I used to think, after 35 years on this stinking orb, that I knew the meaning of humiliation, but I hadn't - Simply put, humiliation is mistakenly leaving as a tip over twice the cost of the actual bill, realising ten minutes later, then sheepishly walking over to the waiter to ask for it back. The kitchen staff actually applauded when I did this, I still can't work out if it was irony, or mocking, or some bizarre Slovenian display of anger.
We are now in Croatia, where I am sat in my new hostel and it's pissing it down outside. I don't mind in the slightest. It was boiling hot yesterday as Martin and I traversed Tivoli Park whilst getting third degree burns, so a little British downpour suits me fine.
I probably shouldn't have asked the cute Australians I bumped into if I could steal some of their Aftersun. I didn't particularly endear myself to them as I stammered and managed to go redder whilst appearing incredibly cheap and cheeky.
It's a shame to have left Ljubljana as it's a charming place, a city in miniature with a tiny river flowing through a picturesque centre, and in the throes of a lively summer festival that (almost) made up for my lack of not pulling. My condoms are having a fantastic time though; last year they got to visit Poland and Hungary and the Czech Rep and Vienna, without so much as leaving their comfy little box, and this year appears to be no exception. They're clocking up as many airmiles as me, with the added benefit that they don't have to go near my aged, greying penis.
Today's train down was fun. Despite having a bladder as weak as a premature baby in an incubator, Martin nipped off to the buffet car for more water. When he came back, he took a chug of it only to freeze in horror, his cheeks bulging like a nut-gathering squirrel about to vomit as he ran to the window to spit it out. Dazed, he returned to his seat where he demanded I sniff the bottle.
'That's strong,' I said.
'Take a sip', he replied.
I did so, and gagged. 'This is fucking vodka!'
'Cheap fucking vodka,' added Martin, 'Or poison.'
'If you thought it was poison,' I screamed despite the two ladies in our carriage, 'why the fuck did you make me try it?'
''Cos if I die, you're coming with me.´
Martin returned the bottle to the buffet car once the stone-faced Croat coppers swaggered away having grimaced at our passports. Turns out he´d accidently been sold the chef's personal supply of "water".
Saturday night, and we are in Zagreb. I am about to leave this hostel's computer room and iron my shirt for the Big Night Out, except I am absolutely fucking shattered. All my sleep thus far has been minimal; I can't sleep when in transit so I hadn't caught up on the train, our previous hostel room was as hot as a Japanese POW camp (with a new Spanish couple to keep awake all night with my alleged "Depth Charge" ping of a snore, and an all-new cross between a gag and a cry of pain), and I was unable to sleep earlier as our beds back on to the hostel's common room, where half a dozen Welshmen were watching Hugh Jackman in some godforsaken movie.
So here we go. Frankly, if I'm able to so much as talk to Martin tonight, it'll be a miracle. And, oh good, we're about to drink heavily. We haven't done that yet*
(*yes we have, every day since landing.)