Reach out and touch me

I tried to make it to the trendy bars in the port area, but strolling down desolate, cobbled streets and imagining the return journey in the dark, made me turn back. Instead, I decided to treat myself to a visit to the Depeche Mode bar.

The bar was a small, white cave playing, obviously, DM on rotation. I ordered a drink and sat down with my magazine, only to be accosted by a local telling me, somewhat aggressively, that it was a gay bar and was I gay? I said no, so he pulled up a stool and proceeded to bore me with his misery at being Estonian while looking me directly in the thighs. He did take a break when he threw my lighter on the floor and, after picking it up, informed me he'd only done it to get a better look at my chest. I struggled to explain why it was offensive that he should stare so obviously, but there was more than a language barrier getting in my way. Finally, after telling me he had a wife and two children and asking me to kiss him (he looked like an Australian metalhead, so alas it was a no), he sinisterly said he might see me in another bar and left me alone. A spineless inebriate who could barely hold his head above the bar then took his seat and tried to paw at me, so I took the only escape possible and headed for Molly Malone's.

It was a real home-coming in the pub: a rowdy group of blokes from Gloucestershire were celebrating someone's 40th in typical English fashion, downing shots of whiskey and pretending to bang each other's heads into the table (for poor Howey, the pretence ended and his forehead split open - predictable, but very funny). An ageing Brit called Tony came and introduced himself to me and invited me to join in the round, but I declined. When I told him my name, the said that he'd had an interesting relationship with a girl called Zoe: she shagged his brains out. I said it was nothing to do with the name.

Tony then introduced me to Tommo, the birthday boy, and two of his younger friends, Matt and Darren. Another friend, Mo, then got them in a headlock under each arm and asked me to pick left or right and refused to give up until I gave an answer (I'd already chosen, but didn't feel it was fair on Darren to announce it so publicly, so Mo had to be dragged away).

To state my preference, I played a seductive game of pool with Matt, which he valiantly defaulted so we won a game each and then we went onto a cheesy, sleazy basement club called Amigos. It was under the Viru hotel and was full of dwarfish men with bought blondes. The lounge band played Status Quo covers. Has the Wall really come down?

After that, I spent the rest of my time with the Wurzels, as they called themselves. They were incredibly funny, although not always intentionally, and generally quite sweet, once I'd overlooked the fact that they were cheating on their wives and girlfriends by exploiting (and being robbed by) the local prostitutes. Darren had a tattoo of Arron on his arm. I thought he might have a child at home, but he actually had a run-in with a dyslexic tattooist. They all asked me my surname, checking that I wasn't an Estonian whore (Matt was surprised at my grasp of English), and Des, not knowing what to say to a girl he wasn't sleeping with, asked me what car I drove. Matt told me Darren worked in a bowling alley picking up skittles for £3.20 an hour and they both seemed to think I believed this, although I knew he was a bouncer (a far superior role), and thought it had stitched up his chances. He got teased relentlessly whenever anything needed picking up thereafter. His joke that I came from Essex didn't stick quite so well.

George was a sweet, caring, drunken calamity of a man. He was the oldest of the group and took me under his wing, making sure I wasn't neglected or without a drink. He was quite affronted when I offered to get a round in, but then pleased that I was the first woman to ever buy him a drink. Bunny had a short run of bad luck too: not seeing me, he made an obscene gesture to Matt to check if he'd got lucky, only for me to suddenly pop up and say 'you didn't see me here, did you?'. He went redder than an Arsenal shirt. He also passed a comment on the size of my feet when I'd be let in on the group's slang. It had nothing to do with shoes.

Not wanting to outstay my welcome, on Thursday I said I'd be visiting some museums. No one could fathom what I would do or see there: Estonian stuff wasn't a good enough explanation. Instead I stayed with them, drinking, learning about cricket and teasing young Matt about his mistaken affiliation to Manchester United. Bunny and I had a bit of a Smiths sing-song and revelled in the wonder of Morrissey and Arsenal. Matt and Darren busted my excuse of wanting a light to start a conversation when I got out my own lighter, not realising I wanted them to know. Matt was quite pleased to have been chatted up by the only English girl in Estonia; I was quite pleased to have met someone whose relative had been on Trisha (as the world's laziest man).

Bunny and Howey were challenged to a drinking contest by a foolish Irish midget. On their rounds, Bunny and Howey had water and gave the boy gin or vodka. I tried to intervene and stitch them up, but the barmaid wouldn't have it (she was still holding a grudge as Darren had stopped flirting with her when I arrived). The midget then fell out the door and split his head on stone steps. Howey leapt into the ambulance and warned him he shouldn't go drinking with the Wurzels. Given the state of them both the following morning at the airport, it was advice they both would have done well to follow.

That night we all went to a club called Hollywood, which was better than it sounded. It was set in an old cinema, so was enormous, full of great sweeping staircases and girls with yellow hair and clothes that weren't even accidentally fashionable. Matt and I even managed to have a small argument: I did the full girlfriend thing in only 48 hours.

The love affair finally ended at the airport; Brief Encounter with a minibus and ten cider-swilling Dr Harveys. It was a shame to say goodbye to them all (even with Matt romantically pushing a 2 EEK note in my direction - all of 50p - never has a boy been more amused by himself). I had quite a different holiday to the one I was expecting, from Saga to 18-30 so much more fun. Hopefully their next sex tour will be somewhere nearer to Japan. I could do with some loutish behaviour to lighten those long, dark Tokyo nights.

Saturday I went to Bek's and drank wine with her and Rachel. I introduced them to microwave popcorn and we leapt around to the Futureheads before trawling through Bek's photo collection. The next day, I saw a real Pearly Queen on the tube and finally watched Lost in Translation.

Today I had a phonecall from Racial. It was lovely to hear her voice and she filled me in on live in Japan: the blokes are leonards looking for submissive girlfriends, but the female teachers are reasonable enough. I will benefit greatly from Shane's Commonwealth-only employment policy.