I went through a phase some years ago, of being rather fond of Polish girls, which culminated in me getting a special t-shirt printed to aid me in the identification of, and ice-breaking with, these unique creatures.

The Polish T-shirt
Handwoven by Polish virgins…

The t-shirt says simply on the front (in Polish) “POLISH GIRLS ARE THE BEST” and it’s in Polish-flag red and white. It fitted my frame quite neatly for about two months after I bought it but had to be decommissioned when I gained weight and as the t-shirt gained notoriety.

I would wear it to impress the HOT Polish girls at work (i.e. the Polish girls at work) and occasionally out when I fancied my chances using it as an ice-breaker in bars. The following tale is one of several adventures I had with this legendary t-shirt, and this story is the closest the t-shirt got me to any hot Polish action.

I should reiterate, as I’m often asked, this story is actually completely true…

It was a cold winter’s night in Soho and myself and my good friend Bilal decided to pop out after work for a few quick drinks at The White Horse, a local favourite pub. Bill was my wingman as I attempted to make good use of my one-of-a-kind, money-can’t buy, no-fool-would-wear t-shirt. We grabbed a standing table in the middle of the pub and some wine and chatted away. Periodically I would rotate to ensure everyone could see the front of the t-shirt and that any present Polish honeys would have the chance to immediately make themselves known to me and join us. (There was nothing printed on the back you see, although some wisecracking friends did suggest maybe “POLISH BOYS ARE THE BEST” would double my chances).

Insanely quickly we were approached by two girls, who’d just arrived. One hot blonde in her early twenties, and her mate who was probably the same age but looked older, was much fatter and had a sullen joyless face like an abused scrotum.

“Hey, I love your t-shirt. I’m half-Polish. Half-Polish, half-Australian,” the blonde said. Jackpot. The girls plonked their bottle of plonk down on the table and joined us.

Through the power of the t-shirt I started striking up conversation with Laura, the blonde, while Bill took one for the team and kept her friend busy. We were getting on phenomenally well. I was, if there was an international governing body of such things, officially “in”. She told me about her life and what her and her friend did for a living.

Myself and Bill did notice they worked their way through that first bottle of wine very quickly and were most of the way through another, and a few Sambuca shots on, when Bill had to “leave me to it” and go home. I was confident I could see this through on my own; the t-shirt was still exuding power and the poor, no-doubt-lovestruck half-Polish Laura, was defenceless against my charms.

I was already imagining ahead to later that night. More shots arrived. I was imagining ahead to seeing her again, and “going steady” with my first Polish. Another bottle of wine arrived. I was imagining ahead to moving in together, and Laura buying me a dressing gown for Christmas which had “POLISH GIRLS ARE THE BEST” embroidered on it (in Polish). More shots made their way to the table. Visit after visit from her Polish mother bearing gifts of bottles of industrial-strength vodka. Endless love-making “the Polish way”. Whatever that is.

Her friend, whose name I only recently paid full attention to, Suzy, was no doubt feeling as much of a spare tyre as she looked like one.

But in a flash, it was suddenly all over. Laura declared she had had too much to drink and left to go home; didn’t even give me her number. Disaster. I was totally in there. What was worse was she left me with Suzy.

I spent the next ten minutes rapidly trying to finish my wine whilst trying to talk to Suzy, who was also quite drunk by this stage. She was devoid of personality at the start of the evening, so you can imagine how she was towards the end. I couldn’t tear my thoughts away from the endless lovemaking (the Polish way) that I had thought was in my grasp for sure just minutes before.

I was just about to leave (yes, leave Suzy on her own) and go home, when a man came to our table.

“Hi, sorry to bother you, I’m an undercover policeman, do either of you know a Laura?”

I thought “YES! I do, she’s my girlf… she’s my future girlf… yeah I know her!” But after hearing the undercover policeman bit I played it cool. “Um well kind of, just met her really. She’s her friend. She knows her really. I don’t not really.”

The undercover policeman (he was TOTALLY dressed like a normal punter, it was amazing) said to Suzy “Can you come outside and talk to her please?”

I looked at Suzy as she grunted drunkenly, as if her brain reacted with animal noises when presented with a confusing scenario. I realised what I had to do, told the officer I’d take care of it, I’d come out and see Laura. After all, there was refreshed hope of lovemaking (the Polish way).

I followed the camouflaged fuzz outside, and he led me to Laura, who was sat on a doorstep opposite the pub entrance, literally covered in vomit. She hadn’t just been sick, it was like she’d been almost drowned in a swimming pool full of it. I started to sober up. The policeman asked if I knew where she lived, that he hadn’t been able to get any information out of her. I very briefly explained how we’d met only tonight, and subtley zipped up my jacket to cover the t-shirt. But I told him I didn’t really know her, and sat down on the doorstep beside her to try to wake her up a bit and get her to speak. She was just groggily crying her eyes out.

I went to put my arm around her. She had sick on her BACK. On her back! And in her hair. But I looked past the sobbing chow mein covered drunk and tried to think of that hot young nymph the lovemaking was going to involve (the Polish way). She was making no sense and I tried to asked her about where she lived.

By the time I looked back up at the policeman he’d been joined by a SECOND undercover cop, and he was radioing for an ambulance. I stayed with Laura as she fell asleep again and drooled a bit more sick.

I noticed the pub had closed and emptied while I’d been preoccupied with Laura – no sign of Suzy.

The ambulance arrived fairly quickly, and the back doors opened. Out came a paramedic. And a FILM CREW. The paramedic explained they were making a documentary about drunkenness in Soho. There I was sat next to an unconscious girl covered in vomit and there’s a fucking film crew.

The original policeman was having an argument with one of the paramedics and the reporter, something about paperwork. I think he was questioning whether they should be recording this. A third undercover policeman arrived and took over. The original came over to me and asked if I’d gotten anything out of Laura. I said no (should have said “just noodles”) and said he should go and talk to Suzy if she’s still inside. He went in as the paramedics started to lift poor vomit-ridden Laura towards the ambulance.

The officer who went to check on Suzy came back out of the pub shaking his head; “You’ll never guess what she’s done. She’s pissed herself.” So now I was the meat in a piss and vomit sandwich. What started as a nice night out with serious potential had ended up with my prospective sweetheart bundled into an ambulance covered in sick and her friend sat soiled with urine in my local pub.

The cop sent his two back-up mates in to bring out Suzy – she was going in the ambulance too. He said to me “when you were chatting to these girls did they tell you anything, give any indication about where they lived or where they worked?”

“Nope,” I said, “They only told me what they did for a living. Laura is a nurse, and Suzy…” I pointed over at the lump of a woman, legs spread, being hoisted out of the pub entrance by two policeman, “She’s a doctor.”

As Suzy was carried into the ambulance I thought it was over. Then the reporter came out of the back and shouted on the cameraman; “Quick get in here you have to see this!” I also ran round to the back of the ambulance to look in. Suzy was sitting there, her legs wide apart, and an arc of urine was shooting out across to the other side of the ambulance.

Within moments, the ambulance was driving off, the three undercover policeman had left and I was standing there in an empty street, at about half past midnight, in front of an empty pub, having missed my last Tube home. And, of course, wondering what the fuck just happened.

I never found out if the footage was ever used or what it was specifically for, and I don’t think I want to. And with no way of contacting Laura, my half-Polish dreams never came to be – although that’s maybe for the best. I didn’t give up on the t-shirt though, and wore it again. But that’s another story…

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