Looked a pretty cracking day outside and given the fact that I had a slight drink still in me—which always helps—I decided to don the kilt and have a saunter downtown. Like I said previously though, Ottawa's not that lively a city, mainly full of government officials, and there's not much happening during the day and at night for that matter, outwith the Byward Market area. Nevertheless I happened upon a bar called The Glue Pot where I played pool for a bit and had a couple of Guinnesses for breakfast. It's shit though playing pool on your own and drinking on your own too. In a way I was kinda looking forward to going back to Toronto as it's a good bit more vibrant, there's more to see and do and I've lots of friends and family members there and I can navigate the city with ease.
Next door was a strip bar called Barbarella's. Now I have to say I was bitten a little by the bug yesterday—no need to panic though I'm not Charlie Sheen or anything—so I decided I'd maybe kill a few hours there before the game. It was only $4 for a beer, but while the beer was cheap, the girls and the place in general looked the same too. So I went back to the place I was in yesterday, which was called Barefax (pictured below). I got chatting with the barmaid again, who it turned out was a personal trainer named Wendy. She recognised me from yesterday, which is either good or bad depending on which way you look at it. Anyway she was pretty impressed with the kilt, so much so that she wanted a photograph of me in it and a copy of it by e-mail when I got back. Very few photos are taken inside a strip club so I was honoured!
As usual the girls approached you, asking if they can join you and so on, but bizarrely despite the attire, some of them still asked where I was from, not the sharpest tools in the drawer and that level of stupidity isn't attractive in any shape or form so I didn't fancy going for a private dance with any of them. I did go for a few more dances though and there was a difference in their craft. Tamara was in again and I felt pretty bad about having spoken to her for so long and not having had a dance from her yesterday. In fact I think, outwith Wendy and her rock-star boyfriend, I spoke to her the most. She was a pretty good dancer, knew how to shake her stuff. The next girl though, whose name escapes me was hellish. She was about 6ft tall, but was from Montreal—bonafide French-Canadian—so her English wasn't good. I tried my best to chat with her in French but I was rusty at best. The dim lighting in the place saved her a bit to be honest because up close she wasn't the prettiest. The dance I had with her was out of sympathy more than anything else and even then it wasn't worth it. She was a terrible dancer, about as sexy as a lump of wood with the same motion too and the short time it lasted felt like an eternity with her dry-humping my leg for most of it. Not good. Went back to the bar to talk to Wendy, who asked why I was talking to her and not watching the girls dancing onstage and I said that the internet has so much freakiness and nudity on it that a girl dancing naked onstage is pretty tame in comparison and the fact that someone is disrobed—and this is true of both sexes—doesn't mean they become instantly attractive to the opposite sex. There was one dancer onstage though who did attract a bit of an audience and was—unlike most of them—a pretty good dancer too. Turns out she was a Ukranian girl called Dinara. She came over and sat down next to me shortly afterwards and her English wasn't that great either. I'm sure my knowledge of Orthodox weddings—my mate Kevin married a Russian girl in July—and the fact that I knew where Donestsk was due to their football team—Shakhtar Donestk—having played Celtic in the Champions League impressed her. Maybe not. She had emigrated to Canada from Kiev at the age of six and seemed pretty keen to dance for someone who was 'young and hot' instead of 'horrible old men.' I don't know if she meant it or not but in any case I decided she'd be my last dance that day and ever to be honest. I don't think I'd ever have the notion to go to a strip club again. Wanted to experience it, but now I had. She was pick of the bunch too, a very sexy dancer who had the most piercing blue eyes I'd ever seen—not a euphemism by the way, she did have nice peepers! I bade Barefax adieu and jumped in a taxi to meet my Uncle Eddie for the game.
I arrived a little late for the game, in fact Celtic were already up 3-0 at this stage through Anthony Stokes (2) and Niall McGinn. Strangely though, despite Ottawa being Canada's capital and one of its bigger cities, there was only myself, my Uncle Eddie and TWO other members. I know it was an afternoon game but I still found that a little disappointing. I guess fairweather fans are universal though, as the fellas who was the secretary said a lot wouldn't come after the result against Rangers. Also disappointing was the mini-collapse my arrival heralded. St Johnstone—no thanks to the current sieve of Majstorovic and Loovens—brought it back to 3-2 and the rest of the game was pretty nervy. We did, however, have the obligatory goal chopped off, wrongly for offside, which didn't help.
After the match, we headed to the Aulde Dubliner bar to meet Fe and her friend. Her friend though just said 'hi' and 'bye, which I dunno whether or not take as a slight on our company! Never mind! We went to a burger joint—in the same vein as Ireland's Eddie Rocket's—called Zak's Diner (pictured below) for a bite to eat. It had great malt milkshakes and a host of burgers and sandwiches. I plumped for a grilled cheese burger with mash and a vanilla milkshake and I have to say it was top-drawer. At the end of the meal too, instead of breath mints they gave you bubblegum, which was pretty cool and added to the authenticity of the place. We headed back to the hotel to bed down for the night before our drive back to Toronto the following day.
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