Elephant and Castle - An Insider's Guide

Sick and tired of the predictable tourist locations in London? Looking for somewhere different to visit without the distraction of an abundance of tourists? Then look no further than Elephant and Castle.

If you’re in search of an undiscovered gem in the capital then surely E&C is it.

WHEN WALKING THE STREETS I tend to head for the Walworth Road. This world (in)famous street is a must-see to all who visit this part of the capital. However, watch where you tread as you might just step into a pool of last night’s vomit.

WHEN I'M HUNGRY I head straight back to the Walworth Road. Whether you’re looking for Southern Dried Chicken or a greasy spoon, floor, table, knife and fork, it is here in abundance.

WHEN I'M THIRSTY I just cannot avoid some of the pubs on the, you guessed it, Walworth Road. Sadly the last time I took a stroll along it, all seemed very quiet. In fact, quiet is an understatement - I’ve been to chess events with a greater atmosphere.

Nevertheless, it was a Tuesday night so I asked one barmaid at an un-named drinking hole if it ever became busy. “Definitely”, she retorted. “Especially at weekends, though sometimes there is a stabbing which tends to change the ambience somewhat.”

WHEN I'M LOOKING FOR INSPIRATION it is impossible not to be charmed by the shopping centre. The contours on show are breathtaking.

There are few complexes in the world that epitomise the 80s more than the one beside the tube station.

Speaking to Yuji Nishi, who is a student at one of the world’s outstanding educational institutions - University of the Arts London, which has one of its branches based in E&C - he said: “The shopping centre here is amazing.”

And he comes from Japan so he knows plenty about technology and architecture.

It puts the Sagrada Familia and the Guggenheim to shame. That bloke Gaudi knew nothing. If he did, surely he would have added an elephant to his work.

WHEN I WANT TO RELAX I like to head to Kennington Park. Most of the people there are close to slipping into a coma due to too much alcohol and that feeling can become infectious.

WHEN I WANT TO SHOP I am sure to visit one of the markets surrounding the tube station, especially if I'm in search of a Spiderman t-shirt or a pair of boxers with genuine urine stains on them.

Cruelly nicknamed the Elephant and A***hole by some, it is important to remember one thing – visiting SE1 is an experience you’ll never forget.

North Walsham - An Insider's Guide

WALKING THE streets of North Walsham can feel like a walk back in time, particularly as little has changed over the last 50 years. The result being that it really could be the swinging sixties.

Except that North Walsham rarely swings, not including the back garden of the Bluebell (the country pub on the edge of town), of course, where they have swings for children to, err, swing on.

In the heart of the town it is impossible to avoid the Town Clock, North Walsham's symbolic monument. This is the image on the front of nearly all postcards associated with the town. However, that is because the other things frequently associated with the town - being sick on Church Street, fighting down Black Swan Loke or a brawl down Brick Kiln (usually between spouses) - are not appropriate for the face of a card sent home to a loved one. You can hardly imagine the words "Great time, don't want to come home" written on such a card.

WHEN I'M HUNGRY I go crazy for a burger or a kebab, especially after 8 pints, and I do not hesitate to stumble towards the North Kebab House. The food is of the highest quality and is also ideally located beside the taxi rank at the bottom of town.

During the day if I fancy a quick bite (pie, mash and peas) I do not hesitate to head to Butterfingers - which is also ideally located right by the taxi rank for a quick ride home (Important cultural note: walking is a rarity in this North Norfolk town and is frowned upon by most).

WHEN I'M THIRSTY my first port of call is the White Swan. Sure the toilets might rival the worst toilet in Scotland made famous by Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting but at least there are a variety of local beers on offer, including Kronenburg, Stella and Foster's. The only problem is that these are frequently unavailable due to the organisation rivalling the toilet cleaning. I always find Tuesday morning, around about 1030am, is the best time to arrive to ensure you don't leave disappointed.

WHEN I'M LOOKING FOR INSPIRATION I make my way to the memorial park by the local high school. If I'm struggling for what I need, there are sure to be students swigging on cheap cider and smoking Lambert and Butler to remind me of my childhood. That usually does the trick.

WHEN I WANT TO RELAX I head to the King's Arms Hotel and watch a game of football on the big screen. The food is reminiscent of the scraps from a bin but the ambience is generally ok. However, beware, the food might not be the only scrap you see there.

Conveniently the pub is just 20 metres away from the North Kebab House, and that taxi rank.

WHEN I WANT TO SHOP my first port of call is Roys of Wroxham. The items of clothing they have on offer are inexpensive and will last up to two weeks before the seams come away. You may look like a geek whilst wearing their clothes but it didn't cost you the earth to buy. Plus you'll fit in like a real local.

When the BBC made the show '50 places to see before you die', including Angkor Wat, New York and the leaning tower of Pisa, a few years ago they didn't find room for North Walsham, to the amazement of most of North Norfolk.

However, I'm sure that once these experiences have been truly savoured you'll never want to leave.

Valencia - warms the heart

The great thing is that when guys go away they talk about more than just sex and football. Sometimes they talk about nature or politics. For example, which bird was your favourite or should Sepp Blatter remain as the president of FIFA given that he is an ignorant twat.

Nevertheless, it is always a good thing to at least include some football in the weekend if you possibly can. Afterall, our brains are occupied enough with these discussions and a good football match can help relieve these tensions.

So, Valecia-Villareal it was. And a pretty good game too. 4-1 to the home side, a sending off, and a very happy city.

As for the city of Valencia itself, it gets a thumbs up. Maybe the old town is not as impressive as Sevilla or San Sebastian but the city has a nice ambience to it and it's coastal. Plus, even in January, the weather can be a pleasant 15-20 degrees, which is a marked improvement on the north.

As a result, I felt compelled to go for a run. I managed to take in some of the harbour en route at which point an aged Valenciano enquired as to whether I owned one of the yachts. I don't.

Other than the fact I was in close proximity to one of them, I had no idea what led him to believe that I could actually possess one of the beasts, especially in beige.

Also whilst running, I managed to take a good look at the Mestalla, FC Valencia's abode, and it seemed pretty run-down. But actually, I like these kind of football stadiums, as opposed to the modern stadiums that all seem the same. Anyone who has ever been to the Dell or Fratton Park can probably appreciate this more most.

A good five kilometres running later, before I had a coronary, I decided to stop and head back to the hotel. Actually, I say 5kms running, some of it was walking as I had to take the map with me and occasional strolling probably halved my effort, at least physically. Perhaps I should take a map with me to the gym next time.

As for the evening, something that does need to be mentioned is that 7pm is too early. As is 9pm. As is 11pm. In true Mediterranean style, 1am is about the time things start to liven up in and around the popular area of Carmen.

But liven up they do which makes the Valencia experience all the more pleasurable.

One slight down point is the local speciality - Paella Valenciana. Unfortunately most of the restaurants in the tourist districts don't really make the effort and, as a result, the chicken used in the dish is sub-standard. Best ask a local where to go for a good paella would seem to be the solution to that one.

As for Churros news, it seems not to be as popular as Andalucia but still be aware of the opening times - 8am to 11am and 4pm to 6pm. Before or after and you might be glared at like a man throwing condoms around the Vatican.

Sevilla - nice to Sevilla, to Sevilla nice

I bought my ticket at Malaga station and boarded the train for Sevilla. As I sat down I began to look forward to the journey ahead. That was until a young lady sat down opposite and proceeded to munch and gnaw her way through various items of food that made me feel a little uncomfortable. It sounded disgusting.

My response was to raise a Spanish newspaper to my face and do my best to ignore the grazing that was occurring over the table.

When in England I like to read Spanish newspapers, if only to show off my ability to understand the language. However, this can prove to be a mistake on Spanish soil as it can give the impression that you are a fluent native. My immediate response is always a "Si, si, claro" as this tends to fend off most on-comers, leaving them with the belief that you understand exactly what they said. Trouble is, occasionally they have asked you whether you can be the Matador for this evening's bull-fight and you have respondend, "Yes, yes, of course".

Anyway, I arrived in Sevilla and decided to walk into town in search of a place to stay. I find this (walking) beats the bus, unless it is raining, in three important ways: Firstly, you save yourself a much needed euro or two for tapas and beer. Secondly, you get to see a lot of the town. Finally, you can also explore more hostals.

As I walked towards the centre of town I was instantly enchanted by its twisty, turny streets and immediate warmth that the old buildings emitted. Spain has many cities where there is an old town separated from the rest of the city that gives you a feeling that you are on an island, and I like it.

Once in the centre of town I marvelled at the cathedral and found myself a hostal. Of course the process of finding somewhere to stay was not as clear-cut as this. I had the usual enquiries: walking into one hostal, finding out it was 100 euros a night and saying to the receptionist "Ok. Thanks. I might be back soon" when there is more chance of me becoming fluent in Spanish than me returning at that price. Then entering a hostal asking how much and the price came tumbling down with every indecisive word I muttered hoping that it might eventually be free.

Just to let you know this is the basic template of any hostal bargaining situation that can occur in many parts of the world, including Spain:

Me: "Hola" (always start with a Spanish word in the forlorn hope you might get the locals' price but then that goes out of the window as the conversation reaches a more complex level and the receptionist instantly realises you are an ignorant tourist)

Hotel: "Hello, sir"

Me: "How much is it for a room or a dorm bed for one person?"

Hotel: "Well, we have a special room which is 50 euros per person"

Me: "Do you have a room that is not special?"

Hotel: "Yes."

Me: "And how much is that?"

Hotel: "50 euros"

Me: "Err... Ok... Thanks... I might..."

Hotel: "Ha ha ha. Hold on. I was just joking. A little joke. Sorry. 40 euros is the price."

Me: "Err..."

Hotel: "It has a tv, shower and many things. Very good price"

Me: "Err..."

Hotel: "Ok. I make a special price for you. 25 Euros."

This indeed is a good price but when I found the Hostal Nuevo Suizo for 11 euros it was no contest.

Anyway, there are many wonderful things about Sevilla that are immediately apparent but it does fall a little short when it comes to food. It is not easy to find good tapas or paella. In fact, putting it another way, it is easy to find bad tapas and paella.

There is one exception to that, Taberna Coloniales Catedral, and I would implore anyone to go there as it is fantastic.

It was head and shoulders above anywhere else in town and this was perfectly illustrated by the fact it was packed to the rafters while all the other restaurants were empty. There was a 30 minute wait for a table but it would prove to be well worth it.

As I waited, I noticed they had a funny system set up to decide who would be next to acquire a table. It seemed about as complicated as a World Cup draw but somehow it worked.

There was a list of names on this whiteboard and occasionally a name from it would be shouted out. Then it would be crossed off once the person/s had accepted the invitation. A few minutes later the next one on the list would be called when a table became available.

It seemed to make sense until I noticed there was no particular order to it and that some would immediately be propelled to the front of the queue for no apparent reason.

Then I made up my own mind as to how it worked, if you had an amusing name then you were a sure-fire bet to get a table quickly, hence Mr P.Nesshead came quickly. Then there was a guy called Jesus, he didn't wait long either, I guess he might get cross if he wasn't dealt with rapidly.

I also tried Churros while I was in Sevilla. Churros are similar to doughnuts and a bit of a Spanish must-try delicacy, best eaten with hot chocolate.

Nevertheless, you have to be careful when you eat them. I approached one eatery at around 2pm and asked for them having seen the word 'Churros' emblazoned in the restaurant window. At this point a local nudged me and said: "You're too late." To which I replied: "But I saw some people eating them yesterday at around tea-time, as it was getting dark." I said this quite confidently and thought there was no possible way that my newly acquainted friend could get out of that one. "Ah", she replied. "You are can eat them then, as well."

So, basically, I was too late for Churros, and too early for them. Strange but funny. I waited until 5pm and had some then. I later discovered 'Churros Time' was breakfast or late afternoon. So don't you dare try to order them at any other time.

The best thing I could say about Sevilla was it became the town on my trip that I kept promising to leave but kept saying "Oh, just one more day."

However, eventually I did leave, but in the certainty that I would be back again one day.

Malaga - try before you buy

I slept through the entire flight from London which was a blessing. Well, i say entire, I did manage to catch the descent from the skies. As we came down, I noticed blistering sunshine, crystallised on the sea. Anyway, I digress, as we came over the sea I kept thinking 'where's the land?' We were declining towards the ground, yet there was no sign of any greenery or tarmac. Was this an emergency landing like we all saw in the Hudson at the beginning of the year. I remember watching those survivors on the wing of the plane as it sat there in the Hudson and I was pleased I wasn't one of them due to my inability to swim. Imagine that. Your pilot had masterfully saved your life, only for it to end all in tears with you drowning while your fellow passengers swam to safety.

I realise I'm digressing once more so back to the story. At times like these I always glance (stare) the air hosts and hostesses to see their reaction to events. If they're panicking then you know you're in trouble and it is time for you to do likewise. However, they were calm. But what if they were wrong? Whilst processing these thoughts, I felt a thud and then another that indicated we were landing... on dry land.

The smile of relief was soon wiped off my face by what followed. Clapping. I hate it. One of my bug-bears and I can't understand it.

I'm not a nervous flyer by definition and I always tell people that I'm not bothered by flying but moments like these and the sweat on the palms of my hands suggest otherwise.

Anyway, if you're still with me and didn't find my 500 words just describing my arrival, which actually occurred in less time that it takes to read about it, then let's move on.

Despite the sunshine it was bitterly cold due to the blustery wind. I wasn't disappointed by this as I expected it to be a little on the chilly side. It is nearly Christmas, after all.

I plumped for the Hostal Costa Rica. I can be of the superstitious variety so I thought this would be a sound choice given my familiarity with the aforementioned country. Not only that, it would undoubtedly be owned or managed by people from the Central American state.

I was wrong on all counts but it seemed a bargain at just 20 euros per night for a private room.

Wrong again. I realised I had hired a fridge, not a room. A sizeable fridge, it had a bed and a sink, but a fridge nevertheless. In fact, a fridge could have been a tad warmer in comparison. Ah, but there was a window ajar so I immediately closed it in the forlorn belief that my cooler would magically turn into an oven. It didn't.

I slept well, despite the chill. Mind you, I wore as many clothes as I could without feeling uncomfortable. That meant two jackets, shoes and gloves, as well as the other general outdoor-wear.

As for the town itself, it was nice. The central, pedestrian only streets and alleys were pleasant. I became especially fond of one restaurant, in particular. It was called 'Gorki' which I also found cute. I stumbled across it quite by chance as I had previously been a patron of the restaurant opposite. This respective eatery had advertised a croissant and a coffee for less than three euros. Job done, or so I thought.

I sat there for nearly half an hour, without even a look from any of the waiters. I hadn't showered for a day and a half and this may have perturbed them from serving me.

You may ask why I wasn't pro-active in my search for a waiter. Well, I was in holiday mode and not flustered in the slightest by their inactivity.

I trotted across to Gorki when I realised my custom would be better appreciated elsewhere. And it was. Excellent service ensued and I received an extremely tasty Cheese and bacon baguette. This sandwich won the day after narrowly edging out the lasagne, despite the Italian dish appearing attractively on the adjacent table as two people divulged this wonderful looking meal.

I loved the way the lasagne was not just any lasagne. No. This was a Gorki lasagne. trouble was, at this stage I was not aware of the restaurant's name and promptly asked a waiter what the Gorki bit meant, thinking that it was a local term meaning chicken or vegetarian. 'Well... er... it's lasagne.' The waiter was as bewildered by my question as I was by his answer.

Nevertheless, I departed a contented man. So much so I returned later that day for the 'Gorki Lasagne'. It was then I noticed how everything on the menu was prefixed with by the term 'Gorki'.

My experience, much like the lasagne, was not as pleasurable as it had appeared earlier. The staff were not so welcoming second time round, perhaps insulted by my 26 cent tip I had left them before. Once a backpacker, always a backpacker. Still, I more than doubled that tip on my second visit. They made a slight error on the bill in my favour and I thought it only right that someone else should benefit.

I was so self-satisfied with my own generosity I began to amuse myself by observing (and judging) other people.

On one table there was an attractive lady chatting amorously with her companion, who I could only see from behind. I could tell he was an older man by a significant bald patch on the back of his head. This was interspersed with slicked back hair in that way that older, richer, manner that Spanish men do. Still managing to tan the bald patch in unison to the skin on the rest of his face. I knew this when he eventually showed his face as he headed of to the gents. His female accompaniment nodded and smiled as she agreed to everything he uttered, particularly when he suggested he would pay the bill. They went home together.

On another table there were two mediocre looking women. I studied them for a while and they never once glanced in my direction. Lesbians.

Finally, I became entranced by the most fascinating table of them all. Two men in their late 50s or early 60s enjoying each other's company almost as much as their brandy and cigars. They looked as cool as I want to look as they smoked their Cubans and drank their liquor from those marvellous bowls that they serve brandy in. Whenever I try to imitate this behaviour I just get bits of tobacco in my mouth having snipped off the end amateurishly and struggle to take two sips from the brandy as I find the drink repulsive. These cool dudes sipped and smoked like they were enjoying it. Cooler than Hannibal (the one from the A-Team, not the cannibal or the one with elephants).

Afterwards, I went for a wander. I noticed many hostels and hotels. Occasionally I would stop and enquire how much or how nice they were. I wasn't going to change from my previous commitment as I had already paid up front. A pointless exercise you may think but it was made worthwhile when I found one hostel that seemed very nice and at a reasonable price. Then I shared a lift with a Bulgarian who promptly advised me not to stay there. 'Too cold', she muttered. Thank goodness my abode wasn't the only one.

The next day I saw one hotel that looked very attractive, and warm. It appeared expensive but I thought I'd check it out, all the same. As I entered the man on reception finished his conversation and put down the phone. As he looked at me with baited breath, I realised I was in a shop that sold doors and was lulled by the sense of warmth that the shiny timber emitted.

I quickly left before even a word had been exchanged with my tail well and truly between my legs.

I was so dejected I decided to cheer myself up with bag of freshly made crisps. As I petulantly reached across to try one as she was filling my up my bag, I managed to knock it over, emptying the bag of crisps all over the till. 'Puta!' I exclaimed. As the word spilled out of my mouth just like the delicacy had done moments earlier I realised the embarrassment my expletive had caused. The kind girl refilled my bag and I reciprocated her kindness by getting the next train out of town.