Sneaky Fucking Russians...


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March 15th 2011
Published: March 15th 2011
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Now adamant that we should all have been opening for England, we drove back up towards Agra and the famous Taj Mahul. As one of the wonders of the world expectations were high but it didn't disappoint. Unfortunately, there's literally nothing else to do in Agra, so we took a tuk-tuk down to the local Pizza Hut and overpaid massively for the comforts of home, demolishing three large family feasts and a couple of Sprites a piece. After a week of nothing but veggie noodles (spelt noddles on most menus), it went down a treat.

The next day we took our first sleeper train down South. We got on about six O'clock Friday night and didn't arrive till half six Sunday morning. We took a taxi to Anjuna and strolled along the beach looking for somewhere to say. It was hardly half seven but was already pushing twenty-five degrees when we met a few English guys that were just getting in from the night before. We decided to give this spot a try.

Anjuna Beach is kind of like a postcard. Miles of golden beach bask in constant sunlight. It's normally too hot to walk on, but that doesn't matter as the sea is like bath water. Palm trees and beach huts, the kind you'd never see in England (supported by the most unstable looking wooden beams), offer a sport of shade and an ice cold Coke if the day gets a little too hot. Our huts particularly seem to defy the notion of Health and Safety. These tiny wooden shacks, stacked within a couple of feet of each other, look like they could collapse or burst into flames at any moment. Try taking a shower and you'll find yourself constantly electrocuted. It can't be safe, but what can you expect for four quid a night?

Since arriving in Anjuna, we have impressively suffered a 100 percent bazulty rate within four days. Michael and Eakins fell at the first hurdle. I had a nightmare on the second night, only for Wilko to put in a spectacular display on third. Tobi 'The Geezer' Griffiths, rounded things up on the fourth night, earning us the nickname 'The Sickies'. Brilliant.

The first night we headed to Hilltop, a kind of Anjuna equivalent to Reading's Silent Disco. It wasn't silent, but was similarly surreal. We went back to the beach where we met three lads we'd earlier talked about having a drinking contest with. Tobi then became the group's official geezer, demanding in the most Danny Dyer esque voice I'd heard 'So are we having this fucking boat race or what? Six Kingishers, lively!'. Admittedly, that's a massive exaggeration, but Griffiths became Geezer nonetheless. Unfortunately, his geezerish antics couldn't secure us victory in a tightly contested boat race. Where's Dilz when you need him? Our first defeat of the trip was a tough one to stomach.
Keen to restore some of the boy's pride, I demolished one of the lads in a vodka drinking contest at the following day's beach party, suffering massively as a result. The third night we headed to Curlies, the resident Zens of Anjuna Beach, enjoying cheap cocktails and free air conditioning. The fourth evening we brought a little taste of home to proceedings with a couple of games of Ring of Fire. Geezer was left with a particularly tricky King's Cup and, as was now expected of us, barried.

As our final few days in Anjuna wore on, Eakins was hit from behind on his moped by a pair of Russians. Despite clearly being their fault, the Russians (who turned out to be residents of Goa and something like a mini mafia) began calling in friends and favours from every corner, demanding they be compensated for their minor cuts and bruises. They had already attempted healing in the traditional Russian method - drawing for the vodka and chain smoking - which hardly boosted their credibility. However with the police on their way and things looking bleak, we slipped them just under twenty quid and were on our way. Sneaky fucking Russians.

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