First, let me set the scene and tell you a bit about myself: Imagine you're watching an episode of "Young Indiana Jones", right? Except he's an alcoholic Glaswegian sex offender - tada! That's me.

From the 5th til the 12th of July, I was living like a King on the cheap prices of a European state defiant of the Euro. Obviously not a King of anywhere fancy like Spain, maybe Ghana or somewhere like that. I was living like the King of Ghana, if they have a Monarchy.

I won't bore you with the details of my flight over there, or what the airport was like, or any of that kind of thing.

Actually I will, I'll say one thing. Maybe two things, but definately not three or anything.

Anyway, the thing I noticed in the airport, if I'm being honest, was Arabic people. I wasn't afraid of them bombing me or anything, I just couldn't help but notice them there. It's not even necessarily that they were Muslim - it could've been Sikhs or something like that - but the way they dressed and their skin colour completely stood out.

I'm not intolerant, nor am I even really concerned about any war on terror, but because of the way these people are depicted in the media, you can't help but notice them out of the crowd. I mean I knew I was doing it, and it was annoying me quite alot.

Anyway, I'm kind of afraid of flying - but not of terrorist attacks. I'm more afraid of being stung by a bee than I am of terrorist attacks, honest to God.

I'll tell you about the part of Prague my hotel was in, "Hotel Mira" it was called. In "Praha 4" or "Zone 4", yes they split their city up into zones. Yes, I likened it to a Sci-Fi film; I'm not ashamed of that.

So anyway, Praha 4. I'm not kidding you, it was like living in the fucking past! I swear to you - there was guys with mullets everywhere! Real, honest to God, mullets. There were even some CHILDREN with mullets, hilariously enough. It was all full of this terrible, delipidated Soviet architecture aswell - the type of colours you should never paint buildings. Pink, that type of thing.

And you should've seen their cars! Mostly beaten-up old skodas, with that fake tiger fur over the seats and flame stickers - sometimes blue flame stickers. I could hardly pass a car without laughing at it, not MOCKING laughter you understand, but kind of fond "we're living in the past" laughter.

The other thing I should tell you about the zone of the city I was living in, was that it was insanely cheap. I know that most of you, why am I even addressing people, who reads this? Anyway, I know that most of you will deal in dollars only - so I can't really describe the cheapness that well. But for anyone dealing with pounds, all I have to say is that a half litre of beer was 30p.

I could give you alot more unnecessary background detail - who I was there with, how I met certain characters and what I wore. I'd better just get to the drinking stories, though. I don't want to get boo'd off or anything like that.

On the Friday I was there, through mutual appreciation of the greatest football team in the world - Glasgow Celtic - I befriended a cockney fellah. He was in the Czech Republic studying, and his Czech girlfriend was the barmaid at this pub I happened to stroll into whilst wearing the hoops[a Celtic shirt].

Anyway, that was during the day, but I did go back there later. My fellow Celt was still there, and happy to see that I had changed into my "The Pogues" t-shirt. There was another character in this small pub, called Steve - he was from somewhere called Long Island, and he was apparently straight despite the fact that he was wearing a leather waistcoat.

So anyway, it ends up as me and my two mates and Steve from Long Island - and we're drinking in this other bar that's downstairs from the first one. Or something like that.

Anyway, this is the pub we kept going back to throughout the holiday. It was pretty cheap, in the centre of town and they had table football!

We played table football quite a bit, and me and Steve were knocking back the beers quite fiercely - my two mates headed back to the hotel at about 12, they were jet-lagged or something. I say "anyway" far too much, but anyway, it ended up just me and Steve from Long Island tanning all this beer.

We then ended up making friends with a large group of lads from Brighton on a stag night, most of them were also Pogues fans and hence we easily made friends. Unknown to me, it was some kind of Czech public holiday - on the 6th July.

Me, Steve from Long Island and these guys from Brighton are wandering around at about 2 A.M looking for a good club. Me and a few of the boys from Brighton are belting out Pogues songs at the top of our lungs as we travel along the streets, and then I just stop and start chanting a Celtic song:

"HAIL! HAIL! THE CELTS ARE HERE! WHAT THE HELL DO WE CARE? WHAT THE HELL DO WE CARE?"

None of the fellahs I was with supported Celtic, so nobody joined in. ALMOST NOBODY! From nowhere, I heard a voice shout:

HAIL! HAIL! THE CELTS ARE HERE! WHAT THE HELL DO WE CARE NOWWW???

I moved towards the voice, and we finished singing the Celtic song together.

Standing with a rucksack, what I think was an Iron Maiden jumper, long hair in a ponytail and cartoon milkbottle glasses... was this voice. It belonged to Johnny, a backpacker from Kilkenny, Ireland.

Johnny was a nutcase; but the kind I like. Massive Celtic supporter, obviously. But also a massive supporter of Celtic independence, in every way shape and form. He didn't like Scottish and Welsh being ruled by Brits, but obviously Irish still under British rule pissed him off the most.

He had previously been at certain famous riots in Dublin, a year or two ago. An anti-Catholic, pro-British organisation had tried to march down a street famous in the Irish Revolution and well, as can be expected, some guys threw bricks and petrol bombs. Guys like Johnny.

Long story short, I lose Steve from Long Island and the Brighton group and me and Johnny wander around looking for an all night bar. We eventually find one that's not too cheap, but at least it was still open - until 6 A.M.

Me and Johnny sit at the bar singing Celtic songs and Irish rebel songs, drinking beer and whiskey and arguing with an old Swedish guy with a fondness for the British Monarchy right up until the bar shuts - the barmaid was chasing us out anyway for being too loud.

In short, me and my fellow rebel ended up sitting in the middle of the street in Prague and smoking a joint with a homeless man wearing a Crocodile Dundee hat. How did it come to this? Does God even know?

That was my first night.

Let's fast forward past the tourist stuff, not that I did much of it. It was hot and there were too many people, not interesting people either - faceless, boring, shorts-wearing, camera-snapping idiots who polluted the city in their thousands.

Now we're on Saturday night, table football pub. We met a shitload of people this night, and I smoked quite alot of dope and shotted alot of absinthe. I don't know if I'll use anyone's real names, but I'll tell you a bit about some of the people who we ended up grouped with in this pub:

There was a couple from London - generally just nice people. The girl was kind of posh, and she was a politics student, but she told me that her Dad was from Donnegal - so I sung her a few rebel songs and she laughed.

There was a couple from...fuck knows Ipswich or somewhere like that - again, nice people. Except total fucking hippies, really into grass and too laid back. They were in their late twenties, and they were both ginger! On their way to some kind of festival.

Three Americans - one of them was a pretty Asian lassie that I was fortunate enough to kiss, the other was originally Lebanese and the other was a fellah who was kind of quiet but nice enough. They could not understand a fucking word that I said.

There was some Welsh guys on a stag reunion who I chatted to at the bar quite a bit - one of them managed to convince me that he played rugby for Wales, I found out when I introduced one of the English lads to him and got laughed at.

I also met up with these two guys who told me they were "Polish American", I mean they sounded pretty American but they had only moved there when they were ten or something. Born in Poland. They were on their way to Krakow or somewhere like that, but they were making a stopover in Prague. They thought I was a funny bastard, I told them a load of stories about the Polish immigrants in Glasgow and it seemed to crack them up quite a bit.

Basically, everyone got wasted, stoned and played table football til the pub decided to close. We left the pub in a cluster and me and the Polish American boys ended up going to - you guessed it - a Strip Club.

Now, I was pretty fucked by this point, so the details of how we ended up in a stripclub are kind of fuzzy. I remember us being approached by a pretty shady looking fellah, who was all "You like pretty girl?" I think the Polish boys negotiated that if we paid the entrance fee to this club, we got four free shots of vodka.

Polish people tend to want to shot vodka every six seconds.

From what I remember of the place, it consisted of two rooms. A front room with a bar, and a smaller back room with a girl dancing on a pole. We sat in the front room. Now, I know most of you probably won't have sat in a room full of semi-naked women before - but it's kind of a strange experience.

I was sitting talking away to them, too drunk to realise that I was talking far too fast for any of them to understand. I recall details from the strip club much like someone would recall parts of a dream. It's very fragmented. I remember a chunk of a conversation with this blonde girl on a couch:

"Private dance? You want private dance? 1,000 crown[£20]!"
"Ehh naw yer awright hen, know? Ah'm only in here wae the Polish lads having a bit of a drink and watchin' the dancer."
"Why you come in here if you no want private dance?"
"He [pointing to the guy who brought us in] never gave us much of a choice! HAHAHAHA!!!"
"..."

I also remember going into the backroom, and there was an asian lassie pole-dancing completely naked. I said to the Polish American lads: "This is like a fucking Vietnam film!" and we laughed for about four hours.

Also, I kissed the barmaid. Like PROPERLY kissed her, my tongue right down her throat. She was kind of small, chubby, in her mid-forties.

Who knows what happened next? Not me. We kept shotting vodka and I woke up back at the hotel.

This is the very sad part of my tale - on Sunday the hangover finally caught up with me. I slept too much and forgot to drink in the morning, and I felt as though I'd been hit by a bus. A bus full of sick, that was on fire.

And then, I met a giant. And then, I joined the circus - and Danny DeVito was a Ringmaster and he turned into a Werewolf. Me and Steve Buscemi robbed a bank, and I went to North Korea and I rescued these conjoined twins and...oh sorry, these appear to be events from the Tim Burton movie: "Big Fish". Back to my story.

I was pretty much decommissioned for Sunday. We went back out again on Monday, but I mean it wasn't really that noteworthy - if I really wanted to, I could tell you about it. It was quiet in comparison to the other nights.

Tuesday, however, you have to hear about.

Irresponsible, drunk, perverted. These are just some adjectives you could use to describe me on the holiday up to this point. Try: Irresponsible, drunk, perverted hero! For on Tuesday night, I became a hero of sorts.

Lads, the word "super-power" is flung around all too often these days - but your auld Uncle Mick actually has one; I can take absinthe with no sugar, as though it's fucking water.

It's Tuesday night, and me and my friends - who i've literally told you fuck all about - are going to see that band "Meshuggah", who I think are Norwegian Death Metal. Why was I going to see this band? Free entry and it was in a cheap rock pub. On the way over though, we bumped into a jazz festival.

That's right, in the middle of Old Town Square on a Tuesday night we just happened to walk into the middle of a Jazz Festival. This was at about eight o'clock, and the band that was on were called "The Kenny Garrett Quartet".

They were fucking amazing. I'm far from being a jazz expert, but standing in the middle of the square drinking cheap beer and listening to this amazing sound was an incredible experience. Fuck Meshuggah, said I to my friends.

Kenny Garrett was set to finish at about ten o'clock. Fuck that. Have you ever seen a live act do a fake finish, and then just continue playing?

The Kenny Garrett Quartet did this about eight times. No joke, it was genius. At one point they even packed up their instruments and left, and then he came back up to the mic and went "WHUT?! I CAN'T HEAR YOU PRAGUE!? WHUT!?" and then they all took their instruments out and went right back to playing the song!

Seriously, that went on for about twenty minutes. I was drunk, and this was very amusing to me, so the Kenny Garrett Quartet are getting a special salute here - for being very talented and funny.

Afterwards...

It's Tuesday night in the table football pub, me and my friends - who I've literally told you fuck all about - are sitting there having a quiet drink. Well, my drink wasn't quiet - it was loud and of questionable sexuality, namely a Mojito. I was sick of beer and moved onto cocktails, sue me.

It's about 12 O'Clock at night, and what the fuck? The pub was dead! There was me, my friends, some locals and the Albino Bartender who I'd made friends with. No noise, except the ska music from 1996 that was continuously playing in the background.

From nowhere, a group suddenly invades the pub. A group consisting mainly of pretty ladies, who were followed by two guys wearing flowery shirts.

Naturally, I end up chatting to the group of lassies. They're all from Birmingham, and the two guys are from Cornwall or somewhere like that. Through the course of general conversation, the two guys end up saying alot of really wanky things - like "We're in an Indy band" and "I'm a lyricist, I really hate catchy tunes. It's lazy music." That kind of thing.

One of the girls whispers to me that they're not "with" the guys - that they were merely followed in by these arseholes. Eventually, I tire of them - and stand up with the declaration: "INDY BAND! ABSANT!"

They exchange a worried glance. "Err...absinthe?"

"AYE. ABSANT."

After some encouragement [teasing] from the girls, I got the flower boys from Cornwall up to the bar with me. I ordered our three shots, and the barman offered me a bowl of sugar with a sly smile. "I only do it straight." said I to the boys.

"Us too!" they reply, as one of the girls is up at the bar and they don't want to seem like sissies.

Now, absinthe - if you've never seen it - is a clear green liquid that's usually about 70% alcohol. The one thing you should know about absinthe is - IT BURRRRRRNS! But even so, I never thought it was strong enough to justify the over-the-top reaction from the Indy band.

Three.
Two.
One.

We knocked back the shots. And I swear to God, Jesus and the Virgin Mary, these boys just held their hands to their mouths and ran straight up the stairs - out of the pub. They never came back.

Naturally, I felt smug as Hell. I'd just outdrank these guys with one shot, and I must've been a bit more appealing to the girls since I'd got rid of the cunts pestering them. I did another shot right then and there, just to make myself look even better.

It was also to shut myself up before I had the chance to shout: "I just also wanna thank God. Except for my kid bein' born, this is the greatest night in the history of my life. I just wanna say one thing to my wife who's home: YO, ADRIAN! I DID IT!"

Next: I, my friends and the girls from Birmingham attended an all-night Casino/Karaoke bar; and I am not afraid to tell you that I sang the most heartrending cover of "Don't You Forget About Me" by Simple Minds that you've ever heard. Many of you will think less of me as a man for my choice of song; but when these sentences meet the eyes of DanAbnormal - he will cry tears of pride.

There's not much more that I feel I have to tell you, I figure I've related enough for you people to go: "That drunken Catholic pirate has had some amazing adventures."

It's a real bastard coming back to real life and work after a week of solid drinking. There's no more cheap and beautiful beer, I'm back to trains and spreadsheets, messageboards and junkfood. I feel like a veteran of some kind of forgotten conflict.