In the name of God


Polish sister..Hallowed be thy name..

“You can take your clothes off now”, spoken to me in a harsh yet seductive Polish accent as I enter the office of the organization I will work for during the next three weeks.

From the moment I set foot on Polish soil my jaw has remained open in disbelief as countless beauties stream past and now I find myself in an office packed with staggeringly stunning students, who during their free time will help settle us into our new surroundings, take us to work and induct us into Polish life and culture. Her name was Dorota and her first words to me are from every man’s wildest dream although this is only the first of many slips and I can only wish she hadn’t just been talking about my scarf and jacket.

Leaving the office we pack our belongings into a taxi and make our way through the busy city of Wrocław. It’s not unlike any other city although shop signs, advertisements and graffiti present a stark reminder of the new language barrier to overcome. I chuckle a little at the sight of one sports shoe shop daring to use an exotic English title ‘Athletes Foot’.

Pulling up outside our accommodation I catch sight of my first nun then second and third. “Didn’t we tell you you’re living in a Convent”?  “Eh, no”. I have to re-think my wardrobe, Iron Maiden shirts n’ all.

Our duties, of which we knew nothing about, are to include maintaining the garden, painting the children’s area, evenings with the local youth club and not having sex with the young single mothers that reside up stairs from us in this huge, modern house of God. Myself and the five other Scottish volunteers find out how modern one night when our favourite chubby Nun Sister Magdalena who, in control of the television remote, happens across a free-view porn channel and laughs at our embarrassment as we squirm in our chairs unsure of how to react.

Having studied religiously –excuse the pun- before descending on Poland, the usual string of insults and chat-up lines I realize I’d better unlearn quick and find something nice to say to my new house mates, but not before my first slip of the tongue. I just didn’t think. It slipped right out. I’d meant to say Dzien dobry –good morning- but said “Daj mi buziaka” –give me a kiss-! She stopped and gave me an uneasy stare of confusion. “No, no, no”, I shouted. “I didn’t mean that”! Forgetting that no is Polish slang for yes, I realize I’ve made things worse and find myself walking by one terrified Sister every other day for the next three weeks.

One mistake I’d be glad to repeat came after I asked one of my favourite students if she could take me to the local swimming pool. She looked so hot in that bikini I feared that if I swam on my back I’d look like a submarine, periscope up! The changing rooms were far from the showers and as I stood washing in the midst of a dozen ladies I thought to my-self “These mixed showers are great. What an amazing country”, I’m grabbed and bundled out by my friend saying “No Andy, this is for girls”! That smile never left my lips for the rest of the evening.

On losing my wallet during a night out I call the same girl and ask if we can retrace last-nights excursions hoping a good Samaritan might have handed it in. The clubs not open yet and I’m led to her house where I meet the family and join her seventy year old Grandmothers birthday party. I pay close attention to what comes out my mouth. Not a slip tonight.

We enter her bedroom and in turn give each-other back massages but no action for this frustrated, wallet-less Scotsman who’s soon to be lost on his way back home. After throwing stones at the wrong window I’m finally let into the Convent at half past one in the morning and dream of sexy Polish students.

After countless nights of sneaking upstairs to the rooms of the young single mothers and supplying them with vodka, it would appear I’ve gained the attention of the scary one. Prone to violent outbursts I decide she’s had enough babies’ and I don’t really want to incur the wrath of Eastern Europeans anymore.

 So far I have one terrified nun avoiding me, one stalking old ghost of a nun following me around looking like she’s licked piss of a nettle, a crazy single mother who tells me to my face she wants to fuck me and one pissed off student that since our massage evening I’d spent an hour kissing then stupidly told another volunteer who felt a need to spread the word.  I can assure you Hell hath no wrath indeed!

Morning before our party for the mentally disabled who live on another floor and my heads up my arse as I spend five minutes trying to eat soup with a fork. My Scottish friends still hiding that big, fat mouth although I’ve no one to blame but myself.

Into the most surreal party I go where a small squad of Polish soldiers have been recruited to help and we find Scary nun wearing a military hat plus jacket, Chubby nun bustin’ some moves on the dance floor, seriously hot student’s  and mentally challenged patients going.. mental I suppose. *If thats not politically correct enough for you then kiss my sweaty balls!

Holding hands at the finale they dance in a large circle and I’m captured again by one randy disabled girl who drags me to the centre of the dancing circle,  places my hands firmly on her bum and grinds her-self against me. Laughter ensues from everyone as I try frantically to release myself, but she’s so strong and I can only wait until she’s bored and latches onto another volunteer.

As an unbelievable three weeks comes to a close I realize I’ve committed more sins than I could shake a stick at and my newly acquired sense that there may be a God is met with the fearful question of “What if there is a God”? Acquitted of my sins by Sister Magdalena I climb aboard a taxi hoping it still counts for Protestant’s as I leave the Convent with my souvenir –stolen- towel.

Nun of that nonsense around here..Yes that is a nun wearing military gear!

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