It’s so bittersweet: guilt and jubilation; tears and laughter; agony and ecstasy; war and peace (?); endings and beginnings; love and separation
December 8, 2024: a microcosm of my past 2+ years in Vienna. At times it’s been wonderful, at times magical, but most of the time…I don’t even know how to describe it.
A roller coaster? Sure.
We start with some housekeeping – skim or skip, the heavy emotional fun begins below
Read on for a chance to vote on whether or not I should change my appearance.
A slight change of publishing plans, readers. I’ve cryptically hinted at moving in a heavier direction with the introduction of my alter ego, Groucho Marks. He will soon be making an appearance on these pages with his tales of heartbreak (literally and figuratively), angst and fear of death, but not just yet.
With the festive season upon us, we’ll get to that a wee bit later. Let’s try to keep things somewhat cheerful, shall we? Cynically cheerful - even better. That’s coming the week of 16 December.
This is a post that just had to be written. Sunday perfectly encapsulated what a ridiculous year/past couple of years/life it’s been. All the emotions on offer over the course of an afternoon, inspired by a trip to the pub to watch football and great banter with some Irish and Welsh visitors.
In case you missed it, my previous post revisits my reasons for starting this Substack 18 months ago, with a few sordid stories including being massaged by a naked Uzbek and turned into a pretzel on a 45C degree July day, and a nightclub incident involving Kyrgyz security guards who threatened to castrate me and Brian.
Don’t take it from me, take it from Francis Frazzledate: “Omg so funny, cracked me up and the comments with the photos, I’m gonna wake the kids up with laughing out loud.”
My dear pal Brian and his impeccable taste in reading:
It also included a free download from my book, the condensed autobiography of my teaching life including all the unpleasant personal crap and the impact of the war.
Here’s one more chance to get that free prime content. Some reviewers say it goes down much better with a glass of wine or two. I’d recommend a stiff dry martini, but that’s just me:
“Ukraine will be there forever; I won’t” (an autobiography of sorts)
Another reason for the tweaking of plans – I have a couple of really fun posts coming up soon, holiday-related including one that might get me into trouble (but who cares, we’re running with it).
If you’ve enjoyed my podcasts and complimented me on my smooth, silky voice (thank you, you know who you are!), as a bonus you can not only hear me ramble for 10 minutes, but also watch me gesticulate and fidget while looking like a hipster. This is a video I made for Instagram for my mainly Ukrainian followers:
Onto the show - grab the tissues
December 8: We’re at Flanagan’s Irish Pub for Ipswich v Bournemouth. After losing at home to Crystal Palace during the week, they have to get something out of this. A win, preferably.
A pleasant 30-minute walk through the centre of Vienna, mid-afternoon. One of the most festive cities you’ll find. Highly recommend visiting (my flat has ample space, come visit!)
Flanagan’s is the closest thing to my local. Like everywhere else, Vienna is swarming with Irish pubs. I like this one the most. It was my go-to watering hole from 2015-2021. Just after I got married in 2015, my Ukrainian mother-in-law came to Vienna for work. She returned to Kyiv, to retire, in September 2021 (or so she thought).
March 2022
We’re back in Vienna from Ukraine. All of us: wife, daughter, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, all in one flat. The same flat my mother-in-law lived in during her time here. Luckily it was vacant and her landlord gave it to her rent-free for a while.
Cosy is one word to describe our living arrangements.
First trip to Flanagan’s since the full-scale Russian invasion, a weekday afternoon, the place empty. I was sat at the bar, nursing my Guinness, taking notes, deciding when I’d start writing my first book.
My notes from that day. A scattering of thoughts. Rough book notes. Don’t try to make too much sense of this mess.
Guilt mixed with relief. How can I relax being here, knowing so many of my Ukrainian friends and colleagues face an uncertain future?
Covid protocols were in place. The wife and I didn’t have the e-forms necessary to prove our vaccinations. On a rare night out together, just to have a drink or two, we were turned away everywhere.
“There’s a fucking war going on, our home has been invaded, give us our fucking drinks, do you think we fucking care about Covid?”
Never mind. An unseasonably balmy April evening, we sat in a square eating Chinese food from Happy Noodle and drank beer out of cans from a kiosk. Turned out to be a pleasant evening, considering.
Back to the present
Ipswich score in the 21st minute, 1-0. Minutes later, they have a goal disallowed, a debatable foul. One of those ‘only given against the goalkeeper and nowhere else on the pitch’ types of fouls. Could’ve been 2-0.
Could’ve should’ve might’ve…(I’m was an English teacher, it was my job to teach this language, but come on…woulda coulda shoulda…this is no way to live)
At the hour mark, still 1-0, and I was conflicted.
On either side of me, banter and craic galore. Two older couples on one side, from Derry.1 The barman, Darren (or rather, ‘Darn’), as Irish as they come. Also a Welsh couple. Another Irish group of lads on the other side. One man talking about his recent divorce, lamenting his loss. Expressing jealousy over his ex’s new squeeze.
I was tempted to jump in and offer my unsolicited advice. I’ve come to terms with my situation – perhaps I can be of some comfort to others?
I refrained, for the best.
Trying to watch the match, getting increasingly nervous. Distracted by the banter. A very welcome distraction, it was comedy gold. I later told them that if they just streamed this raw and unfiltered, an American audience would eat it up. Authentic and hilarious (no one does banter like the Irish and Northern Irish; this a hill I’ll die on. Shit, if it were Mt Everest, I’d die on that).
I was taking notes.
The Derry woman closest to me, didn’t catch her name. I’ll call her Sharn (or rather, Sharon).
Sharn ordered an espresso martini from Darn.
“Smell that coffee, mmmm.”
“Well it’s in the fuckin name like, expresso.”
Sharn mumbled something.
“Well then you can feck off like!”
Got talking to the Welsh couple. They were from Newport. My grandfather was from Newport. They loved it.
“Boyo, you’re a quarter Welsh then!”
Told them I had an ex-girlfriend from Aberystwyth, which was a total lie. I fancied a colleague from Aberystwyth many years ago; we got on well…until I told her my feelings. Got awkward after that, but she did give me a book, Aberystwyth Mon Amour, later on. Not a total lie then; a quarter truth, how’s that?
Chatting away, an eye on the match. Some might call me not a true fan, but I was so damn nervous at this point, and with Bournemouth pressing and pressing for that equaliser, I could barely watch. (Is now a good time to talk about recently coming off my anxiety meds COLD TURKEY, which is a horrible idea, but I didn’t have a choice because the fucking doctor ghosted me and I couldn’t get my prescription refilled and the past couple of weeks have been panic attack after panic attack…okay, now’s not the time, we’ll come back to this in a future post.)
They were half cut. They’d been on the lash since the morning.2
“What are you writing there in those notebooks?” Camilla asked.
I mumbled a reply. I’m still not sure how or whether to answer.
“What’s Substack?” Mark, her boyfriend, didn’t know either (fellow Substackers, fear not – the world will know of us soon enough)
Darn jumped into the fray: “It’s a blog like, but a bit different.”
“Really? You’re a blogger?”
Jesus, no. Substack is not a blog! I’m no mere blogger, damn it!
“Yeah, kind of guess, it’s more of a…” newsletter? I’m not going to say newsletter.
I mumbled something else.
“You’re a writer then? Have you written any books?”
I mumbled an answer.
“You wrote a book? Where, show me!”
Mark seemed impressed. I’m not forthcoming about where I’m from (nothing personal, just can’t be bothered most of the time, and it’s hard to explain, in a nutshell). But when I mentioned the Ukraine angle, they were intrigued.
80th minute. Still 1-0. Camilla went onto Amazon and bought my book.
She was filming much of this on her phone. For all I know, I’ve gone viral. Maybe she’s an influencer. Go to Instagram or YouTube and google ‘sad, miserable, pathetic Ipswich fan, author of Ukraine book.’
“Are you going to write about us?”
I was honest: “Yes. Is that okay?”
“Of course!”
I doubt she remembers any of this.
Hang on…this is not a bad marketing strategy. That covers a beer and a half.
I had a student in Kyiv once, Karina. Her pronunciation was perfect. Other students wanted to know her secret.
“My friend and I went to O’Brien’s every weekend and talked to foreigners. We copied their accents. They bought us drinks.” No one dared to suggest what else may have been involved.
Brilliant, if unorthodox strategy. It helped, of course, that Karina was gorgeous.
An ex-girlfriend employed a similar strategy. She was studying Russian at Oxford and went to Yaroslavl, outside Moscow, for a while. Found a non-English speaking boyfriend right away, basically used him for language practice (poor guy). Hey, if it works…
(This is the same ex- who appears in my previous post, from Kyrgyzstan, and a handful of times in my book; the more I think about it, the more I realise I wasn’t the only sucker in her life…I HOLD GRUDGES FOREVER, BE WARNED, I NURSE THESE FUCKERS TENDERLY – AT THE VERY LEAST YOU CAN BUY MY BOOK TO SAY SORRY OH NO I’M NOT BITTER AT ALL)
Mark and Kamilla went off, my nervousness resumed.3
And fuck me, a minute later Bournemouth equalised and I was beside myself.
The Derry crowd had resumed their banter with Darn. Sharn ordered a beer.
“There’s no bloody head on that, where’s the head?”
“You want head, I can show you head.”
“Christ, this thing is as dead as a dodo!”
“Aye, don’t let it dribble down your chin.”
Kamilla came rushing over.
“Oh no, what happened?”
She bought another book. Can you gift someone an Amazon ebook?
She thought that handsome devil on the cover was me. Later on she’ll look at the cover and really think it’s me. That’s fine, let her. Mark might even get jealous.
My pints were covered. I might be onto something with this marketing strategy.
I got another pint. To celebrate? Commiserate?
1-1.
Damn. At least hold on for a point, lads.
95th minute: a Bournemouth winner. 2-1.
I’m not sure if you can call what I emitted a mere groan. It was guttural and it was emotional. It was loud, but not demonstratively so. Like a wounded animal trying to tough things out. More of a wail and a plea for mercy. My eyes welled up.
People were looking. Not the Derry crowd, it was still banter as usual with them.
Strangely, no more sign of Mark and Kamilla. Mark was probably telling Camilla to get a refund on those books (should I check?).
Couldn’t hold it in anymore.
Went outside and screamed. A lot of people looked. Probably a few filmed me in tears and cries of anguish. Google ‘maniac screaming and crying in the cold outside Irish pub Vienna’ and see if I come up. Fuck it, I’ll take whatever publicity I can get.
Look, it’s been a tough fucking couple of years, ya know? Things are getting tougher for Ukraine every day. My anxiety has been out of control. Sleep is a preciously rare commodity. My marriage is all done and dusted. I’m broke and was just turned down for plasma donations because of the risk of CJD. I blame Austrian bureaucracy and Brexit.4
This is kind of what I mean when I say, “I don’t give a shit anymore.” I say it all the time these days, and it really is true.
BUT
It’s so bittersweet.
Despite being a grumpy pessimist, I’m a believer in silver linings.
Hey, I wrote my first book! People have actually bought it!
Hey, my daughter almost castrated me the other day! But that’s okay, it gave me the inspiration for a chapter in my next book!
Hey, I’m divorced! I’m free! I can hang out with my daughter and stop giving a shit and I don’t need to impress anyone. I have more time to read and write! I have no desire to meet anyone else and it’s so liberating! I can be a cantankerous curmudgeon to my heart’s content and don’t even need to bathe anymore!
Hey, my daughter cut my hair with my new shaver, and she had a grand old time, even though it looks terrible (bless the poor kid)! What do I care? It’s winter, I can wear a hat. She loves it and thinks I look great (she’s biased, to be fair).
I’m doing my best. Like Ipswich, but yet again they’ve let slip another lead and remain in the bottom three. Still a lot of football to be played, there’s hope.
Afterwards, I sat and made a few notes.
The Derry crowd left. Darn asked me if I wanted another to “drown my sorrows.”
“Nah, I’d better pay and get going.”
“Ach, it’s on the house, mate, it’s been a rough season for ya, have another.”
If Darn only knew. Maybe he wanted my book? I didn’t ask.
But I made a profit on the day – incredible!
I felt mopey and forlorn as I walked home.
But then…more hope
Walking through Vienna city centre to get home during Advent, with the lights and music and festive cheer was almost enough to make me forget the Ipswich (and life?) collapse.
Almost.
Vienna was noisy and raucous. Car horns galore, Syrian flags waving everywhere, people cheering, the cacophony deafening.
It was wonderful.
Tears streaming down my face, witnessing the jubilation and exultation. There are a lot of Syrians in Vienna.
What an incongruous mix of emotions. Ipswich lost? Who cares, in the grand scheme of things.
There’s hope.
Hope for Syria. Hope for Ukraine.
Fuck off Russia. I’m no diplomat, but there’s a simple solution here – get the fuck out of Ukraine. Problem solved.
If only it were that simple.
The day held promise. Ipswich were up 1-0. Optimism. The year at the start, maybe. Not sure.
And then…
Got home. Started dancing around the kitchen with my daughter to Last Christmas and Mariah Carey. I hate those songs (sorry), but how can you deny a 6-year-old the pleasure of whirling around the kitchen in sheer joy?
She also discovered Stay Another Day by East 17 and now likes that. Brings back floods of nostalgia.
I introduced her to those timeless Christmas classics from the Killers: Don’t Shoot Me Santa and Joel, the Lump of Coal. I’m a great father.
Then it was Happy Xmas (War is Over) and I got over emotional and started bawling and so did my daughter and she said to stop the song, it was too sad.
I’ve tried not to hide things from her from the beginning. My most viewed post on my old blog was ‘How do you explain war to a 4-year-old?’ She knows what’s been happening in Syria too, the gist of it. Some of her classmates are Syrian, refugees like her.
“Is Assad like Putin?”
“Well, he’s in Russia with his friend Putin now, so…”
That answered her question. She cried too, but then she felt hopeful for Ukraine.
“We can go back to Ukraine now?”
It’s still heart-breaking, but there’s hope. Maybe?
For one day at least, all was right with the world.
Bittersweet, indeed.
What a fucking couple of years.
Vote now on my appearance
Derry to some, Londonderry to others. What you call the city reveals where your loyalties lie. Watch Derry Girls if you haven’t already. Tremendous craic.
Every language has hundreds of synonyms for drunk or tipsy. Here we get the lovely British expressions half-cut and on the lash. I quite like trolleyed. My old man says trashed and stocious. May I remind you that stocious is an Irish word. My father is from Miami. Very confusing upbringing I had.
This is not a typo - I know at first I wrote Camilla, and now Kamilla. I didn’t clarify the spelling and am hedging my bets.
I shared my tale of woe on Substack Notes last week, offering a free copy of my book for anyone who could come up with the reason why I was rejected for plasma donations (I swear, by the way, it wasn’t only for the money; it was character research for my novel, I wanted to get all the details correct, I kid you not, I’m a dedicated practitioner of my craft). After much persistence, our friend Francis Frazzledate correctly guessed, but she had already bought my book (thank you once again Francis!). So I also gave away free copies to the most creative wrong answers, one of which hinted at the “dangerously high levels of sarcasm” coursing through my veins (Tim), and the other my time in a Nigerian prison (Gregory). Congrats to
and !
Really, really enjoyed this, thank you. In particular, the relationship and moments you have with your daughter are just beautiful.
My drunk adjective of choice is trolleyed...hurrah!
The injury time winner is one of the worst things in football to concede. It's such a gut punch. That bar sounds amazing though!