attendant—just £1.50 for the works. The contrast was unreal. From street kids and station hawkers to air-con and stainless-steel trays, all within the space of an hour.

As the train finally pulled out of Delhi (late), we sat back and watched the chaos fade into countryside. It was our first real breath of India—intense, colourful, messy, and moving.

That’s where we met Deep Deep—a kind, composed Indian woman dressed in traditional attire, travelling alone to visit her sick father near Sealdah, the eastern terminus in Kolkata. Her English was excellent. What followed was 3½ hours of genuine conversation: Wales, India, culture clashes, scams, safety tips, what not to eat, and definitely what not to trust.

She offered some strong advice: “Don’t waste your time going to Nainital—it’s dirty and not worth the effort. You should go to Rishikesh instead.” We’d barely made a plan for the next step, but that was all we needed to hear. Plans changed instantly.

---

🏙️ Moradabad: From Tracks to Trash

As we stepped off the train in Moradabad, we entered what felt like another world—and not in a good way. Straight into the slums. Filthy, chaotic, and suffocating. Eyes were on us—hard, unfriendly stares. It felt like we were the first foreigners to set foot there (or at least the first who didn’t immediately board another train).

The main street—[likely Station Road or Budh Bazaar area]—was a jumble of shops, grime, and confusion. We considered staying the night, but absolutely nothing looked safe or clean, and the sun was sinking fast.

---

🚓 An Accent and an Exit Plan

Back at the station, we stared blankly at the giant wall of train schedules, none of which made sense. That’s when a policeman approached us. He spoke English, but asked me to speak in an Indian accent because he couldn’t understand my Welsh one.

Slightly bizarre. A bit racist? Maybe. But I played along—put on the accent and explained we wanted to get to Rishikesh. He laughed, then got serious. “No more trains tonight. Taxi’s your only option.”

---

🚖 Meet Michael Messi – Taxi Driver & Chaos Pilot

That’s how we met Michael Messi, who greeted us with a confident handshake and an unmissable smirk. £45 was the deal—four hours north to Rishikesh.

The drive? Terrifying. India’s roads don’t care about your rules or your fear. We were overtaking on blind corners, dodging cows, weaving through oncoming traffic. Every minute felt like it could be our last. And yet... somehow, we survived.

At one point, Michael pulled over for chai at a roadside family-run café. Inside, locals were glued to the TV, watching India vs Sri Lanka in the 2023 Cricket World Cup. He noticed us craning our necks to see the score and, in a gesture of unexpected kindness, handed me his phone so I could stream the match for the rest of the drive. Class.

---

🌙 Rishikesh at Last

We handbrake turned and doughnutted into Rishikesh at 9:30 pm, knackered but relieved. “Where’s your hotel?” Michael asked. We didn’t have one. He chuckled at our relaxed (read: totally unprepared) travel style and pulled up outside a line of guesthouses on ISBT Road. It was near the bus station and near the dried up Chandrabhaga River.

We found rooms quickly at the first place, Hotel Suruchi. Mine cost £8, with a huge ceiling fan to ward off mosquitoes. Tim’s room had a hole in the floor for a toilet. Welcome to backpacker India.

---

A Peaceful Night, at Last

The contrast with Delhi and Moradabad was stunning. The streets were almost silent. A single cow wandered lazily past us. We searched for food and eventually found a lively café full of locals. The food was excellent—simple, fresh, cheap.

A group of lads kept staring at us, these two Welsh boys. They were curious and warm, they asked about our trip and told us more about the area. We learned that Rishikesh is a meat- and alcohol-free city, thanks to its spiritual significance. It’s also the Yoga Capital of the World, they proudly told us.

We’d stumbled into something special. Exhausted, full, and finally breathing easy, we walked back to our rooms—ready to explore Rishikesh in daylight.

India Day 2 - Sleeper Bus Charade and Streets of Chaos

Location: Delhi

If Tuesday was a jet-lagged fever dream, Wednesday was the hangover.

We definitely overdid it last night—too many clandestine beers, too much laughing, and not nearly enough water (DON'T DRINK THE WATER!). This morning arrived with a pounding head and an unsettling awareness that we'd have to function like grown adults in a city that feels like a cross between a carnival and a pressure cooker.

Thankfully, Nirmal came to the rescue with a solid breakfast—spicy pancakes (savoury dosa-style with green chillies and herbs) and cooked fresh tomatoes, washed down with thick, milky coffee. Exactly the kind of comfort food you need when your stomach’s confused and your soul feels slightly bruised.

Spontaneity Strikes Again
With zero fixed plans and a desire to escape the Delhi madness, Lalid walked us through some nearby lanes and helped us book a sleeper bus north to Haldwani. We paid 1,877 INR total for two tickets—about £18—which felt like a bargain for an overnight ride.
Haldwani is a small city in the Indian state of Uttarakhand, about 280 km (175 miles) northeast of Delhi. It sits at the base of the Kumaon hills and is known as the "Gateway to Kumaon"—a sort of launchpad for heading into the Himalayas.

Through Visham’s translation, Nirmal explained that he’s originally from Nainital, a beautiful hill town about 40 km (25 miles) from Haldwani, nestled in the Himalayan foothills and set around a picturesque lake. It sounded idyllic—and cold. We are definitely not dressed for anything resembling winter, so we’re improvising as we go. Again.

I picked up a body warmer from a street market—just £4—and although it’s probably not windproof or waterproof or any kind of proof, it felt like a small gesture in the preparedness department. I squeezed it into my crammed rucksack. Functional fashion at its finest. Oh yeah, earlier I saw some old Sikhs, playing Shabad Kirtan, a hymn thing that is a central part of Sikh worship and involves the singing of holy hymns from the Guru Granth Sahib (the Sikh holy scripture) - it was immersive and hypnotic and extremely infectious to witness as they sauntered past.

What Even Is Kashmere Gate #5?
The bus was scheduled to depart from Kashmere Gate ISBT (Inter-State Bus Terminal), Platform #5, which—despite sounding official—is more like a sprawling, chaotic tangle of entrances, exits, platforms, and complete confusion.
We had no idea what the “Gates” actually were when we booked the bus. Turns out, the terminal is massive and split across multiple “bus stops” and “platforms” that aren't clearly marked, and aren’t always organized in any obvious order. It’s also a magnet for touts and misinformation, so finding the right bus felt like trying to solve a riddle in a different language while standing in the middle of a car horn orchestra.

Before that adventure, we spent the day walking through several different parts of Delhi, trying to take in as much as we could.

Majnu-ka-Tilla: A Slice of Tibet

We entered what we later discovered is called Majnu-ka-Tilla—Delhi’s Tibetan Enclave—by stumbling through tight, dark alleyways. It’s densely packed, a mix of incense, momo steamers, monks, and posters of the Dalai Lama. Despite the cramped conditions and visible poverty, there was a strange tranquility to it—young people sipping chai, monks laughing with vendors, signs in Tibetan and English above small restaurants. It felt like a different world inside an already different world. We had a chai tea at a cafe, a young boy was washing up as a rat scurried around his bare feet. He wasn't bothered by this as he was transfixed with Tim and myself, already battle scarred and looking rugged as we sipped the warm brew. The price was about 30p, I gave the cafe owner 100 rupees (about 90p) and gestured he kept the change. He seemed almost insulted that I wanted to tip him, so I insisted the kid got the money.

Saddar Bazaar were on the same label as my band, Sons Of Selina

Industrial Markets & Night-Time Wanderings
Later in the evening, we unintentionally walked through Jama Masjid in Old Delhi, a Muslim-majority area, where men were seated in lines along the pavement, waiting for food donations—possibly Iftar-style communal meals, even though it's not Ramadan. A solemn, powerful sight. Shocking to see Halal cows heads on display (not so sacred in this part of town!)
We found somewhere to change money (India is a closed currency, so you can't do it at home), and while Tim was negotiating his exchange I gave a kid outside a 100 rupee note; he was selling shoes at a shop next door and his face lit up like it was Christmas. 

Our aimless wandering led us into an industrial/hardware district—called Sadar Bazaar, where shop after shop sold cement, pipes, industrial fans, timber, plumbing parts—all lining regular streets. It was staggering in scale and utterly disorienting. No zoning, no separation—just industry and humanity piled on top of each other in an organic sprawl.

And Then… No Bus.
After soaking up an overwhelming day, we returned to the smog of Kashmere Gate around 9:30pm, ready (we thought) for our sleeper bus to Haldwani. Only… it never came. Or it did, but we were either in the wrong place, the wrong line, or both.
Instructions were vague at best, often contradictory. One person pointed one way, another waved us somewhere else. The language barrier, lack of signage, and general overload finally defeated us. 10pm became 10:30. Then 11. At some point, we admitted defeat.

With no bus, no clue, and no plan, we grabbed a last-minute hotel nearby for £13 a room. It wasn’t much, but it was a bed and a door that locked. We’ll regroup in the morning and try again.

---

Reflections:
Delhi is not a city that holds your hand. It throws you in, chews you up, and expects you to keep moving. We’re improvising, adapting, and learning the hard way—but there’s a strange kind of thrill in it all. Nothing is certain. Nothing is smooth. But every single experience feels raw and real.

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.

---

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

---

🌧️ 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.

---

☁️ 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.

---

😅 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.

---

🥖 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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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. 

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.