Us, four guys(Michael, Axel, Omer and myself(Retards: my name is Adam)) began our road trip on the Thursday evening, around the seven o'clock mark, at which point we left our dear Cote d'Azur, and made our way towards Geneva, tread stone for pretty much any destination remotely interesting. Nothing especially remarkable happened during this six hour drive, other than getting attacked by orange signalisation cones and leaving a stream of litter behind us. (At this point, I'd like to thank Omer F. H. for this ecologically-friendly way to travel.)
So anyway, we reach the Swiss border around 2am, get our wallets dry ass-raped by the Swiss motorway authorities in exchange for a sticker, and get to Geneva! Only to find the place to be as dead as a dodo's dildo this early in the morning. We wandered the empty streets for a couple of hours looking for drink, food, or conversation, but found nothing. Nothing! *sigh* Maybe I should skip to the strippers huh? No, not yet. We sleep in car, we wander through airport, we sleep in plane, we arrive in... BUDAPEST! and are greeted by a pretty blond Hungarian chick called Vera, who is to be our guide for the duration of the weekend. We all nod at each other, look into each others' eyes, and agree that this is starting off well. She leads us to a minivan, I get to use my recently acquired Hungarian language skills (basically the word hello that I'd memorised off the web prior to leaving) with the chauffeur, load our luggage, get in, and are handed cans of tasty Hungarian beer. Again, we all nod at each other, look into each others' eyes, and agree that this is beginning to look frickin' awesome.
We quickly learn that Hungarians drive like Damon Hill after a couple of pops of speed, and arrive in one piece at our flat. We have lunch, drinks, walk around with our tongues hanging out at all the babes around town, and at 2pm get picked up to go to our first activity: an all-you-can-drink cruise on the Danube(Retards: the Danube is the river that runs through Budapest). We drink a lot of beer, get to know our guide a bit better, and admire the beautiful scenery that passes us by on either side of Europe's longest river. I also tasted some Hungarian red wine during this cruise, and have to confess, it's shit.
After the cruise, our bladders attempted to burst while we were driven back to our apartment, but failed. We then made our way to the Hungarian baths, were impressed by the multitude of basins and saunas, but disappointed by the unavailable masseuses.
We had a reservation later that evening for a restaurant called the Mongolian BBQ. Essentially, an all you can eat, all you can drink buffet restaurant, with the exception being the meat. At the centre of the buffet, are tubs full of a multitude of raw meats marinating in different sauces. Be it chicken, beef, pork, goat, horse or duck, everyone could find their favourite here, load it onto their plate, and take it to be barbecued before their eyes on massive planchas.
We ate as much as we could, drank as much as we could, and awaited Vera, who was to bring a frickin' limousine, with a frickin' stripper inside! Another gorgeous blond appeared, ready to get naked before our very eyes. Michael, being the stag, got a more hands on approach, and, despite the red fluorescent glow that emanated from his face, seemed to love every minute of it. Mic got to rub a lot of cream in, we took loads of pictures, but rather or not you, the reader, will get to see any of them, is still undecided.
The limousine dropped us off on Shipyard Island, and we entered the Dokk club. Awesome place, with a secondary cocaine party in the toilets, that occasionally suffered security raids, which gave us room to pee. We ordered a bottle of vodka, I actually danced, and slowly, but surely, came into contact with the Three Harpies. The Three Harpies are girls. Three girls. Evil girls. They're not necessarily specific girls, but more a type of girl. In this case, the Three Harpies were an average brunette, a hot brunette, and an astonishingly hot blond. I call these girls the Three Harpies, because they are hunters. They prey on the weak. They'll flutter their wings (tits), dance around, leer at you, and when you least expect it... BAM! You've bought them a bottle of champagne. We were lucky. Omer H. almost fell for it, but before he could get entangled with this spawn of Satan, we met some of their discarded victims who warned us in time. Time flew by, and before we knew it, it was 4am Saturday morning, and we were back at the flat. A little green peace expedition was organised, before hitting the sack around 5am.
8.30am, I go get breakfast. As is the habit in France, when you want a great breakfast, go to the bakery. In Hungary, don't go to the bakery. Seriously, don't. The pastries I bought were as tasty and delicious as the wine. In one word: shit. Anyway, the other guys struggled out of bed, and at 11am, Vera picks us up to take us paintballing! We arrive, they give us our gear, and then we give Michael his... Just a few things Axel brought along for the trip: his grandmother's blue dress, his grandmother's red bra, his grandmother's red thong, and his grandmother's make up. Thankfully, the actual grandmother stayed home. Dressed and ready to go, we attacked... badly. Very badly. None of us scored any hits for the first two rounds, and all got shot in a rather embarrassing fashion. Personally, I took a shot to the chest, to the left ass cheek, and another to the head, which consequently gave me green hair for the rest of the afternoon. In the rounds that followed however, our skill increased exponentially, and we were able to retrieve our respect and dignity. After the paintballing, we found our guide waiting for us with more beers (awesome!), and she took us back to the flat. We made our way to the supermarket, bought some snacks, kebabs, and grabbed a little shuteye for a couple of hours.
We were picked up around 8pm, and taken to a place called the Royal Palace. From the outside, all we could see were a couple of doors. No windows, sign posts, nothing. As we walk in, we're greeted by a couple of fridges. Cupboards. Well, massive bouncers really. They take our coats, and we walk down some stairs into an underground room. This underground room, as it so happens, is decorated in mahogany and velvet, and bursting with beautiful women in skimpy underwear. Here, again, we all nodded to each other, looked into each others' eyes, and agreed that this was frickin' awesome. We sat down, and were informed that we had two hours to drink as much as we possibly could. That's all we needed to know really, and the first round was ordered. As we received our drinks, something some might consider intimidating, unsettling, or simply exciting, occurred. A group of five strippers made their way to our table, and sat down next to us. At this point, a multitude of thoughts were crossing my mind, but one word in particular kept coming back: catch. What was the catch? What did we do, or have to do, to earn the presence and conversation of five beautiful women? We were soon to find out... I started chatting to "my" stripper, a Brazilian looking 21 year old, in flimsy white underwear. I learnt that she was studying to work for the ministry of defence of her country, that she'd already been to Belgium with some of her girlfriends, and that she loved motherfucking criminals. That's right. Just like in the movies... Her ex, which she was still madly in love with, was a K1/MMA/Street fighting drug dealer, 198cm tall for 150 kgs heavy, and was currently in prison for sending the stripper in question to hospital! I guess the movies don't make this shit up after all... We were interrupted when one of the girls asked us if we'd like to buy them something to drink. Dum dum dummmmmmmm! Here it is. The catch. "Ummm sure..." I say, "Whaddya want?" As if I don't already know... "Oh I don't know... Let's have a look at the menu. Oh! Champagne! This is what we drink!' She says, pointing at the 45,000 Forints bottle. Let me put things in to perspective for you. 45,000 forints is the equivalent of 180 euros, 150 British pounds, 250 American dollars. "Ummm..." No fucking way, I'm thinking. But no. A couple of the guys were feeling generous, and it wasn't Michael(Retards: it wasn't me either.).
Anyway, what happened happened, and the evening went on seamlessly, drinking and chatting, until it was time for the show. Michael's show. We were allowed to pick the girl, and the place. Obviously, we wanted to watch, so happened in the main lounge area, and as for the girl, you're probably thinking we chose the prettiest one. Or the best dancer. As it was, we chose a mixture of slutty and seductive. The girl that excelled in handling men; in stroking what needed to be stroked, when it needed to be stroked.(This particular lady actually persuaded Omer H. to partake in a private dance later on in the evening. For details of what happened in that backroom, turn to him. You'll get nothing out of me.) What followed was one of the most hilarious strips we'd ever seen.
Four particular events stood out amongst the usual dancing and stripping: the Water Fountain, the Wheelbarrow, the Rodeo, and the Whipped Cream Special. The Water Fountain started off with a naked stripper climbing onto a table next to a horrified and slightly repulsed Michael. She then moved on to filling her mouth with water, and spitting it out at Michael, while pretending to cum. Yeah... Wtf popped into our minds too. At least she appeared to be enjoying herself. Next, was the Wheelbarrow. If you've ever been party to an up close and personal lap dance, you should know that at some point, the stripper wraps her legs around the lucky guy's waist, lies back onto her outstretched arms, and then proceeds to wiggle her hips, while the dude in question usually enjoys the view. Michael, however, was not content to simply enjoy the view. Beginning to get fairly comfortable in the presence of naked women, he grabbed her legs, stood up, and posed as a farmer wheeling a load of horse dung towards tomato crops. Mwahaha, excellent. Third special event, the Rodeo. Again, typical lap dance move, turned into comic relief. The stripper was straddling Michael, and possibly trying to get him to suck her tits. Mic, not wanting to comply, thrust his hips out again and again. Most strippers might have taken this badly. Fortunately for us, she played along, and we witnessed a proper human versus human rodeo contest. Finally, the Whipped Cream Special. Having failed to get Michael to suck her tits, she hoped to attain his cooperation through other means... Appealing to his sweet tooth, she sprayed some whipped cream onto her left ass cheek, and made a dessert. Reflexes, however, got the better of him. On an instinct born from the previous lotion massage in the limo, cold, sticky, whipped cream was rubbed into the poor girl's buttocks. She was shocked, impressed, and then amused. And to be honest, everyone was.
A short while later, I said goodbye to my Brazilian-looking stripper, and we headed off to party some more. Vera took us to another club, I was not quite sure where this was. To be honest, we'd just spent a couple of hours drinking as much as we could on a half empty stomach, and I think we were all feeling the purple haze kicking in. A short ugly chick gave me a tissue with some Hungarian written on it (took pictures, so still to be decrypted), I poggo'd during a Nirvana - Smells Like Teen Spirit remix and unconsciously hit some chick a few times, and then we headed home to finish off playing poker, and drinking whiskey. Sure, this part wasn't as interesting as the rest, but we were shattered, drunk, and getting the plane at 8am the following morning.
The End... at last.