A well-deserved interval

The flight to Poznan passes quickly in the presence of good company. My friends John and Andy are as excited as I over the prospects of being let lose on ex-Soviet bloc automatic weapons and Polish vodka again. Upon our arrival at the airport we hail an old Mercedes Benz saloon masquerading as a taxi, throw our bags in the boot, and thrust a computer printout of the hotel, which we booked a week or so earlier, under the driver’s nose. The moustachioed driver who bares a striking resemblance to Lech Wałęsa grunts something unintelligible, and I reply in my best Russian (Can’t do Polish) accent, “Snajper”. Instant respect. Can’t be the accent. “He thinks we’re some kind of Mercenary force”, pipes John. “Couldn’t be far wrong”, I reply. “You’re a window cleaner come builder, a very successful one I might add, Andy is attempting to start up his own blinds business, and I’m a copper.” “Nah”, I reply with the voice of reason. “Truth is this competition is a big deal in this town. Once a year military types descend upon the town, drink it dry, beat up the local neo-nazis, and some, the lucky few, bed the local maidens. Others pay for the privilege.”
Upon arrival at the hotel I pay the fare plus a decent tip to the driver with a huge smile on my face realising that the equivalent trip in London would have cost ten times the amount. I make the comment to John and Andy and there faces light up. “This is going to be one cheap weekend,” says John with a wry grin. Lech Wałęsa drives off . I can’t help think that the ex-president of Poland has fallen on hard times.
Its late in the afternoon, we’re wasting valuable drinking time – There is vodka to be consumed. But first we need to clean ourselves up, and get some food down our necks
We’re ready in record time. A combination of well organised visits to the shower, calculated decisions on what clothes to wear, and the ubiquitous, “Does my bum look big in this?” What can I say other than the Fast Show is timeless. We look good as always. Not a thread of Ben Sherman in sight. Its Dolce Gabbana, Diesel, Versace and VO5 styling gel for my team. We’re flying the flag here, and that’s on and off the rifle range.
A few minutes later we’re across the road from the hotel and sitting at an outside table in the Middle Eastern themed Pharoah restaurant. A flurry of menus and our minds are made up. What seems like mere moments later we’re supping on Polands favourite tipple, and gorging ourselves on plates fit for kings. Quick double take at the menu, “My God that’s cheap!” “You couldn’t buy a steak for that price back home let alone serve it up with all the bits ‘n pieces”, exclaims John.
Meals finished we leave a hearty tip and head down to Poznan’s town hall come function suite, Dom Żołnierza, for competition registration. As we arrive I thrust my police warrant card in front of the concierge and exclaim, “FBI”. “Knob”, says John, “He probably speaks better English than us”. “Bollocks”, I protest, “I’ve always wanted to say that”. “Registration straight up those stairs and on the left hand side. Just join the end of the queue, have a nice evening gentlemen”. “As I was saying,” Smirked John. We’re off to a good start. The rest of the evening doesn’t dissapoint.