I'm alive guys, don't worry. Afraid for my life with every breathing second (because it could be my last you know) but I'm surviving the terror of Islam so far.

I'm in Sarajevo now, but haven't had long enough to really make my mind up about the place. It's like Budapest - with Mosques. I even spotted a MegaMosque - huge domed bit with two big towers.

Our final night in Mostar was spent doing very little. Although the place was bustling, there seemed no great excitement to the place for us. Just heaps of cafes - many of which playing what I can only describe as Islam Europop (Islamapop?) - and one nightclub from the school disco mould. We had a couple of drinks but because we were afraid Omar would lock us out if we returned home after 11pm, we didn't bother staying out. Besides, everywhere just sold gay beer. Gay beer seems a worrying trend as we head further south. Beer should be served in 500ml or pint measures, without you even having to ask. But all around here seems to specialise in gay beer - 300ml measures. Come on, that's pansy drink. Sort this out foreigners.

The light in our room seemed in a strange mood last night too. From a corner, a loud crackling fizzing noise began, and smoke started pouring out. I was content to watch and observe, but Simon was more proactive and started examining it closely. With great anticipication, I awaited the explosion and Simon's melted face falling to the floor, but this didn't happen. Sorry guys. No, the light just fizzled on for ages, and finally stopped.

You can clearly see that last night was full of great excitement.

Oh, I never mentioned the floor of our room there. It was ace. Poor Omar seemed rather upset by it, as he'd only fitted it the year before, but from the tourist's point of view it was an excellent novelty. Heavy rain had managed to seep from the room and somehow completely warped the floorboards so that they were contoured in fanatastic mountainous curves. Up and down, like a wave frozen in time.

So we left all that this morning, saying goodbye to Omar and "the cat" (it didn't have a name, and the very suggestion of it having a name seemed to alarm Omar) and took an incredibly attractive bus journey to Sarajevo. Bosnia is a very hilly country, with wide green rivers and lakes, and the small winding road took us along a very scenic route, all the way from Mostar to Sarajevo.

Problems exist with Sarajevo though: accommodation mainly. The "book" (ie Lonely Planet) is useless here, not that it's ever been much more than a rough guide. There's no hostels and only expensive hotels, for various military personel from around the world on paid accounts. The tourist information was also an hour's walk away from the bus station, and closed at 2pm today anyhow. Which is why we are where we are now.

In the living room of two madwomen. They, of course, speak no English.

You get these women, usually blonde and haggard, at bus and train stations, and they pounce on you with details of their rooms to let. Usually we decline, and this we did today, until we realised our alternative options were non-existant, so we approached the cheapest one. And you get what you pay for. We were taken along some dual carriageways and bundled into a tram which chugged for ages along a fast road alongside an infinity of tower blocks from the good old days of Communism. It was no surprise when this woman (communicating entirely by means of "Nema problema/no problem", "Mama!" and "Japan student",the latter we never quite figuring out) took us to one such block. Her name was Ivana, and she stayed with her crazy mother, called simply "Mama!". The exlamation mark is intentional. Mama! is indeed one crazy mama. The first thing she did was to try one Simon's hat, which she strangely suited, and then began a manic series of chatter and hand gestures. She kissed me too, I'm not sure exactly why, but I don't think I caught anything.

So, they took us to our bedroom - ie, their living room - and Mama! made us some soggy scrambled eggs which we had no choice but to consume entirely. We did manage some conversation with her and Ivana, but I'm not sure if we took the same conclusions. It was a bit like trying to communicate with Ewoks, as half the time they would make strange eating gestures and say "Num num!" Oh, the mother looked a bit like that mother in The Goonies too.

We're just staying there for one night, because although it's a curious experience, like with Omar we can't see ourselves in permanent residence there. Also, we have no key so think (think being the key word here, as what the hell Mama! was actually trying to tell us is likely something entirely different) we have to be back home for 8 or 9pm, when they go to bed. Hopefully tourist information will be open tomorrow so we'll get somewhere a little more conventional to stay. I have a feeling too that Mama!'s entire culnary repertoire consists of bread and soggy scrambled eggs.

So, tomorrow - Indian food! Yes, Sarajevo has an Indian restaurant. It's the only reason we came here. I'm not going to eat for the next 24 hours so I can savour it especially.

Bosnia then. For all those currently anxious about the supposed Christian-Islam tension caused by a few crazy Arabs driving planes into giant buildings, youll be reassured to know that Bosnia has a very high Muslim population - the highest in Europe I think. Even better - we re staying with a few of the jihad crazed psychos.

We arrived yesterday then, into Mostar. The night before had been spent having a few drinks with Ivan, and leaving on a better note than from the afternoon. He did still seem to want to kick his habit and there appeared some hope in this happening, if he keeps in the same frame of mind. We ll remain in touch so I suppose Ill find out.

Mostar then, is a city of 100,000 nestled into a valley surrounded by some very attractive mountains towering on all sides. All landmined to hell no doubt. The city itself seems more like a village, with even the main street (on the Muslim side) simply being an extended winding lane. Buildings everywhere are peppered with bullets, many entirely derelict and in a total state of collapse. Hollowed and gutted. Bridges are collapsed into the water and abandoned and destroyed vehicles are dotted around. There appears to be no hurry (or no money, more accurately) to repair any of this. And its all got a charm to it, meandering through narrow high streets with buildings collapsing all around.

The Mostar birds are pretty good looking too.

So we arrived yesterday and quickly found a place to stay - with a mad professor called Omar. Omar is tall, thin and gaunt, and mostly appears solemn and silent except for the occasions he grunts something in a throaty murmur or laughs at something usually very silly. Like when I helped him take down the washing and he handed me a pair of pants.

Im presuming hes Muslim, not just because of how he looks but because immediaely upon entering the house we had to take off our shoes. This has caused one big problem - Simons feet. Put quite simply, Simons feet were not built for Islam. Usually they are hidden away, out of my noses reach, but this time theres no escape. The fumes are almost visible. I think Omar must rapidly be considering a conversion to Christianity.

We re staying in the Muslim side of town, full of Mosques. The city used to be well integrated, but its now separated into the Muslim side and the Croat side, the two sides apparently mixing little. I havent yet been to the Croat side but I imagine its got all the facilities of the Muslim side. From an outsiders point of view, its all very petty. The difference between these people is negligible, but they let the small differences they have create a major division between them. And unfortnately, Bin Ladens mates blowing up buildings isnt going to help matters.

So, we re going to remain in Mostar for the day, and probably tomorrow head to Sarajevo (pronounced sar-ADGE-eh-vo, in my world anyway) in search of a fabled Indian restaurant (!) and hpefully this girl Marina I met in Zagreb.

Thats it for now then. If I dont write again its because the evil Muslim Omar has cut my little white Western throat.

Hey everyone, I haven't been stabbed to death with a syringe yet, so it's cool. Nope, Split has turned out to be a quite pleasant place and our (ex)soldier friend has been a most gracious host.

So yeah, after a mammoth stay in Zagreb, it was finally time to leave to pastures new on Monday. With just a few loose ends to tie up before we left. First of all, our thank-you to our hostel hosts by means of buying them a bottle of wine. And I know that we paid them for seven nights anyway, but they really went above and beyond the call of duty and it's certainly been our best accommodation to date. So we said our thankyous, gave our wine, and took photos and now a photo of us is to apparently grace to reception of the hostel as soon as it's developed. So: go to Ravnice hostel in Zagreb and see a picture of me. Can there be a greater recommendation.

The next thing I had to do was to say goodbye to Bozica, so I met with her and her blonde friend (whose name I now know to be something like Zrnci) for a farewell drink. Oh, there were tears, I can tell you. However, that was more due to their choice of drinking venue - yet another extortionately expensive bar. Thank God for feminism and girls paying for their own drinks.

And finally, and just before getting on our overnight train to Split, there was the goodbye to Nina. The three of us went bowling, thus letting my considerable bowling skills impress one and all. I came last each game.

And then, and only then, it was time to leave Zagreb. Almost relucantly too, as we've had a great time there and in just 10 days I'd made a number of good friends. And the girls are all so attractive (have I mentioned that before?). But I'll be keeping in touch with them, and will definitely return one day.

The overnight train to Split, and the subsequent morning, have all turned into a very indistinct haze of clouded memory. Alas, not due to massive drug intake, but because of a very weird night's sleep. Myself and Simon were joined in our train compartment by a Croatian soldier, though he actually enjoyed the military and wasn't a heroin addict. But, like Ivan, he did wear quite awful tracksuit bottoms. Anyway, I did manage to get about 7 hours of more or less ok sleep in the train, slightly uncomfortable as it was. But it's all become like a vague dream now, and the subsequent getting a room in Split by fortunate means of an old man entering the train and telling us about his 80Kn a person a night room. Upon getting there I slept four proper hours and we then took a look around Split.

Split is like God accidently dropped a city between the sea and some mountains and let it spill out in the gap. It's very white and pretty and hugs the coastline as it creeps up the hills behind it. It's got a relaxed air to it, and despite the mass of Croatians in Zagreb telling me about the junkies lurking in every corner, the only junky I've noticed so far is the one we befriended in Zagreb. There's quite a lot of grafitti (in Croatian, disappointingly, as for some reason there's a ton of grafitti written in English around Eastern Europe) but looks much less like a heroin haven than, say, Aberdeen.

Anyway, the time came at at 6pm, we went to the train station to wait for our soldier friend and to our semi but not total surprise, he arrived, along with a friend called Pete who spoke English - loudly. Pete also had a car, and could drive it, although his actual grasp of driving could be described as tenuous. From the large gash along one side of his car, it was evident that Pete was of the school of driving that presumed that all other drivers weren't like him. Cramped in the little car, the four of us motored off on the junkie tour of Split. Ha, no, not quite, though they were rather keen to show us their favourite spots for smoking illegal substances. I'm not quite sure if there was a pattern to the tour, as we appeared to go in a number of circles, picking up a non-English speaker called Pave (Pav-eh) on the way.

We visited a pleasant and peaceful area by the sea, where we rested on small cliffs over the water. Then we were whisked around town, past the groovy stadium of Hadjuk Split, and into a small neighbouring town where we sat and had a drink, before zooming off around various destinations. Though poor Pave was effectively mute throughout the evening, Pete more than compensated. He was very talkative and interested in what we were doing, and seemed rather determined to visit us in Scotland this New Year, although from what I gathered he seemed to be banking quite a lot on the hopes he'd be able to find himself a Scottish bird to stay with to avoid returning to Croatia. So girls, if you're interested...

The night continued like this, whisked round various places and pubs, until it was time to end as Pete had to be for 6am the next morning, for work. I was knackered, as it had been a long day, and Simon was likewise (though at any one time there is a 93% chance Simon will be knackered) so we slept quite well.

Today then, it was just Ivan, who we met at 11am. No car, but just as well, as he showed us around on foot. The city centre is rather pleasant and I could definitely spend a day just looking around it. Frustratingly, there was a big tower which you could go up - but Ivan didn't want to. Agh. No matter, he did take us up one of the hills the city clutches to, which afforded a great view. There was a cafe/bar on it too, which made for a pleasant drink. Even if Ivan did vanish to the toilets for a suspiciously long time, returning seeming decidedly more spaced than before.

Because, yes, Ivan does have a problem. Made moreso by the fact that upon returning home last week, he's been kicked out by his family, and so is having to stay with friends for the time-being. And I - and Simon too I'm sure - feel helpless. I'm just a tourist in this city and a tourist to Ivan's life. All I can do is pass through and observe. Ivan knows he's got a problem but doesn't seem in a hurry to sort it out. All I feel able to do is give glib advice - "these things just take time" etc - which is no good. Ivan's a nice guy, he really is, but he's going nowhere and doesn't seem to want to go anywhere. Not really. If there was something I could do in the space of my two day visit I would - and paying for some food and a couple of drinks doesn't count - but I can't because I'm only a tourist here. I'm going to keep in contact with him, and I hope he sorts himself out, but he seems less likely to now than he did last week. Last week he was needing a fix and was very honest about it, and about being a "slave to drugs". Now he's got his fix, he seems less concerned and more content.

Anyway, that's all for now. Tomorrow, Mostar probably.

And my final hours in Zagreb approach. After 10 days, it's time to move on to pastures new - or to meet with heroin addicted AWOL Croatian soldiers in Split, to be more precise.

As ever, the sun is shining in this most consistently warm of cities. Ten days of wonderful sunshine. After living in Scotland all my life, I admit such a concept was beyond the realms of my imagination. As was walking down the street and having wave upon wave of attractive girls pass me. No, no, Aberdeen girls, you're lovely too of course, but you really should start wearing less...

So since my last entry, Zagreb has of course been treating me well. All night sessions, international football matches, morning coffee with Croatian models and enjoying the novelty of being Scottish. Where will I start? Hmm, how about Friday?

Ok, so Friday I imagine the day was spent doing something or other. That's a fair guess. A morning would typically consist of me getting out of the very comfortable hostel bed at about 10am, and lounging on the balcony for a couple of hours. Usually talking to the hostel cleaner, Seka, who was very chatty indeed, and the hostel owner Vera and her very pretty daughter Leia. After being there so long I was beginning to feel somewhat of a permanent fixture, and was rewarded as such by daily coffee.

Friday night then had a couple of options. What was certain was that there was to be a night out with a few people - myself, Simon, Matthew, Antoine and Nina, plus her friend Ivana who turned up also. What was less certain was my exact plans. For the whole week I'd been building up this club - or disused factory playing underground techno. I was keen to go, but as only I was interested I didn't want to desert everyone midway through a night out.

So, the six of us met up in the city centre (by the statue of the Turk-killer on a horse) and went for a drink, before Nina had to retire home after one glass of "soda." Poor Nina. She's the main reason we came to Zagreb in the first place, and in 10 days we've seen her twice now. Not through deliberate avoidal by either party, but because of a series of missed chances, be it by day-trips, missed phonecalls or illness. And I think that on Friday she still wasn't fully fit. We tried to phone her last night, but missed her, so hopefully we can get hold of her today before we leave. If not, and Nina does read this - it's ok, don't worry. We've had a great time here, and if you ever come to Scotland we promise not to avoid you too much...

With Nina and Ivana out of the picture, us four males moved onto a different pub and hit the Tomislav. Oh, Tomislav, the drink of the heavens. Hmm, perhaps not heavens bu it's certaily something not quite of this world, because we're talking pure potency here. Tomislav seems to have ingredients not contained in usual pivo. Pure toxic excellence. So time managed to disappear in a haze of Tomislav as the four of us sat talking about... well, details are resigned to the mists of time. And suddenly it was 1am and suddenly I realised, "Hey, I'm a little drunk!" and that it was time to hit the disused factory. So I departed.

A quick apology first. To the poor unsuspecting 16 year old waiting for her tram. Matthew was with me, not to go to the club ("Matthew" and "club" are two words I cannot ever imagine in the same sentence, unless accompanied by the words "definitely not ever") but because he was cycling back to the hostel. He was drunker than me and his cycling was less straight-line and more perfect sine-wave. As we passed the tram spot in the city centre, we passed a blonde girl sitting waiting and Matthew said hello and struck up a short conversation. In English of course, but fortunately she spoke it well. She did seem extremely amused with us two drunken foreigners talking absolute rubbish, and at our concern at her being so young and out so late. She also appeared impressed (well, amused at least) with my perfect grasp of Croatian swearwords. She was saved however by the appearance of her tram, and so we all departed. Her to her home, Matthew to his hostel (apparently falling off his bike at least once) and me to the disused factory by the river...

I must make something clear. I'm not the sort of person who goes to pubs, restaurants or clubs by myself. I think once in Aberdeen I waited for Joe in the Hogs Head for half an hour, sipping a pint alone, and hated it. So to go into a Croatian club alone seems out of character. But I was just curious, to see what the Croatian underground techno scene was like, and after a number of Tomislavs I decided to satisfy my curiosity. And yeah, it was good. Really, really good.

It was in the dark and concrete basement of the factory first of all, so underground quite literally. I meandered in, and to my delight found drink was a mere 8Kn (about 70p). So, if you want, you can perhaps forgive me for the extremely patchy memories than now occur.

The music was good first of all. Ok, I thought it was good, it might not be everyone's cup of tea, or pint of Tomislav. Behind a purple curtain lay the concrete dancefloor, with thick conrete pillars scattered. Before the dancefloor was the bar. There was no toilet - except for the bushes outside.

Ok, so memories are vague, but I talked to various people, one of whom was desperate to sell me marijuana, and latterly danced a lot. I recall my dancing being exquisitely performed, silky movements and dynamic bodypops. "Bustin' a groove". However, if any videotape exists of the night, I really would rather not study it. Some hazy memories are best left as hazy. Later on, somehow, I ended up talking to some Croatian girls (perhaps they'd been admiring my dancing). They seemed rather intrigued that a Scottish guy had made his way into this clubnight, and were awfully concerned about my likely travelling through the Middle East. I know I talked to them until the music stopped - a rather premature 4am I believe - and they both departed, after giving me a kiss on the cheek of course.

Ok, so things get even vaguer here, but I know I managed to find my way home in the space of a "mere" two hours. So it was around 6am, and I decided not to bother sleeping. On th balcony of the hostel were three Croatian guys who I spoke to. They were there for the Croatia-Belgium footbal game on later that day, so I spoke to them a little. I was rather out of it at this point, so I canno imagine I was too eloquent. They disappeared, so I spent some time relaxing on the balcony (perched, I believe, rather dangerously on the side) then went downstairs to the outside benches. Memories begin to clarify a little now, and I know I was saying "Dobre utro" and "Kako ste" (good morning and how are you) to various passers-by in the street, most of whom replied cheerfully. Vera, Leia and Seka also appeared later on, but fortunately I was more compis mentis by this stage, helped by the coffee they fed me.

Ah yes. The models. Antoine, that previous night, had talked of two Croatian models staying on our floor. I'd not met them however. But as I was up and about early that day, Vera trusted me with reception as she popped out for 20 minutes. And during then, one of the models came downstairs to pay, which I dealt with, and Seka then made us coffee, which we drank together on the balcony. The dark-haired model was really rather attractive, and was very friendly too. The blonde one less so on both counts. They were in Zagreb to meet with some agency, and it appeared to be straight down the line modelling, not pornographic alas.

It's a story that perhaps isn't as good as it's synopsis sounds: after spending the whole night at an underground Croatian rave, I enjoyed a pleasant morning coffee with two models. In my autobiography I'll definitely spice it up a little.

Antoine also left that morning. Antoine was somewhat of a revelation, because he was French-speaking Swiss and I really liked the guy. He was a genuinely decent and cool guy. I know, I know, all that know me will know of my anti-Swissness, but he was a cool guy.

Anyway, so being without sleep, Saturday was a bit of a spaced out day for me, though I still made constructive us of it. After taking a wander back to the club (very intelligently I'd hidden my coat in a "safe" place that night, but had been able to find it later on, but managed this time) it was time for the football. Croatia vs Belgium.

The situation regarding the game was this: If Croatia won, they qualified for the World Cup, Belgium would have to play a play-off, and Scotland would be out. If Belgium didn't lose, then Belgium qualified and Croatia would have to do the play-off. Scotland would stll be out. BUT - if Belgium somehow thrashed Croatia and Scotland thrashed Latvia, then Belgium would qualify, Scotland would do the playoff, and Croatia would be out. Got that? Basically, I wanted Croatia either to win, or get comprehensively annihilated.

The city was buzzing. More than buzzing, it was totally charged. The red and white checks of the Croatian football strip everywhere, cars driving by with horns blasting, flags waving, a total excitement everywhere. We arrived at the stadium an hour before kickoff to be met by riot police, holding back the huge numbers of Croatians trying to pile into the inadequate entrance gates. After a considerable wait and considerable crush, we got into the stadium, and climbed the mass of steps and as we entered the stand that towered above th pitch, the match kicked off literally as we entered into our stand.

The Croatians sure were up for the match - both the players and the fans. The fans had quite a fondess for fireworks/flares too, which were thrown at the pitch with great regularity. I've never seen as many fireworks thrown at a pitch before - especially after an "event", ie the missed penalty, a missed open goal and well, anything really. Most were saved for the single goal of the very entertaining game that Croatia rightfully won, scored after 78 minutes by Boksic.

I didn't go out that night, instead preferring to sleep soundly despite the wild revelry by the mass of Croatians in our hostel, plus the few Belgians, including the really rather fat Jean-Ive who apparently snored very loudly that night, but was unable to wake my sleep.

Ok, yesterday very briefly, as I'm running out of time. A lazy day, but in the evening sat on the balcony chatting to two Germans (Stefan and Katarina) and later the two Israelis (Arnon and Renat) who we plan to visit while dodging bombs in Israel next month. This morning, a sad farewell to the hostel, although we return later to get our stuff and give them a bottle of wine as a thankyou. Later we'll hopefully see Nina, and I'm meeting Bozica at 7 for a departing drink.

That's it. Take it easy.

Oh yeah, my damned breathe email is playing up again. If you've sent me any email in the last few days, and until future notice, can you send stuff to raderjegx@hotmail.com. That's hotmail, not breathe.

Ok. Read this entry particularily carefully, because I'm going to throw in a slightly unexpected sentence during it.

I'm obviously still in Zagreb as I write now, and the last few days have been a mixture of the relaxed, the tiring, the expected and the perhaps slightly less than expected. It's still warm and sunny here, and attractive girls in every nook and cranny. I'm feeling a little crappy at this immediate moment in time, but that's only due to this general trend of continual drinking that seems to dominate life right now. I haven't had a drink all day, so I'm getting some withdrawal symptoms obviously.

So, what's been happening then? I'll go chronologically, because it's a pretty sensible way to structure things, y'know.

So I think it was Monday I last wrote. Was it? Maybe Tuesday. Yeah, Tuesday. Not much really happened on Tuesday, or if it did I certainly can't recall. I think I had a couple of drinks with Simon but it was an early night.

Wednesday then, and upon eventually getting up and getting into town, I took a wander to find the old disused factory that is hopefully the site of tonight's "Theory of Techno" club. Or "rave" I suspect these backwards people still call it. Rave, what an awful word. Mind you, so is "clubbing". Clubbing just conjures up images of awful blondes in stilletos, wearing tight white dresses and with too much makeup. I'll have to devise a word that I find suitable. How about "zeephar"? But anyway, I took a wander and would have found this factory after 20 minutes had I any powers of observation, but instead I spent well over an hour walking by the side of the river. But eventually my heightened senses tracked down this old disused factory, and it looked pretty cool. So I will probably be there tonight, if all goes to plan (which is by no means certain).

I think just did a little wander round the city, looking at stuff in my own vacant way and at just before half 7, I met up with Simon at the statue of the guy on the horse (he killed Turks apparently) in the big city centre square. The plan was for a couple of drinks, and see what happens. So Simon went off to see if he could reach Nina on the phone.

It was then that I met the heroin addicted, AWOL Croation soldier. He approached me thinking I was from Zagreb, and might be selling drugs. On Tuesday we're going to visit his home in Split. If he doesn't murder us and sell our possessions for drugs, he's going to show us around the area. His name is Ivan.

Yes, this was one of the more unexpected twists of our travelling so far. Of course, the above paragraph took a good few hours to slowly develop. Fortunately the 8 or 9 years all Croatian kids learn English for proved very useful, and Ivan was very proficient. He had a couple of bags with him and as we waited for Simon, we got talking. He'd been in the military - compulsory for all Croatian males for about a year - but had had enough and had decided to "escape". His home wa in Split but they'd posted him on the other side of the country, and he hated it. He was the same age as me.

He had his train to catch at 10.45pm, but until then was just wanting something to do (use illegal drugs, it transpired later). He was bored. He'd been in the city all day and had absolutely nothing to do, no-one to speak and no money. Simon arrived back and we all talked a little longer. Simon and I were going for a meal, so we told Ivan we'd be happy to buy him a drink. He initially declined out of politeness, but we convinced him it was no problem.

He was very grateful, and Simon insisted upon feeding him a slice of pizza. We talked about various things, and it was when at the following pub it came out he was a heroin addict, for the last year. He said he knew it was wrong, he knew he was a "slave to drugs" and he knew he was a bad person, but he was a danger only to himself. It was, although he never said so in quite so many words, why he was going AWOL. He has dealers in his home in Split but not where he was stationed with the military.

He was however a genuinely decent guy. In Split there's a big problem it seems, and he'd just succumbed to peer pressure. He knew he was weak, but just couldn't do anything about it. The military wasn't helping because if they found out it'd be hell to pay.

Anyway, to cut everything short, we got on well and we've agreed to meet with him in Split. I know, written down, some would call it unwise to be meeting with crazed drug addicted AWOL Croatian soldiers, but he was a good guy. It wasn't as if he was tagging onto us, leeching drink. We had to insist, and he was very grateful, hence he should be giving us a tour of the area when we get there. Whether that means a tour of syringe-filled drug dens remains to be seen. But no, seriously, I have a feeling now that my mother is going to be getting all worried but hey, what's the worst that can happen?

Uh...

No, it's cool. Mum - chill out.

We let him get his train, and we'll meet him in a few days again. We just went to bed after that.

The next morning (Thursday)I was up fairly early and immediately made another useful contact. In the hostel was a Croatian girl called Marina, just staying there overnight as part of some travelling. She was just about to head back home to Sarajevo (which for those not up to scratch on geography of the area, is in landmine-filled Bosnia) but gav me her email and said that if I got in contact in the next couple of weeks, she'd still be around and would show us about. Avoiding the landmines and all that. So Sarajvo will likely be our next stop after Split. We were going to go there anyway because it has an Indian restaurant and I'm dying for a good curry.

After that I was treated to coffee by the very lovely cleaner - "Seca" - and the hostel daughter, Leia. Along with a German guy and girl who have since disappeared, and later Simon and an English guy called Matthew. The hostel we're in really is great. Just so friendly and relaxed. Man, Seca sure can talk. But it's cool, and I hope it doesn't change with time as the hostel is still fresh and new.

Me and Simon took a few trams and buses and a very long walk up a steep hill to a castle with a good view but a tower that I wasn't allowed to the top of. Tch. We went back to the hostel where we found we were sharing our room now with a Swiss guy. Swiss! No fears, I tore into the Swiss later on, after a few drinks. The most neutral nation on Earth. And proud. Nah, I let the poor guy off from my full wrath. With Matthew we went to a very Archies-style pub (no doubt pleasing Simon who always inexplicably liked Archies) which had cheap but good drink, and a table full of neo Nazis.

Leading onto today then, and if Nina's got over her apparent food poisoning (honestly, you'd think the girl was avoiding us...) we'll meet up with her, along with Anthony with Swiss guy and Matthew the English guy. Oh, and Hannah the American bird, who we met today too at the hostel.

And tomorrow we see Croatia vs Belgium, silently willing the Belgians to thrash Croatia so Scotland have a chance of qualification. From what Seca said, the Croatian fans can be a little violent, so I'll try and suppress me cheers when Belgium score their 5th.

So that's me then. In Zagreb, only a little hungover, and making good friends with drug addicts.

Kako si? Dobre, hvala. Dva pivo molim. Tomislva, ya. Jebi se.

Just a few days here and I'm virtually fluent in Croatian now. Almost indistinguishable from a native Zagrebian. Yup, we're still in Zagreb and will likely remain here for the rest of the week. Maybe heading off into Bosnia on Monday. Zagreb is excellent. I expected nothing of it whatsoever, and it's been a massive surprise. Everything about it is great - the people, the cafes and bars, the beer, the law that forbids ugly birds from going outside. It's relaxed but vibrant. A really wonderful city. And like New York for me, I don't really have to be doing anything because just walking around feels good.

It's been a good few days and I'm hoping the next few should be likewise. Even better, we've left the crap hostel with the only bad-tempered people in Croatia and moved to a new one, which is much further away and marginally more expensive, but infinitely better. It's a great little place, one of the best places we've stayed. Only open for a couple of months, and still getting built partly, but it's new and clean and the people in charge are wonderful. I think it might be a family-run thing, and I've met both the mother and daughter and they've been great. The daughter, needless to say, looks good.

So, what's been up for the last few days? Drinking mainly, with a mixture of Croatian girls, and Argentinians, Irish, Finnish and English. I think it was Saturday I wrote last. Saturday itself turned out to be a quiet affair. I phoned Bozica and arranged to meet up with her for a drink. Not counting on her bringing her two friends. Curses. I mean, it's almost as if she thought Big Nev's intentions were anything but honourable. Yes, anyone who knows me will be as shocked as I was that anyone could doubt my intentions. I am a man of honour in the old fashioned mould. Thoughtful, respectful, considerate. But uh, yeah, it turned out cool anyway. We went to this pleasant cafe in the street and had a drink and talked about stuff. They were cool girls. And mighty attractive. Bozica, Maria and I still haven't got the blonde girl's name, and it's now got to the point of no return. Because I know I've been told a couple of times, but each time I've just plain forgotten or not heard properly. Very considerately of them, they've taught me how to swear in Croatian, which I can promise all those I know in Aberdeen will be virtually the only words I'm going to use upon arriving home. Anyone who knows me well knows I never swear - in English. I am a filthy mouthed son of a kurva in Croatian.

It was just the one drink in the early evening, because they'd been in town all day shopping (or looking at shops rather) and were tired from the night before. But I arranged to meet up with them in a couple of days time, and headed back to the hostel (still the crap one at this point).

Jesus had arrived. That was my initial impression when I walked through the door. A long-haired beardie lay in a lower bunkbed, dozing. Rather disappointingly he looked less like Jesus upon getting up and speaking to me and Simon. His name was Luciano, which might appear to be a girl's name but he's from Argentina so things are different there. He'd been living in Berlin for two years and was doing a little tour of Europe before hoping to study in Rome. Him, Simon and myself were hungry so we went out to get a cheap restaurant meal and we headed back to the hostel again. The intention was to go out for a few drinks, but we all had a quick lie down and promptly all fell asleep until the next morning.

Sunday then, and I already can't remember what happened. Hmm, let me think. Oh yeah, I wandered about town, phoned mum for the first time since I've left (I made sure she had to pay of course) and generally just enjoyed the Zagreb sunshine and city centre, before going out and getting drunk. With Simon, Luciano and an Irish guy, called "Cathal" but pronounced Ca'al. I think. Some people have pointlessly difficult names to pronounce. Like the Israeli guy from Budapest, "Zaci" but pronounced in a way I cannot possibly reproduce in words. When I'm in charge, all names will have to be reduced to one easy syllable. Like Niall. Can't go wrong with Niall, can you? Well, actually, the Italians from the camper van saga way back in Brno had huge trouble - "Nee-yall... Nee-ello..."

Oh, hang on. Yeah, I did go out with them, but before that we had a meal - minus Cathal and plus a guy called Martin. He was English, and estimates as to his age have so far ranged from between 40 and 60. What is known is that he'd seen quite a bit of the world. He'd just quit his job to see a bit more, which included a couple of the ex-Yugoslav countries which were the only countries in Europe he'd not yet seen. He also seemed wildly enthusiastic about ceilidhs, apparently attending them quite regularly with friends in Scotland. He even wore a kilt for them. An Englishman in a kilt? I can't imagine such a concept.

Yeah, so we'd a meal with him and he was rather cool actually. Even Simon, English-hater extraordinaire, got on with him. He had some good tips for us too, which we'll probably follow up. Mostar in Bosnia was one recommendation in particular that we'll check out.

Being between the ages of 40 and 60, he couldn't handle the pace of a night out, but Cathal replaced him and we hit the town. And the Tomislav.

Man, Tomislav is good stuff, but it's powerful. It was only Monday, upon inspecting a bottle, that we realised how powerful. It's 7%, which after about five pints/500mls, really hits you. As I found out the next morning, with memories of speaking to politically angry beatnik Croatian theatre puppeteers (seriously) and some guy with a very odd moustache.

Monday then, and it was time to up and move hostels, arriving in the refreshingly cool morning at our current hostel. We arrived and were settled by noon, and I headed off downtown for the day. Taking a wander round random streets in the north of the city, before realising all I was actually doing was wandering around residential areas. I went back to the centre, bumping into Simon, and so had a Tomislav with him. It was the afternoon, so just the one Tomislav was enough, and I decided to go find out about Croatian dance music. By very good fortune, the first record shop I sourced was a gem. It had stuff like Speedy J, four Aphex Twin albums, and even Banco de Gaia. Yup, I just know you're all excited. So I asked the guy if there were any good Croatian dance/electronic dudes.

No, basically, but there was some guy who appeared on some compilation album, so I gave it a listen and it was actually rather good, so I bought the CD. I think it's some Belgian club or something, called Kozzmozz. Already it's been a massive relief. One of my big regrets about stuff I didn't take with me is that I left all my CDs behind. It's killing me. All I've got to listen to is Simon's CDs, which to be diplomatic, is mostly "not my sort of thing" and two CDs I've bought in the last month or so. One is Mr Oizo, you know, the guy who did the music for the Flat Eric Levi jeans advert. It's good, but not able to sustain a month's listening. The other is a Leonard Cohen album, which I've actually had to ban myself from listening to. Not because it's sometimes suicidally depressing, but because every time I hear the song "Famous Blue Raincoat" it gets lodged in my head for days and days after. On continuous repeat, and it drives me mental. A great song, but it shouldn't really be your soundtrack to travelling Eastern Europe.

So, anyway, I bought the CD and then asked the guy if there were any decent clubs in Zagreb, and he got me a few fliers and one especially looks good. It's in some old abandoned factory on the edge of town and looks very promising. On Friday. Worryingly, Simon's shown an interest and I really don't know if I could survive a Simon "megabop". I'm scared, I admit it.

I met up with Bozica, Maria and "Girl 3" after that, for an extended drink. They'd heard of the club I'd been recommended and said it was good, then recommended some good Croatian hip hop. Apparently, Croatia has a few good hip hop bands, so I've now got a list (somewhere, I hope I haven't lost it) which I might look into. The girls also demonstrated a quite astonishing knowledge of British culture - the Royal Family especially. They were big fans of Prince William, and they liked Camilla too, thinking her and Charles really loved each other. They knew a good bit of TV too. It seems 'Allo 'Allo and Are You Being Served has, alas, escaped our shores. They hadn't heard of Neighbours.

Oh yeah. If anyone reading this knows what's happening in Neighbours, email me. I'm a month and a half behind now.

As luck would have it, Bozica's had to go to her grandmother's in... oh, what's the place called. It got shelled a lot in the war. Anyway, she's had to go there until Sunday, so it looks like my hot date has gone unfortunately cold, but it was agreed to meet up then if I'm still in Zagreb and we'll be in contact anyway because we all got on really well.

That night it was just more drunkenness, with myself, Simon, Luciano, Cathal and Tuomas the Finn who we first met in Pula and happened to also be in Zagreb. They were all leaving the next day so it was one final night, although I just about remember everything, except for getting home. Tomislav, man. There's no way the stuff would be legal in Britain.

Ok, so that's about it up to date then. Still in sunny and charming Zagreb and planning to for the next while. It really is a great city. We've realised too that on Saturday Croatia play Belgium here, in the last game of the World Cup Qualifiers. If Croatia lose by about four goals, and Scotland beat Latvia by about the same, Scotland have a chance of going to the World Cup. So if possible, we're going to try and score tickets for the match and be in the unlikely position of supporting Belgium. Otherwise, we'll just see what turns up as something usually does. We haven't seen the Ameri-Croats for a couple of days, and the last I heard was Nick was heading homewards while Jack and Josipa were in Dubrovnik. But I expect we'll meet up with them again in the course of the week.

So yeah. Zagreb. It's good.

Hey dudes, I'm in Zagreb, the sun is shining, the girls are hyper-attractive and wearing little. And most of you are stuck in the North of Scotland. Bad lack guys.

Yeah, sunny sunny Zagreb has quite taken me by surprise. It had never been part of our itinery before the chance meeting with the Croat girls, but I'm extremely glad I came. It's probably the best city we've been to so far. Busy but relaxed, and with a very European feel to it. And apart from the megagrumps of the people at the reception of our hostel (to quote a couple of their comments, "You know, I just don't care" and "You know the rules". Pricks) everyone is really friendly and pleasant, and with good English. And then you've got the Zagreb girls, oh yeah...

Ok, so we arrived in Zagreb yesterday afternoon after a long but not wholly uncomfortable bus journey. The previous night had been spent having a few drinks with yet more Australians and New Zealanders. I swear, the people from these countries are nomadic. You'd think we'd have bumped into a few Afghan refugees by now, as they make a mass exodus from America's new big enemy, but it's just Australian and New Zealanders everywhere. Fleeing from the obvious horror that is their country.

We found our hostel (crap but cheap) fairly quickly, and took a wander round the very pretty city. Of course, prettiness does not make a city (little Ljubljana was very pretty but after a couple of hours, very boring) but Zagreb had that tangible sense of purpose that a capital city should have. And attractive women. And even better, it had a tower on a hill that you could climb to the top of. Oh yeah. Any city that has a tower I can climb gets good marks with me. Towers were built for a reason - for me to climb. We caught it at sunset too, and it would have been really romantic, watching the sun melt into the hills beyond the city, but I was with stinking sweating Simon wearing his big plastic yellow beetle sunglasses, and that sort of kills romance.

We'd tried to get in contact with Nina a couple of times, to go out with her and the rest (Josipa, Jack and Nick) but they were out, so me and Simon ate at a pleasant little outside restaurant, with a very polite waiter, and returned back to the hostel where we finally got hold of Nina and agreed to meet in the big square with the big statue of a dude on a horse, at about 11pm.

So, we duly showed up, and to our slight surprise Moritz showed up - the German guy at the Pula hostel. We'd known he was in Zagreb, but didn't think he was going to contact Nina. With him he brought two Croatians - a girl he'd met over the internet called Eva, and some guy called Luca. The American guys and Croatian girls showed up soon after and the drinking commenced.

Well, it commenced after a bit of a trawl about town with no-one quite knowing where they were going, but we eventually settled in a pub with good priced pivo and everyone relaxed and talked for ages. A plan was formulated by the Zagreb residents to go to some club that was apparently free before 1am, but for it to be free you had to show some leaflet or something, and the only people with leaflets were some friends of Eva who only showed up at the pub after 1am. Still, the price was a reasonable enough 30kn (about 2 pounds 50) and we all headed in.

The music was awful, I must state this first of all, so any dancing that occurred later on in the evening should try and be forgotten by all present. Man, you haven't lived until you've seen the Big Nev bodypop. Nah, I controlled my movements (this was no Kia-Aura) and made extra careful to keep Simon out of sight. Every time I see Simon "bop" I'm haunted for days after. Simon may be talented at many things, but he was not born to dance. Upon dancing he immediately becomes a middle-aged man at the disco. Not that I'm claiming to be world class either, but fortunately any dancing by me is in a state of extreme inebritation so I never quite remember.

I didn't really dance much anyway. I got a seat and chatted up Croatian birds. Or Mortiz. No, well wasn't chatting up Moritz. I mean, he's got long hair but he's a bloke and he's German. I just talked for ages to anyone who was around, enjoying getting drink bought for me because I'd bought a large round earlier in the evening. Some random bird called Alica got the Big Nev chat, and would surely have succumbed to my charms had her friends not all whisked her away. She'd lived in Britain for three months - in Colchester of all places. Chatting up Croatian girls simply involves talking about them nicking the Bosnian coastline (which they seem rather proud of) and saying how great Goran Ivanisevic is. Which the man is.

Our whole group were cool actually. We've totally landed on our feet wherever we go, and meet really cool people. The slow-drawling American guys, the cool Croatian chicks, the gregarious German guy. At some stage Jack, Nick, Josipa and Nina left because they had to be up for 7.30am that day for some day-trip. Moritz, Eva and Luca disappeared soon after too (the last memory I have of Eva was of her falling down some steps). Which left us with the three friends of Eva's - Bozica, Maria and I didn't catch the third's name. They'd seemed a bit distant the whole evening, but with the others out of the way, we got talking to them and they turned out to be cool. Bozica especially, who I got on pretty well with. All mighty attractive too. I think there must be some law in Croatia forcing ugly birds indoors and out of view from foreigners.

So, unable to resist the Big Nev charms, I now have Bozica's phonenumber so should hopefully be aligning myself for a hot date tonight. Mind you, I won't speak too soon, she'll probably tell me to piss off. Or... oh damn, what was the word? She was teaching me how to swear in Croatian but I've forgotten what it was. I mean, I don't ever swear in English, but swearing in Croatian seems a little classier.

That's the situation then. We're spending a couple more days in Zagreb anyway because it's a great place and will hopefully team up with the Ameri-Croat group again. And I've my hot date tonight (maybe...) so everything's cool.

And I saw an amazing mullet near the train station today.

It's Croatia and the sun is shining.

It shone yesterday too, except for one big damn black cloud which pissed down almighty. As you would expect, both myself and Simon were in the process of lugging our backpacks about looking for accommodation, and got right royally soaked.

Ok, so I'm now in a pleasant town of about 50000 people called Pula. On the coast as you might imagine. Go check out your maps and take a look at Croatia. It's just one big giant coastline, totally ripping off poor Bosnia. Look really close and you'll see that just to take the piss, they've given Bosnia the most tiny of coastlines. We've decided to go there later on, because we feel sorry for Bosnia's lack of coast.

So, it's been Piran to Buzet (in Croatia) and now Pula. It's all been great so far, and already I know the next couple of days are going to be pretty full.

Piran then. After my last entry, we stayed a couple more days, but not at the youth hostel but at a much cheaper campsite. We'd only booked the hostel for two days and wanted to stay longer, but a heap of damn schoolkids had infested the building so we were forced to evacuate. So that morning, we went to reception, paid our money and were literally about to walk out the door, when in walked Tammy.

Unable to bear the thought of not seeing me again, she'd gone to Piran to find me. That'd be the explanation if I was writing the script, but it had turned out she'd got her ice-cream selling job in the very nearby town of Portoroz, so had left Koper and gone into Piran to find somewhere to stay. So we all headed to the campsite, which was full of caravans with fences round them, and we set up camp next to yet more damn Kiwis and Ozzies. They're like a plague abroad, absolutely everywhere.

Anyway, we hung around for a while, fending off a mass attack of cats who sensed the tuna presence eminating from our tent, and met up with Tammy for a football match. It was Saturday, and NK Piran-Portoroz were playing the might of Kosona. Fixtures don't get bigger, and when speaking to a barman before heading to the match to get information, he just said "Jesus Christ" and we derived from him that NK Piran were "about 4th division".

This probably explained why the total number of spectators (ncluding the freeloaders who watched from the old town wall towers hat overlooked the pitch) was approximately 50. Tammy being female and Canadian, it was her first ever time to witness football played firsthand. We seem to have a habit of introducing Canadian females to football - Laura back in Trencin watched Trencin's glorious 2-0 victory over Slovan Bratislava.

This game was, however, less than glorious. It became evident after about 15 seconds that the level of ability involved was roughly equal to... well, a 4th division Slovenian football team. Oh yes, it was amateur, it was scrappy, and it certainly lacked the ferocity of Hungary vs Romania. One fan seemed somewhat electrically charged throughout the game, at one point leaping onto the spectator fencing, but of the remaining 49 spectators, I'm not exaggerating when I say the three of us were the most enthusistic. That is, Simon clapped, I groaned, and Tammy just made a lot of strange "hmming" noises.

The game ended 0-0. It rained all second half. A Piran player got sent off for dissent and there were a couple of nice saves and a couple more quite atrocious misses, but I'm afraid I got what I asked for when I went and saw a 4th division Slovenian football match.

EXCEPT - the referee had a mullet! And a good one too.

After th game then, we were wet, cold and hungry, so there simply was no choice but to get some food and get drunk. So a happy ending.

Yeah, so it was raining, and we were camping. Two things that seem to go hand in hand currently. We woke the next morning with that familar sound of loud drumming on our tent by heavy rain. I was feeling restless, so made the very foolish decision to go on a wander down the street (which was basically just a series of aggressive streams charging down the cobbled roads) and so fully deserved getting soaked utterly and comprehensively. I returned, very wet, to the tent, changed my clothes, and realised the tent was letting in increasing amounts of water, so we shifted it all under a sheltered area. And then we sat, and waited for the rain to ease.

Anyway, this is all completely irrelevant detail. I'm just meandering here. Basically, to soothe the pain of being soaked, we went out that evening with Tammy for some food, and then got drunk again. This time we managed to acquire an old alcoholic Slovenian woman who spoke no English, called Vera. She had one small hand, but was still quite good at arm-wrestling with the other, though I showed no mercy of course and beat her. We bought her drink and cigarettes the whole night, which in hindsight does seem a little irresponsible, but she seemed happy enough with the deal. She read Tammy's palm, with the barman translating, and was startlingly honest, beginning with the words "You will have an accident..." We stayed in the bar till about 3am (the joy of continental pub closing times) talking the universal language of alcohol.

The next day was warm and dry, and it was time for us to finally leave Piran. Our planned destination was Rovinj in Croatia, and we noted the bus departed at 4.45pm. So before that we packed up our stuff, and hung around with Tammy for a while. After sitting by the sea, we moved onto a cafe-bar we'd been to the day before, and should have realised our mistake immediately.

Tammy had meant to leave Piran the day before, to go to Ljubljana, but we'd all gone down to this one particular cafe where they sell pancakes, and she'd ended up missing her bus by 5 minutes, so had stayed the extra day. So to return there the day after was simply tempting fate, and fate was having none of it. We sat, had a drink, played a couple of games of chess (I'm up 4-2 in the series) and went to get our bus.

Discovering it left at 4.25pm, and not 4.45pm.

It is a little crazy how a simple thing as me misreading a bus timetable (the previous day in the pouring rain) and thus missing the bus, can have such repercussions on the overall trip. Because if we'd made the bus, we'd have got to Rovinj and a whole different series of events would likely have occurred. We'd have met various different people and various different things would have happened. But now, because of the missed bus, we're not bothering with Rovinj at all, and as a consequence of last night in Pula, our plans have taken another right angle turn.

More on that later. Back to the bus stop, and we simply got a bus to the bigger town of Koper to have more options of travel. Due to us getting there quite late, the only bus to Croatia was to some utterly unheard of town calld Buzet. Which we of course took, arriving there in darkness at 9pm, and quite fortunately having a hotel right in front of us upon getting off the bus - the only hotel in town. And it wasn't too expensive (12 quid, not cheap, but not breaking the bank). It had a TV too, and I got a double bed (which didn't have to be shared with Simon, thank God).

Buzet basically acted as chillout time for us. After days of drinking and camping in rain, it was great to have a comfortable hotel room, with a shower and bath (albeit very poor). I even got round to shaving my head and trimming my beard again. The beard especially was looking somewhat "fluffy".

Buzet was just a small town, but a town of two halves. One half - the old half - was perched on a big hill, and was full of winding streets Piran-style, and half the buildings wre crumbling. Some streets were eerily quiet. But it had a curious charm and I liked it (despite the fact I couldn't climb the big churchtower - come on people, sort this out). The other half - the new half - was below the hill and was just an unfocussed sprawl of buildings, with no recognisable town centre. But the weather was pleasant and I got about 8 hours sleep and was recharged.

The hotel owner very kindly drove us to the train station (strangely located about 5 miles out of town, hidden in a hill) in the second morning of our Buzet stay, and we got the train to Pula, accompanied by a pile of schoolkids. By a combination of bad luck and gross stupidity, we managed to spend about 4 hours finding the youth hostel, getting pissed on in the process. However, it was worth the effort, as it's a good hostel, by the beach in a very attractive bay, and with an all-important (outside) bar.

Me and Simon spent the evening in town, looking at stuff, and headed back to hostel about 9pm. In our dormitory room were two foreigners. Hiding my disgust, we spoke to them - a German called Maurice (or however it's spelt) and a Finn called Thomas. "A few drinks?" we suggested, and just as we were about to head outside two Americans and an Irishman arrived. Jack and Nick, the Americans, and Brendan the quite impossibly Irish Irishman. Seriously, Brendan was just too Irish. Wild dark hair and chirpy face. No way he's real. I must have imagined him.

So we all went outside, joined by two Croatian girls (Nina and Josipa) who had been working in America for a year and were with the Americans to show them some of Croatia. And suddenly more people arrived - an Irish girl and an Australian girl. Fortunately the table was full by this point, so no other damn foreigners joined us.

All this was against a backdrop of about 50 German schoolkids on a school outing, making a load of noise. Some of the girls were pretty good looking too, but they were all 18 so it's legal ok?

So our large group talked for hours, a big mass of conversation, and everyone got on well. To the conclusion that our plans have now changed and tomorrow we head to Zagreb where the Croatian girls live and they're going to show us where the good bars and pubs are. Both them and the Americans are pretty cool, so it should be a good night out. I also had an extensive argument with Nina about the Croatians stealing the Bosnian coastline, to the extent that we were within minutes of a Scotland-Croatia war, but fortunately matters were resolved.

That was all last night, and now we're onto today, where me and Simon have wandered about town, and into the mightily impressive 2000 year old Roman ampitheatre, where we met the American guys and the Croatian girls. It's a great day outside, and after I finish this I'm lkely going to have a swin in the sea outside the youth hostel. And then tomorrow - Zagreb, and don't ask me where the hell we're going to be after that.

Oh. An update on the mullet league table.

Reverse order...

15. Szechesfehervar - a quacking cat, but virtually mulletless.
14. Bled - all the beauty in the world can't compensate for low mullet numbers.
13. Ukenc (Bohinj) - cold, wet and only the merest hint of a mullet or two. A poor show indeed.
12. Heidelberg - the scarce mullet numbers seem a distant memory now.
11. Miskolc - Hungary didn't really go in for mullets.
10. Spissky Pophradie - a brave showing for such a small place.
9. Kezmarok - a few avergae mullets.
8. Ljubljana - at first they tried to hide, but dig deeper and mullets do indeed lurk.
7. Budapest - it promised so much, but the expected abundance of mullets did not appear.
6. Frankfurt - a kid with dreadlocked mullet! That's devotion.
5. Trencin - plenty of fine mullets.
4. Brno - a mullet around every corner.
3. Koper - a small town but bursting with mullets from every crevice.
2. Kosice - oh Lordy. Mullets of all sorts, everywhere.

1. Prague - simply breathtaking. Mullets packing the streets. Even two benchfuls filled with many different mullets.