Covid has kind of screwed with the learning plans of ambitious daygamers. We all know how important it is to get onto the streets and do the sets. There’s no better way to learn than by doing. It’s why one-on-one coaching is so effective. But…. Covid. So many good places are locked down, and they wouldn’t let you through immigration anyway. And it’s winter so even in happy times the streets would be a bit grim.
What to do?
I’ve done a little coaching this winter over Skype video calls. It’s opened my mind to some benefits that in-field residentials can’t match , the main one being the time-lapse. Coaching a guy one hour every weekend breaks the learning points down into smaller chunks and allows a them a full week to sink in. Being off the street takes away the pressure to do sets and allows the brain to focus more on the theory and the nuts and bolts. It encourages more complex questions and longer answers to really get to the meat of things. I’ve also noticed Skype clients feel more comfortable seeking help on topics that aren’t so intimately tied with street work. They tend to want more on texting, dating, sex, and building their value internal and external.
I’m surprised how well this winter’s coaching went. So, I’ve decided to do more.
I will take on four coaching hours each Sunday afternoon. Whether that’s four lads at an hour each, or less clients with more time each, I don’t really care. Things my coaching has so far included are:
Detailed analysis of audio in-fields;
Answering questions about sticking points;
Theoretical explanation of principles;
Identifying weaknesses and developing plan to address them;
Logisitics advice on euro jaunt destinations;
It doesn’t have to be limited to that stuff, though. Each call is one-on-one so the coaching addresses specific needs of the client. If that kind of thing interests you, let me know in the comments or by email at nick krauser 1 [at] gmail [dot] com.
I want to develop a consistent block of four hours each Sunday afternoon (GMT) with regular clients who are ambitious to make progress. I’m less interested in “just one hour” tire-kickers. So, for now, I’m offering a 4×4 package for £400 GBP. That’s four hours coaching, working out at £100 per hour, ideally at one hour per week for a month.
Intermediate and advanced daygamers will get the best value out of this but I’ll consider beginners too if I like the cut of your jib.
You should still buy Daygame Overkill here as it’s by far the best in-field video instructional series out there. It’s got ten infield recordings of me showing how it’s done with extremely detailed analysis so you can squeeze every drop of value out of the videos.
 Resis are way better overall but they do have a few limitations.
Reading that Lifespan book, there was a particular paragraph that inspired me. Sinclair predicted a near future in which we can wear bands or sensors that will monitor our heartrate, blood, and sweat in real time to feed the information into computer analysis that will then provide early detection of imbalances, illness, and life-threatening conditions. “That sounds like an easy way to keep on top of your health markers” I thought.
The next day I walked past an electronics shop that had Fit Bands in the window. Oh, right. These things already exist! I remember seeing Tom Xants wearing one a year ago and chastising him for the obvious faggotry when he could’ve had a chunky r-select watch instead. Well, 2021 is the Year Of Krauser Faggotry as evidenced by my use of Vitamin C facial serum and an almost total ban on alcohol .
It quickly became clear there were essentially two types of fitness tracker bands: watch-like expensive ones by recognised high street brands, and cheap band-like ones by dodgy chinks. Naturally, I favoured the latter. At least until I get a better idea of what info I want. It seems they all do basically the same three things: pedometer, heart rate monitor, sleep tracker. It’s the last of these that interest me most now that I’m currently reading Matthew Walker’s Why We Sleep. He lists so many health ramifications of poor sleep that I felt I was developing Type 2 Diabetes and Insomnia just reading it.
So, 2021 is the year Krauser optimises his sleep.
After comparing all the chinky slant-bands on the internet and by Serbian shop prices, I settled on the Xiaomi Smart Band 5 for a tidy £35  and it had upgraded features from the Smart Band 4 (namely it can differentiate sleep types) and it matches my phone, a Xiaomi Mi Somethingorother. I slapped the bastard on my wrist, synched to the Mi Fit app and watched the magic happen.
Here’s my sleep data so far (open to get higher res image)
Fairly promising in terms of being in the better half of my peer group and getting just about the recommended 20% REM sleep and 15%+ NREM deep sleep. I also have the right profile, of getting most of my deep sleep early and the REM sleep later in the night. It seemed rather odd to me that a wrist band can track such things based on your wrist’s pulse when scientists such as Walker use an ECG to measure brain waves to detect the distinctive signatures of REM, deep, and light sleep. Is this device accurate? Here’s a dorky kraut who actually compared my band to the readings given by scientifically approved instruments:
Pedometer is very accurate
Heart rate monitor is accurate for everything except short bursts of frenetic activity, such as weightlifting. This is because it only measures every minute rather than continuous, and thus can miss much of the short spike in heart rate 
Sleep tracker undercounts REM and NREM Deep sleep. This is actually great news because it means my sleep is even better than the Smart Band registers.
The hun said he’ll do another more detailed comparison based on a much longer sample size in a few weeks so I’m keen to see his results. If the band is consistent in it’s sleep tracking error then I can easily adjust for it. If, however, the errors are erratic then it’s of limited use.
As for heart rate, I’m doing just great. My resting heart rate is around 50bpm which puts me in the athlete level of fitness according to experts . The graph below shows a nice steady low beat when I’m sleeping and then nothing too excitable when doing hard training – though with the proviso that this Smart Band apparently fails to capture some of the higher spikes.
So, everything looking pretty good so far but I wish to optimize. I’m already looking into a few tweaks that I can talk about later
 Not to mention shagging.  £26 on Amazon but you might as well be buying a lottery ticket with Serbia’s postal service.  That spike is indeed short on a fit cunt like me.  A chart I found by Googling.
NOTE: in case you’re wondering about the stress levels, I’m doing just great, thanks for asking.
Tom Xants recommended me this book  by a leading researcher in gerontology and top dog of an Harvard anti-ageing research centre. That got me curious but before taking anyone’s advice seriously, I follow the Krauser Rule Of Data Sourcing, namely I google a picture of him to check out his physiognomy. Krauser don’t take no advice from dorks, fags, or pedo-faced bugmen. Judge for yourself.
He’s over 50 and this is an anti-ageing book so I think we can all agree Dr Sinclair passes the first smell test. I paid Kindle my £4.99 and dived into the 473-page text. What did I learn?
The book is split into three sections: past, present, and future. The past is by far the best as it focuses entirely on Sinclair’s official area of expertise, the scientific literature of ageing. He’s a legit top-tier expert in this field. He gives an outline of the health problems caused by ageing and the existing published research on fighting it (mostly in mice). His central theme is that ageing is a disease and there is no biological necessity for it. He considers various scientific explanations for the ageing mechanism and dismisses most as dealing with the downstream effects of ageing rather than the core process.
What’s the core process, Krauser?
Unwanted side-effects of the DNA repair process, that’s what. Sinclair says almost all lifeforms, including those as simple as yeast, have a survival circuit that flips between two states. Normally, the circuit is engaged in processes aiding reproduction including literal cell division and growth. There are enzymes called Sirtains that direct this process and everything is happy as Larry in good times. However, our DNA comes under daily assault by the forces of the earth causing damage to literally trillions of cells. The assault can be cosmic rays, UV light, X-rays, waste products from metabolization of food, viruses and whatnot. The point is, it’s totally normal, widespread, constant and thus every organism has evolved a survival circuit to clean up the damage. Thus your sirtains (especially sirtain 2) leave their posts doing the daily business of living and act as firefighters on your cells’ DNA, fixing it.
Eventually, the damage is too great to be fully repaired or the job takes so long that your sirtains end up neglecting their daily tasks in the rest of the cell. Accumulated damage expresses itself as an unravelling of the DNA loops, causing the nucleus of the cell to get ragged and diffuse. The information contained by the epigenome is thus lost. Sinclair calls this the Information Theory Of Ageing.
All that nasty stuff that happens as we age- grey hair, wrinkles, slow repair, inflexibility, shitting yourself, cancer etc- are symptoms of this condition. If you can find ways to reduce the severity of daily damage, and/or improve sirtain’s ability to repair it, you can delay and possibly even reverse ageing.
This theory leads to some very obvious lifestyle recommendations, especially to reduce the daily damage to your DNA: don’t smoke, don’t booze, don’t catch diseases, don’t get fat, don’t eat junk . There are additional things you can do to boost your sirtain production and clean out senescent (dead/zombie) cells, such as supplementation with quercetin, resveratrol, and NMN. Sinclair also recommends regularly exposing your body to minor stresses so that the survival circuit does regular small repairs to DNA rather than infrequent big jobs. So, intermittent fasting, regular exercise, and hot/cold exposure therapy.
That’s the Past section and I found it fascinating. The Present section explores ongoing research and most-likely theoretical advances taking advantage of Sinclair’s position to be strategically located within the scientific community currently researching new therapies. He’s exceedingly optimistic but cautions that none of this research is published or long-term tested on humans. Thus it’s less robust than his Past section but gives ideas to enterprising anti-ageing fans.
The thrust of this section is that we’ll soon have some synthetic compounds, probably daily pills, that specifically address ageing. Work is ongoing to ascertain how to refresh sirtain production (which falls over time), or to splice in repair genes, or lengthen telomere and so on. He foresees a world in which we all wear sophisticated smart watches that constantly test our sweat, blood, heart rate and so on, forwarding the data to advanced computing for real-time detection of infections, poor bio-markers etc. This doesn’t seem at all far fetched to me. He explains how many age-related diseases such as cancer, Alzheimer’s and heart disease can be detected years before they become symptomatic. Catching them early means treating them early.
There’s also some Frankenstein stuff like genetically modifying pigs to grow organs for human transplants and 3D printers for organs . Fascinating.
The last section, Future, can be completely ignored. Now he makes the same mistake 99% of scientists make when writing popular science books: he lectures us all on social and political concerns that he knows less about than the average Twitter blue check. There’s some epic faggotry in this and its a real slog with literally nothing of value worth finding. Skip it.
Finally, in the conclusion, he gets around to the bit I wanted to read all along: what is his protocol? What shit are he and his family taking to keep themselves alive longer. I’ll save you the bother and tell you right now:
One gram of NMN, one gram of resveratol, one gram of metformin every morning;
Daily dose of vitamin D, vitamin K2, and 83mg aspirin;
Low sugar, bread, pasta ;
Skip one meal a day- basically a gay-ass intermittent fast;
Gym on weekends, again a gay-ass regime of something that he should do more;
Blood tests every few months to check bio-markers;
Meat on gym days but not otherwise;
No smoking. Avoid microwaved plastic, UV exposure, X-rays, CT scans;
Stay in the shade during the day and cool in bed;
BMI in the healthy range which for him is 23 to 25
I’m glad I read this book because it gives a solid science-backed opinion on what causes ageing and what has been proven to work to stop it. Reading between the lines it gives clear advice on how to design your own anti-ageing protocol. Well done, David.
He’ll probably live longer than me but he certainly won’t be shagging as many hot bitches. If you don’t want to live forever but you do wanna pick up the skirt, buy Daygame Overkill here for just $199. That’s less than $1 a year over your artificially-extended lifespan.
 Which is about as ironic as Keith Richards recommending me a book on asceticism.  Sorry Tom.  China has a better idea of just throwing the Muslims in concentration camps and using theirs.  I’m on a high-carb bulk right now so I’m breaking this big time but my usual diet matches this advice. I’ll be back on it in a couple of months.  In yeast, mice, and worms.
Enthusiastic daygamers have experienced a wide variety of familiar ailments during the prosecution of their skirt-chasing careers. The more portly of us  are prone to Daygamer Thigh formed by the excessive rubbing together of the flabby inner-thighs when putting one leg in front of the other 20,000 times each day for weeks on end. It’s rather unpleasant to be rubbed raw below the crotch, especially in hot weather. In my fat bastard days I’d get it too and my workaround was to wear longer trunk variants of my H&M boxer shorts. At least then the chafing of denim against skin was softened.
Some other ailments tend to be suffered by only the more stubborn of us. To date, Salman is the only lad I know to have had a severe case of Daygamer Toe. For the sake of precision, lets not confuse this with the similarly named Torero Toe, a tragic condition that occurs when a man with learning difficulties attempts to copy the devil-may-care posture of a more experienced player. So, purely for the sake of clarity , let’s call Daygamer Toe by the new name of Salman Toe. This is an inflammation or soreness of the toes and instep caused from daygaming eight hours a day in ill-fitting leather biker boots after all your wings have told you to wear something more comfortable. The short term solution is bathing your feet in warm soapy water every evening. The preventative protocol is to buy shoes that are designed for walking rather than riding motorbikes.
More common is Daygamer Sole. This is an increasing numbness in the bottom of your feet precipitated by walking on pavement, concrete, asphalt and- God forbid- the cobbled streets of Prague. After a few days of 20,000+ steps you can find your feet bones ache and you lose sensation in them. This is usually a good time to transition to well-cushioned Nikes, or take a day off. Be sure to lie on your bed with your feet up against a wall to let the blood drain out of your swollen tootsies.
One ailment that is rather less comical is Daygamer Knee.
I got this in 2018. Essentially, too much walking around on hard surfaces had made my left knee ache. It was an odd sensation. It wasn’t acutely painful nor was mobility hindered, but it felt like my left leg had walked three times further than my right. The knee felt fatigued. When the condition worsened my knee felt weak and hollow, with a persistent dull ache.
I tried the usual things without success. I changed footwear, took longer rest in the evenings, and even tried a couple of months with drastically reduced average daily step counts. Nothing really changed. I started to wonder if I’d messed up my knee. I was still capable of three/four-hour walking sessions but suddenly my knee health was something to be nursed. My walking capacity was limited by the endurance of my joint rather than my muscles, or fitness, or patience.
I decided to try diet supplementation. First off was glucosamine sulphate capsules, a well-known treatment for joint pain. It helped a little. It took about a week to notice a difference and it reduced the ache by perhaps 25%. That was helpful but not satisfactory. Then my pal Juggernaut suggested daily MSM powder.
It’s cheap as chips on Amazon and comes in big fuck-off-sized tubs. £13 buys you six months supply. Usually there’s a little plastic scoop included. Recommended dosage is 1g four times daily. I mix 2g in a glass of water, once in the morning and once before bedtime. I use the 100% pure powder rather than fancy-dan proprietary mixes because in the latter its the MSM that does all the work.
Results were immediate and satisfactory.
Within three days the ache was almost gone and by a fortnight my knee felt as good as new. There were no side-effects. I could now comfortably handle strings of 20,000+ steps days in succession without flare-ups. When I ran out of MSM and couldn’t dose for a few weeks I’d notice the old symptoms re-emerge, suggesting that MSM doesn’t fix the underlying issue but it is what keeps the symptoms at bay. I’ve been taking it daily since early 2019 and don’t intend to stop.
I strongly suggest anyone suffering Daygamer Knee, or indeed any joint aches, look into it.
And I suggest even more strongly that you buy Daygame Overkill, a fantastic 5.5hour video instructional showing me in-field with hot Croatian girls and detailed analysis of the sets and how to replicate them. Buy it here.
 Xants and Thomas Crown, for example  And most definitely not in the hope that the term catches on
Well, BPC-157 is a peptide and it can’t be patented so there’s not actually any marketing done, any more than generic paracetamol is marketed. No money in it, is there? What I mean is that’s what all the internet yahoos are saying about it. BPC is an abbreviation of Body Protection Compound and BPC-157 is a peptide produced naturally by the human body in the gut. It’s legal to buy in the UK but has not been approved for human use and is therefore labelled as “research only” and “not for human use” .
Woah there, Nick! Back up a bit. Peptides?
It was all new to me two months ago so let me fill you in on what I’ve found out. Peptides are long chains of amino acids produced naturally in the human body. We produce tens of thousands of them and each functions as a signalling device to regulate all kinds of normal bodily processes. Scientists have so far isolated about 200 of them to get a good idea what each of the 200 does and how to synthesise them in a laboratory. Most are of no interest to us, covering boring processes, but a few stand out and have been claimed by the sports science and anti-ageing communities.
The reason you don’t hear much about them is because drug companies cannot patent a naturally-occuring amino acid and thus there’s no pot of gold at the end of the human trials and FDA approval rainbow. Additionally, most peptides cannot survive stomach acids (they get broken down fast) and thus are a waste of time administering orally. So, unlike vitamins, you have to inject them. That immediately rules out almost all normies from wanting anything to do with them . Peptides are “underground” in that hardly anyone talks about them but they are scientifically researched, synthesised and administered. It’s not homeopathy.
BPC-157 is already in widespread use amongst physiotherapists and conditioning coaches for elite athletes. The drug testing authorities such as USADA are well aware of it and have not placed it on the controlled substances list because they don’t judge its effects performance enhancing according to their criteria.
So, what does it do?
BPC-157 reduces inflammation and aids the healing of soft tissue, particularly ligaments and tendons. It has a sister peptide called TB-500 which does much the same thing but with a bias more towards muscle repair . It’s long been used in race horses to aid healing and now pro athletes get it to reduce their time recovering form injury.
Word on the street is it more than halves recovery time from soft tissue injuries.
What got me interested were all the internet testimonials that it can also heal stubborn long-term injuries that have been previously resistant to other methods, such as rotator cuff, ACL, and tennis elbow. I’ve had a nagging tendonitis in my right shoulder for over ten years  and nothing has fixed it. The physios gave me exercises to no avail. A long time away from bag work didn’t help. BPC-157 sounded like a good shot to sort it once and for all.
I bought mine from UK-Peptides for £109 for five small 5mg bottles, each reconstituting with water to be a week’s supply, five weeks total. I also bought bacteriostatic water to mix into it, and a box of 100 insulin needles (0,5ml with tiny 0,30mm points) and sterile swabs from Medical Supplies UK.
Internet advice was conflicted on the best dosage protocol. One school of thought says reconstituted BPC-157 is unstable and extremely short ester (like, half an hour) so you should inject it as close to the injured area as possible. Others say that doesn’t matter so do it anywhere that’s comfortable, such as thigh or subcutaneously around midsection, is fine. Yet another school of thought says BPC-157 is reasonably resilient to stomach acid (it does actually exist there naturally) so it will have a more systemic effect orally and additionally promotes gut health.
What I settled on was: one 15mmg in the bad shoulder, another 15mmg in my left shoulder (similar issue but far less pronounced), and then 15mmg orally by spraying from syringe directly onto my tongue.
I did that for three weeks.
The results were immediate and encouraging. The anti-inflammatory effect was noticeable within one day and by the end of week one the pain was completely gone. My shoulder trouble comes and goes, with long periods of barely noticeable discomfort and then periodic flare ups, of up to a week, of very bothersome aching and occasionally even sharp pain. Just two weeks before beginning the BPC-157 my left shoulder had flared so badly that any kind of movement anywhere on my upper body sent shooting pain along my shoulder. It was so bad I couldn’t find a comfortable sleeping position and it took me a minute to slowly get out of bed, and a further hour before my shoulder felt normal. That’s what had spurred me to take a chance of BPC-157, deciding this was no longer tolerable.
So, within a week all that was gone. My shoulders still felt a bit hollow and bothersome, but no actual pain. By the end of week two my left shoulder felt 100% and my right shoulder the best it had in years. My right shoulder has been twitchy for years and by the end of week three that was gone too. Both felt 100%.
I stopped my course then, as I was flying to Serbia.
I hesitate to say BPC-157 fixed my shoulder problems due to the following confounding variables:
I wasn’t at the gym this period, due to lockdown, so my shoulders weren’t coming under their usual weight-lifting pressure. The recovery could be as much due to a lay-off as to the BPC-157 itself.
The shoulder pain would always wax and wane naturally, so maybe I was injecting the peptide during a period my shoulder pain would’ve reduced naturally.
It’s too soon to talk about anything permanent. For all I know, the BPC-157 had a temporary anti-inflammatory effect to reduce pain but did nothing to heal the underlying injury and thus it’ll all flare up again once the inflammation resumes.
So, my personal anecdotal results are optimistic but inconclusive. I’ve still got two bottles of the stuff left (and I’m told by my coach it’s legal to purchase in Serbia). If my shoulders act up again, I’ll resume my above protocol. There’s also an additional slightly comical reason why my research is inconclusive.
Once constituted with water, BPC-157 is unstable and is best kept in a dark, cold place such as the refrigerator. Some internet sources say it doesn’t really matter so long as it is out of direct sunlight. Others say no, it must be refrigerated. Well, I couldn’t put mine in the fridge because I was staying at my parents’ house and thus (i) my mother would freak the fuck out if there’s a research chemical in the fridge and (ii) she’s so absent minded now she’d probably drink it herself or throw it in the bin. Thus I had to keep mine behind some books on my bookcase. It’s quite possible that only day one of each week’s injection was the full-strength stuff and the rest might’ve been no more than a placebo.
Obviously now that I’ve got my big boy pants on in Serbia I can put the next lot in the fridge.
Blah blah anti-ageing who gives a fuck.Daygame Overkill is where it’s all at. Almost six hours of daygame video instruction including ten wowser infields of me in action and detailed breakdown of what’s going on and how to reproduce it for yourself. Buy it here.
 Seeing as bodybuilders will inject themselves with Trenbolone designed to bulk up the Belgian Blue dairy cow, obviously that is not going to stop them trying BPC-157  And, initially, ruled out me too for that very reason.  I haven’t tried it but might do so.  Due to boxing. I’m southpaw and really like jabbing. After thousands of rounds punching the heavy bag, with a heavy predisposition towards my lead hand, I started to damage my shoulder.
I’ve long believed that the way you get a women says a lot about what you’ll experience from her. It’s one of the many reasons I avoid Tinder. Only about 10% of girls have a Tinder account and they are essentially putting themselves in a very obvious shop window on an app known for hook-ups. The usual Tinder date involves meeting them close to your apartment and banging them within a couple of hours, then feeling a bit disgusted with yourself for scraping the barrel. You don’t, of course, see these girls again.
Nothing wrong with that from a casual sex perspective  but you are basically filtering for lunatics and sluts. I’ve never been into that demographic and time has only made me more averse to it.
At the other end of the spectrum is social circle, where a girl sees you around for months, can watch you closely in your interactions with others, and then eventually tips her cap at you and chases you down. That’s how most men get girlfriends and then backwards-rationalise the process as if they were the party doing the picking up. Nothing wrong with that either, and the main reason I avoid social circle game is because of how the tiny pool of prospects essentially cripples your choice. You end up taking what you’re given. That’s never been my style of living.
Daygame has it’s own pros and cons for what type of women you’ll meet and what you can expect from them. My own personal experience has run the gamut from lunatics looking to get quickly fucked to archetypal good-girl virgins hoping to get married. What interests me today is a particular type of daygame girl: Easy Come Easy Go.
Have a look at this video. This chick was such a case.
She’s rather nice, no? I was sitting on the patio of Kamchatka bar on Kuznetsky Most one evening with Roy and Seven, drinking a beer and not very full of social energy. Roy was with one of the birds he’d pulled  and I was staring into space wondering when I should go home. Then the blonde chick of the video rushed passed.
I felt rather than saw her IOI. Jedi mind powers or ninjitsu, I guess.
It was an easy set. She was loving ‘umble Krauser from the off and happily gave up her number. I pinged her two hours later and we struck up a chat. She was meeting friends then going to a nightclub to dance. I received a couple of club bathroom selfies (nothing naughty) and we set up a date the next evening in a fusion Asian restaurant next to Nikolskaya.
It was all so easy.
This chick, Tanya, was full of excitable energy and extremely agreeable. We were kissing within half an hour though I knew it was to be had within five minutes. Two hours later her pals picked her up outside the restaurant in a car and she went off to some other club. She sent me a video of her dancing on a podium (unofficially).
The second date a few days later was at a mall. She invited me out, pinging that she was in the centre. We ended up in the Irish bar where the above video was shot. It was another exceptionally easy date where Tanya proved to be full of beans and agreeable. I smelled a rat.
I had that gnawing feeling that other girls I’d dated like this had not put out. You get easy dates, easy make-outs, and probably even a bit of hands-up-the-sweater action but they rarely end in sex. That turned out to be the case with Tanya. She agreed to a third date by my apartment and walked straight into my room without murmur. I could just sense she had not come to fuck. We drank a beer, fooled around on the bed, and she was resolute about keeping her tights on. After two hours she was gone.
That was two days before the end of my trip so I considered it over. She replied to my message the next morning and then went radio silent. Easy come, easy go.
I’ve been trying to figure out why girls do this and I’ve hit upon a hypothesis. Everything about Tanya suggested she was a good-time gal. Not a slut. Tanya was looking for fresh experiences that would brighten up her life. She wanted excitement and happiness. If friends called and said “we’re going to drive out into the forest for a picnic, are you in?” she’d most certainly be in. Same for a bungee jump, a jazz concert, a finger paint class, or more nights dancing on a podium in a club. She wants diversions. She wants to drink from the cup of life.
I had (not in so many words) propositioned her with, “would you like to spend a few evenings fooling around with an exciting foreign man?”
She’d been all-in for that but sex wasn’t part of her deal. I don’t think it ever was. She was delightful company and I enjoyed our three dates but that’s all I was getting. And then when I left town she moved on to the next thrill . This is why she was so easy and agreeable at everything up until the moment of truth. I’d never gotten the sense at any moment that she was hoping to get fucked, or even a Maybe Girl waiting to see whether I’d successfully seduce her. She was Yes from the first moment for fun while simultaneously a No for sex.
If you are quite prepared to have dalliances with such women while filtering through for the ones who do fuck, there’s no better way to build up leads than buying Daygame Overkill here for a detailed video guide on how to do daygame properly.
 Aside from the horrendous average quality, of course.  The hottest of them, in my opinion. A tidy petite blonde.  This is, of course, all supposition.
Now that my forty-sixth birthday is rapidly approaching, I’m intimately aware of my age. I can honestly admit that it’s preying on my mind. I ask myself: how long can I keep this up for?
I did my first daygame cold approach in 2009 when I was thirty-four years old. I do believe I asked myself a similar question back then: am I too old for this? At that time, I’d been propagandised into believing in “age appropriate” dating, that men should date women of about their own age. That was just normal. It’s what I’d seen all around me for decades. Older men dating young women were usually figures of ridicule for sitcoms and drama shows on TV.
Once I started getting dates with SMV-prime women- and eventually fucking them- it was a great liberation. I really wasn’t past it. I could do it! For the following ten years it felt like I’d been given a second youth. A second chance to do all the things I really ought to have done in my twenties. As readers of myinterminablylongmemoirwillsurely attest, I took full advantage of my second chance.
But those ten years have gone. I’m forty-five now, soon to be forty-six. Is it still possible?
Covid suspended the possibility of finding out through the real-world feedback of daygame. I got a month’s worth of daygame in on my Moscow trip and that limited sample suggests that yes Nick, you’ve still got it. You’re still sexually relevant to prime-SMV hot birds. Great!
Nonetheless, I am not taking my extended SMP lifespan for granted. My mind is fixed very firmly on retaining my sexual relevance as long as possible, as I get a girlfriend and, eventually, a wife. I’m certainly not going to let myself get fat and knackered again. I am taking all things anti-ageing seriously now and I don’t care if that makes me a faggot. Some of my regime now:
Four-times weekly hard gym training with a personal trainer 
Target 15,000 steps daily, whether daygaming or not;
Calorie- and macro-controlled diet of healthy food with no junk;
Severely reduced alcohol and sugar consumption.
So far, so 2020. I’ve now added a few new items into the mix. These are currently on an experimental basis to see if they have a noticeable effect. If they don’t, I’ll drop them:
5. Daily supplementation of Vitamins B, C, D, and E, Zinc, Omega 3, Apple Cider Vinegar, and MSM;
6. Daily facial rub of Vitamin C serum and retinol 
7. A course of Epitalon;
8. A repair course of BPC-157.
I’m looking into the bio-hacking world to see if they have any additional reliable protocols for either extending health-span or limiting the effects of ageing (either literally, or even just the visible markers of ageing). This is a new passion of mine as I firmly believe that ageing can be slowed and many of the symptoms of ageing put off for decades. There’s no reason you have to be fat, lethargic, and knackered at fifty. Personally speaking, I look younger now than I did five years ago. I feel better than ever, even better than at the peak of my kickboxing aged twenty-six.
Obviously, I know ageing is remorseless and unavoidable. However, you don’t have to surrender to it immediately. If there’s reader interest, I’ll go into more detail on each element of my regime.
Young and free, or old and knackered, I’m still the world’s best daygame coach. If you want to max out your own daygame skills, you have to get my Daygame Overkill video instruction series here. There’s nothing else even comes close.
 I just restarted in Belgrade this Monday and I’m very pleased to be back on it.
You all remember the Steve McQueen classic The Great Escape, right? If you haven’t seen that perhaps you’ve at least seen Escape To Victory. The six years of World War 2 were dark days, as the whole of humanity was under the cosh. Looking back now, the war seems absolutely insane. What on earth were our leaders thinking? Why did all of white Christian Europe fight each other when we could’ve easily just ganged up on the rest of the world? Imagine the Wehrmacht teaming up with the British and French Armies to kick the fuck out of Turkey. Wouldn’t that have been glorious? We could’ve kept going, all the way to China.
Imagine a world without China. Doesn’t that sound beautiful?
But no. The big daft cunts had to fight each other with the predictable result of surrendering half of Europe to communism and laying the foundation to surrender the rest to a flood of unarmed Africans sixty years later. What a shit show.
Speaking of shit shows, let me tell you about my own great escape. This is the inspiring story of one plucky freedom fighter’s daring breakout from Gulag Britain at the peak of Covid bullshit.
I recently expressed an interest in getting the fuck out of Britain before Boris instituted a blanket travel ban or mandatory Bill Gates “vaccinations”. My primary concern  was the UK turning into Australia and trapping its citizens for a whole year  so I decided to beat it. As Robert De Niro’s character says in Heat, never have anything you can’t leave behind in thirty seconds if you feel the heat coming around the corner. Belgrade is still mostly open. Restaurants, cafes, shops, gyms and so on are operating as normal until 8pm. You only need a 48-hour PCR test to enter. No special permits or citizens-only bullshit. I like Belgrade. I’ve got stuff going on there. So, Belgrade it was to be. I booked a ticket by KLM to fly from Newcastle on January 11th. It was an eye-watering £320 one-way but beggars can’t be choosers. Most flights are discontinued right now.
Four days beforehand, KLM sends me an email saying I need a negative PCR test no older than 72 hours to pass through Amsterdam (even in transit) and of course I already know it’s 48 hours for Serbia. No problem. I get an NHS PCR test and proudly hold the negative result email.
On the day of the flight I check-in at 4am for a 6am flight, having stayed up all night. My dad dropped me off because the Metro isn’t running and there are no taxis anymore because no-one travels or goes out, because everything is locked down in Tier 4 Newcastle. Two Colombian girls ahead of me in the queue are sent home because Colombia announced the day before that anybody who has been in UK in the past 14 days is banned entry to Colombia, even it’s own citizens. No tests, no isolation. Not even allowed in. They are rather distraught as it’s the first they’ve heard of it. Two other people are refused entry for reasons I don’t yet know.
It’s looking ominous for Krauser but I know Belgrade hasn’t barred entry and I’ve met all the requirements in the KLM email. I pass my passport across the counter and get out my email certificate. “Oh, we don’t accept NHS tests,” says the KLM check in assistant. “New policy, a week ago.” “You didn’t tell anyone,” I retort. “Your email says PCR test. This is a PCR test.” “It’s policy.”
I’m refused boarding. I get talking to a sailor who works in Norway who was refused boarding for the same reason. Another two after me suffer the same fate. KLM specifically exclude the NHS test but didn’t inform their customers. Cunts. I borrow the sailor’s phone to get my dad out of bed to pick me up  or I’d have been stranded at 4am in sub-zero weather.
Three hours of sleep then I get on the phone to sort it out. KLM customer support confirms the no-NHS policy then tell me Air Serbia hold the ticket so I have to call them. Air Serbia said under my ticket terms I must pay a £150 rebooking fee plus the additional fare rate, quoting me £500 for a one-way ticket on Thursday (on top of the £320 I already paid). No thank you. I go to my travel agent, Opodo, who keep me on hold two hours before telling me I have to go back to Air Serbia to get the rebooking fee waived.
I spent all day on the phone. Finally I sent an email to Air Serbia with attachments of my test and the KLM email, then finally get to bed. I wake up the next morning to find Air Serbia agree with me and have waived the fee. I get back on the blower and rebook for Monday 18th. Same flight, same price, one week later.
You’d think that’s the end of the drama. Oh no!
I need a private PCR test within 48 hours of arrival. It’s a six-hour total flight, so gotta be within 42 hours of departure. Now, the clinics only guarantee delivery of test results within 48 hours, though 24 hours is realistic. So, I try to get an appointment. There is only one clinic in the North East open on Saturday and its final appointment of the day is 10:45. I’m due to arrive in Belgrade 12:30, or 11:30 UK time. So, that appointment would render my test 45 minutes out of date. There are no Sunday appointments (and likely result wouldn’t arrive in time for check-in).
There’s no wiggle room. The clinic won’t wait the 45 minutes longer, and said the system would put appointment time on the certificate. So, there is nowhere to get a private test.
I chat a bit to the clinic receptionist and she tells me all the local clinics send their samples to a laboratory in Barnard Castle. That’s a tiny scenic village at the south of County Durham, about 80 minutes drive from my house. Obviously there are no trains or buses there. “I think they allow you to test at the laboratory itself,” she says.
I check online, find the clinic, and yes they offer a click-n-collect service 24/7. I get support on live chat and they assure me they’ll be open on Saturday and results usually take 24 hours. I book a kit online and strong-arm my dad to agree to drive me down. That problem seems solved. That’s Tuesday evening. I go to bed at least reasonably confident everything is squared away.
Then I’m talking to Roy Walker. He just got to Cape Town.
“Mate, I got stopped by an undercover cop at Boarding in Heathrow. She was asking me where I’m going and the purpose of my trip. You’re not allowed to leave the UK for holiday. You need a business reason.” “Did you have one?” “Yeah, my mate there wrote me a letter asking for an engineering quote. I told the cop it was a business development trip. She bought it.”
So I spent Wednesday sorting out my bullshit cover story for travel. On Thursday I go walkies with Brooding Sea in the city centre. Just as I’m about to get the bus home I get an email from KLM. My Monday flight is cancelled. The square-headed Dutch government bastards have just banned all flights in and out of the country, it says. Fuck. I rush home and call up Air Serbia to arrange a refund. While the phone is still on hold I open Sky Scanner and desperately search options. The only non-KLM flights are out of Luton and Heathrow. There’s a good direct Air Serbia flight at Sunday lunchtime and….. there are two seats left. I book without even waiting for Air Serbia customer support to pick up about my existing Monday ticket. At least now I’ll be taking the PCR test on Friday.
I need to get to London. There are only four trains each day and none of them arrive early enough to catch the flight. So I buy a ticket for the day before. I’ll have to spend Saturday night at a friend’s house in London. I call Xants who offers me his spare room but adds, “you might not want it, because my flatmate literally has Covid right now and is in isolation in his room.” That wouldn’t bother me but there’s a fair chance I’d not get to board the flight and have to return to Newcastle, where I’m staying with two parents who are in the legitmate Covid risk demographic. I try another pal and his landlord isn’t even allowing his girlfriend to come over, due to bullshit Covid fears. Finally, Big Baldie offers me his floor.
“Don’t have a sofa. Don’t even have a lounge, mate,” he adds.
I take it and then order a click-n-collect sleeping bag from Argos for £10, to collect on my way back from the lab on Friday. It’s at that moment that KLM sends me a new email implying the Monday flight is still on, and this entire Heathrow rigmarole might be unnecessary. But, the money is already spent and I really don’t trust the squareheads to fly on Monday. At least now KLM has added a line to the email saying they don’t accept NHS tests. They must’ve had a lot of angry customers over that.
Friday comes and it’s heavy snow. There is one road to Barnard Castle, over the moors. There’s heavy fog and visibility is severely restricted. At any moment we expected to come onto Road Closed signs that would force us to call off the entire trip. Luckily, we get there. I take the test in the lab car park, under heavy snow, then get some fish and chips. The test is timed to be valid for the Sunday Heathrow flight. It will have expired by Monday morning’s Newcastle flight (if it’s even on).
On the way home through the moors, I get a message from Salman. it’s a screen cap of newspaper headline that Boris has just announced a travel ban starting 4am Monday morning- two hours before I was due to leave. Sunday is now Last Chance Saloon. Now I’m concerned  that the worst-case Aussie situation will play out: total travel ban from UK. While sitting in the car as my dad drives through the fog I search Skyscanner for ANY country that (i) will let me in, and (ii) isn’t crazy expensive to fly to at short notice, and (iii) flies on Sunday.
The entire EU is ruled out because citizens or residence permit holders only. Most of the rest of the world too for the same reasons. It looks like Latvia is open and it’s £13 from Edinburgh on Ryanair. I book that before it disappears and figure to check when I get home. I get home and read the newspaper sites. Ah, Boris didn’t ban all flights. He just ended the travel corridors through which people can enter the UK without isolation. Still, the papers say many flights will now be cancelled due to onerous new requirements. You can fucking bet KLM will be one of them. It turns out Latvia wouldn’t let me in anyway, so that option was a false hope.
I have a brainwave over night. This is a chance to set up a satisfactory fall-back plan if London-Belgrade falls through: Go to Russia. My business visa to Russia expires on 1st Feb and the governments ban on UK nationals entering the country expires on the 15th. It’s the fifteenth right now. I could fly as early as tomorrow, spend a week or so in Moscow, then take one of the convienient Moscow-Belgrade flights into Serbia. Problem solved!
I’d even have a solid business case for leaving the UK and a business visa to back it up.
So the next morning I call my visa contact and ask him: do I need extra days on my visa after my stay (like you do with a passport expiry) or can I remain in Russia until literally the last day? “You can stay until the very last day no problem,” he answers. “But, this morning the Russian government extended their ban on UK nationals until Feb 1st. You cannot enter until then.” “My visa expries on Feb 1st.” “Yes.”
So, it all came down to catching a train to London. There were engineering works on the line making the usual sub-3 hour journey now take 5 hours, via Cambridge on slower, shitter lines. If anything goes wrong with my train, I can’t get to London, and therefore can’t get out the UK. Just before bedtime, Xants sends me a screencap of the overnight weather forecasts. Heavy snow and sub-zero temperature: the kind of weather that leads to train cancellations. He seems to find it amusing. As I fall asleep I can hear heavy snow and wind thudding against my windows.
I wake up to bright, clear weather. The snow has already cleared. I hop on to Trainline Live Service Updates relieved to see all four trains are on time. My PCR test comes back and I print it out. I’m ready! My dad drops me off in town and now I’m wondering if the Covid police are gonna give me shit boarding the train. Nope, it’s a breeze. I get to London on time.
I check Kings Cross underground station for service updates and I’m dismayed to see the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow is suspended due to engineering work. Literally nothing in this trip is going to plan! I must get a bus to Paddington and then the Heathrow Express. I spend the evening walking around Camden with Big Baldie then get a reasonable night’s sleep. He walks me to the bus stop at 9am and I’m off to Heathrow.
Now I was just hoping I hadn’t misread the Serbia entry restrictions (or they hadn’t changed overnight) and that the Covid cops wouldn’t interrogate me. The Air Serbia staff, bless them, barely glanced at my certificate. I could’ve written my own in crayon for all they cared. They never asked the purpose of my visit. I took my boarding pass with great relief and this was the first time in a week I believed I might actually succeed in my travel plans.
I didn’t see any Covid cops. I spent £4 on a copy of the Financial Times and rolled it under my arm when walking to the gate, just to look a bit more business-trip-like. There were no questions. The last hurdle was Serbian immigration but they too just checked my PCR test and let me in on the usual visa.
Thank fuck for that!
So, what a drama. I got an email that same day from KLM confirming they had indeed cancelled the Monday flight. So, it had been London or nothing all along.
This is all very interesting I’m sure but has nothing to do with shagging hot birds. Daygame Overkill, however, has everything to do with picking up and shagging birds. It’s the best video instructional available. Buy it now from this link or be a fag forever.
 Concern, not fear. I’m fuckin’ rock, so I don’t fear anything or anyone.  Like my Aussie pal Joe who has been locked down all year and has to entertain himself my smashing up his house under the guise of “renovations”.  High value.  Just concerned, mind you. Not frightened.
Old time Christian advice is to count your blessings each morning. I think this is excellent advice and I’ve tried to stick to a routine of it throughout 2020. Partly, there’s the moral case for looking on the bright side of life. Despair is a sin. Hope is good. Even false hope is better than despair because at least false hope motivates action to improve your life. Despair traps you in inactivity.
Since I started investigating bio-hacking- beginning a month ago- I see many speakers are offering a biological case to support the old time advice. Essentially, your thoughts influence your physiology and happy thoughts encourage a healthier body and better moods.
Think happy, be happy.
When you’re unhappy and stressed, your heart beats faster, your breathing becomes shallow and more likely to come from the chest than the stomach, and your body dumps cortisol into your blood. All of these are bad for you. Cortisol is the unhappy chemical that makes you feel agitated. Its purpose is to spur action. Cortisol in your blood is good if you really do need to act. It’s a curse if it’s a false alarm. It inhibits lots of the body’s natural processes.
Looking back on 2020 I had a pretty good year. It was considerably less fulfilling than 2019 due to Covid but judged objectively I did alright. Despite cancelling or postponing five of my six residential coaching programs, my income didn’t drop below my expenses. I’m grateful I didn’t take backward steps on my routine yearly living. That’s a reason to be cheerful.
My grand plan to get back on it with daygame on April 1st was totally wiped out by Covid. When April came I was under full lockdown in Belgrade. There was a 6pm weekly curfew and nobody allowed out at all for any reason on weekends. Everything bar food and pharmacies were closed. It was a bag of shite. Somehow, I still enjoyed myself. The weather was nice, I stayed on point with gym and diet by training at home and getting all my usual food delivered. My home brewed coffee was tasty. I wasn’t even especially bored as I was into my book reading (160 total books read by end of 2020), wrote a little, played a few games, and occasionally even met friends. Daygame was frustrated but I was in the country I wanted to be in and doing alright. Could’ve been a lot worse. Reasons to be cheerful.
I’d originally intended to dial back the obsessive gym work by April 1st to focus on daygame. But with skirt-chasing off limits, I rededicated to gym and diet. Belgrade gyms opened up and I spent most of the rest of 2020 training at 100% in quality gyms. Diet stayed on point. So I actually ended 2020 in physically better shape than I would have planned had daygame sucked up my primary focus of time and energy. Reasons to be cheerful.
I spent all summer hanging out in Belgrade with Jimmy. We’d sit on a cafe patio chilling out trying to at least get the occasional set in. We’d eat well and both had our training routines. To a normal person, it was living the dream. We were frustrated by the horrible daygame prospects but everything else was great. I evaded the entire year of lockdown bullshit that Brits endured in the UK. Reasons to be cheerful.
We averaged something like one set each every two days and with poor results. Girls just weren’t much interested in meeting men and the volume was never enough to hit critical mass where you get into a flow and there’s enough going on to deal with normal attrition. But we got our 10k+ steps in every day, had a laugh, and at least occasionally had hot girls to shoot at. It wasn’t all bad, hanging out with my pal in a nice city. Reasons to be cheerful.
The highlight of my year was unquestionably the first of my two months in Moscow, beginning September 2nd. The weather held almost all month with bright sunshine, t-shirt and shorts weather, and lots of girls out on streets barely affected by Covid. Roy came over for a month too. I got in over a hundred sets and many were great. There were idates, dates, make-outs, near misses, and one of my best ever notches. In terms of attraction generated, I’d literally never had a better month. The sheer volume and quality of girls expressing interest in me was the best I’ve experienced in my whole life. It was a reason to be extremely cheerful.
Gyms in Moscow were fully open and my Russian pal found a top class place, even better than my usual Belgrade gym. I didn’t have a personal trainer in Moscow but I did have a reliable gym buddy so we cranked out nine consecutive weeks of high intensity training without a single skipped session. Add in the 15k daily daygame steps average and I ended Moscow in the best shape of my life, both in health and aesthetics. I felt amazing. October was cold and bleak in comparison, with a desperate shortage of sets to shoot at, but I still enjoyed myself.
So, as of my November 8th return to Newcastle I was feeling alright. I’d mostly escaped Covid bullshit and despite logging a sub-optimal year I could in no way complain that it wasn’t a good year by more objective standards. For fucks sake, I’d only worked a total of five days and I’d spent almost all the year in my two favourite cities hanging out with pals.
November in the UK was nice, being back home to see family and chill out. It was a month of lockdown but it didn’t matter as everything I wanted to do was at home anyway. I read books, plugged on with my final memoir, and finished a few video games. It was relaxing. I barely even thought about the fact I was locked down.
This is all lovely but the alleged horrible year of 2020 finally got me down in December. I think it was primarily hormonal, a result of a second month of Covid restriction. It started to agitate me that shops were closed and I couldn’t sit in cafes or restaurants. Gym opening and closing was unpredictable so I did what I could. It was bitterly cold and wet so I didn’t get my steps in. I think my body rebelled. Adding to the stress were health problems in my family. My dad had a heart attack in mid-August meaning I came home a couple weeks to be there. Fortunately it was mild and he made a full recovery. He’s got a stent in his heart now and daily heart pills but is otherwise doing all the same things he was. Then he had a bowel cancer scare and needed a biopsy. Fortunately the test came back with an all clear. Those scares really made him face his own mortality and he went on a doctor-advised diet and has slimmed right down to a healthy weight already. My mum has continued to slowly lose her mind so two months of sharing that burden has been stressful. Additionally, my youngest aunt is in the highest Covid risk demographic due to pre-existing conditions so she’s been completely locked down since March and is feeling the isolation and depression of it. I’d been cocooned away from all this during my trips but now I was living in the middle of it and doing my best to provide moral support. It does drag you down.
The US election nonsense didn’t bother me too much. It was certainly dramatic, having Trump win by landslide then Biden blatantly stealing the vote, and all the various fallout of the courts, media, GOP, Congress, and Big Tech all go fully lawless in supporting the steal. I didn’t like to see evil bare its teeth but it was at least fascinating to follow. The masks are off and the Great Awakening has happened. Fully 50+% of the US population now knows that the election was stolen, voting is rigged, the Establishment is in China’s pocket, and elites are selling out the West to its enemies. Back in 2015 normies would’ve thought you a deranged conspiracy theorist had you explained all that. Now it’s common knowledge. The people in denial of it are considered the crazies. I don’t know how it’ll all shake out but as of early January I found the drama exhausting. The ups had cancelled out the downs for two months but finally it was just tiring to pay attention.
So, it’s the second week of January and I’m a bit antsy. I want to walk more  and get back in the gym. I want to get the fuck out of the UK at the earliest opportunity, and I very much hope that at least some popular daygame destinations recover their street traffic in spring. I found 2020 alright and remain optimistic for 2021 but, fucking hell, I wish I could get on it. I want winter to end.
Reasons to be cheerful:
In the best shape of my life;
Birds still love ‘umble Krauser;
Finances didn’t take too bad a pounding, even allowing for blowing a bunch betting on Trump’s election;
Big things still to come in 2021;
Memoir 95% complete;
Got myself a few tentative new interests that should keep me motivated throughout now that the reading orgy and gym is dialled back.
If this is all rambling nonsense to you, you’d best buy Daygame Overkill here. It’s the best in-field video instructional course in the world and what better time to polish your technique in anticipation of getting back on it yourself in spring?
 At the minute I’m stuck with Broody and his insane ramblings. I think I might shoot myself.
I’ve been back in Newcastle almost two months now. I’m sure we can all agree that 2020 daygame was a pile of toss. Thank you very much Chinky communist cunts and your globalist stooges. I’m due reparations from the CCP scumbags and oh do I hope and pray that Trump cancels all the US debt they hold. Fucking scumbags.
Anyway, the irony wasn’t lost on me that I spent two years away from daygame getting my life and health back in order and “transitioning” to a post-daygame life only to find that when I decided to get back on the streets (April 1st) the chinks had gotten the whole world locked down. I managed about one month of total daygame in 2020, doing 95% of my year’s pitiful total of approaches in Moscow in September 
Maybe I’ll write more about my 2020 if there’s reader interest. For now it’s just a longwinded segue into what I’ve been doing in Newcastle: inching through my memoir. It’s now up to 145k words which puts it on a par with all the other volumes  and I’ve completed what I consider the “full draft”. That’s just my own silly term to mean I’ve (a) gotten the full chronological period covered and (b) hit my target word count. So I’m now onto the “second edit” meaning I start at the beginning of the manuscript and read through trying to clean it up and improve prose quality and pacing. Funnily enough, this is the stage where I find out what I’ve written. When writing the first draft I just start at the beginning and plod through, never re-reading completed chapters, so I quickly forget what I’ve written.
Here is a sample section from the first draft. This is how my writing looks at the first attempt. It’ll get cleaned up a bit on this next pass.
“Bro, I’ve got some time off work. Let’s go to Odessa,” he said. I expressed my lack of interest. “Tell you what, Big Bro,” he continued. “I’ll fly you down and pay for your hotel.”
That changed my mind.
So, on the tenth of June I boarded a flight at Warsaw’s Chopin airport to the Ukranian sea-side resort. As I watched the blanket of clouds beneath me I still couldn’t rustle up any enthusiasm. We soon dipped back through the clouds over the sparkling Black Sea and even a panorama of natural beauty did nothing for me. I was in a good mood- life was going well- but I had low expectations and had made the trip simply because Kenan had made things so easy.
Odessa airport was a tip. It was a barn-like Soviet-era monstrosity.
I shouldered my rucksack and stepped into the hot sunshine, following the signs to the airport transfer bus. I had to fend off a few taxi drivers who’d stepped out of the 1970s to solicit my fare. When I arrived at the bus stop I couldn’t quite believe it. The transfer terminal was, quite literally, a shack. The blue paint cracked on every surface exposing deep rust beneath. A paper was pinned on the wooded wall in Ukranian gibberish with what looked to be a timetable. After a half hour a battered minibus arrived and I jumped on. The driver never asked for a fare.
I walked on through to the back seat and looked out the window. The bus stopped a few more times headed into town, picking up a handful of passengers. I continued gazing out the window in awe at the grinding poverty of the Odessa suburbs. First I passed isolated broken-down farm houses and then the clustered hovels of gypsy camps. These gave way to battered tenements and eventually to the city centre. Here and there I noticed shopping malls, which appeared to be the only buildings in good repair.
Odessa was the dirtiest, most broken-down city I’d seen since Belgrade. Yet it lacked Belgrade’s charm.
It appeared completely un-daygameable from what I’d seen. The pavements were empty and noisy disorganised traffic shuttled past at high speed. The few plazas we passed were choked off by unruly traffic roundabouts and street sellers. I kept my spirits up by reminding myself many FSU cities are like this outside the old centre. It’s always the old centre that counts.
To my relief, when we finally pulled around the corner from my hotel, we were in the nice part of town. Kenan had gotten us a room each in a fancy-pants hotel, the Frapolli Hotel on Derybasivska street. It was a delightfully retro hotel with blue painted outer walls, an art deco metal and glass street-facing lounge restaurant, and small balconies overlooking the famous street.
“This is certainly the nice part of town,” I thought as I noted all the brand new flash cars parked outside. I’d left all the rattling Ladas and Yugos a few blocks back.
The hotel reception did not disappoint. There was a large brick fireplace in one corner with a few leather easy chairs pulled up in front and a grand piano next to it. A winding dark brown wooden staircase spiralled up to the guest rooms. On the other side of the staircase were more leather chairs and pleasant decorative wrought-iron pillars painted pastel red. Whatever happened, this would be a nice getaway from my typical daygame squalor.
It was not yet four in the afternoon and Kenan wasn’t due until eight, so I went outside for a look about. A few miles distant I saw some ominous-looking clouds but as yet the sky directly over my head was brilliantly clear. I walked around the block, checking out the footfall and vibe to see if their was daygame to be had. I remember Tom telling me of a trip he’d made to Odessa around 2013-ish. “Shite for daygame, mate. Grotty as fuck. No sets. I got really lucky with a same day lay.”
Not that I believed him, but let’s not flog that particular dead horse any more.
His assessment of daygame opportunities seemed spot on, though. I didn’t see a single hot girl. Nothing even to the standard of “at least it’s a notch” shaggable. I returned to the hotel and had a lie down.
Kenan arrived, brimming with positivity. “Bro, let’s go out. I’ll buy you dinner.” “Okay.”
Kenan led the way to a nearby dining district composed of two long pedestrian streets lined with restaurants and with a long grassy park between them. The atmosphere was pleasant and I noticed it was popular with middle-aged couples and families with young children. It wasn’t at all popular with single women of shaggable age, however, and in the three hours we sat at an outside table to eat, I only got up once to do a set. Little did I know, that would be my only daygame set of the trip.
The next day, it started raining heavily.
And I do mean heavily. For several hours Kenan and I sat in the hotel lobby looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows shaking our heads in disappointment.
“Bro, this is not good. Already we have the problem that we are slightly early for the holiday season. This does not help.”
The rain did stop by dinner time so we went out again to eat but there streets had been washed of any sets that might’ve been abroad. Kenan suggested we hit a nightclub. I wasn’t at all enthusiastic, having been singularly unimpressed with Kiev clubs, but Kenan did make the very reasonable case that Odessa is a resort town and all the best tottie would be at the beach-front area called Arcadia.
“This is where the beach and clubs are,” he said. “The girls sleep all day and then drive to the clubs. It is far from here, so they don’t walk the streets. We can get a taxi there. It is our best hope.”
I checked my watch. It was getting on the nine pm. I didn’t have any other plans, so I agreed. Anyway, Kenan was funding the whole trip so it would’ve been churlish to let him down on a Saturday night. We went back to the hotel to rest, aiming to hit the clubs around eleven.
While waiting in the lobby I couldn’t help but notice and exceedingly beautiful woman sitting on a chair across the room from me. Tall, leggy, and in fantastic gym-shape, she looked an absolute knock-out in her figure-hugging evening dress. She was as close to a ten as exists in the real world.
And she was looking at me.
It took me a little while to realise it, what with the ten metres or so between us, and that stunners never give out obvious IOIs like that. Once I realised she was indeed trying to catch my eye, I got up and walked over. She gave me a welcoming smile and indicated I could sit next to her. After a few sallies, I realised she couldn’t speak English.
A woman old enough to be her mum came over and helped translate. “She says you look very nice,” said the old battle axe. “Thank you. She too is pretty, though I’m worried because Ukranian girls are crazy.” There was a short exchange in Slavic babble between the females and the battle axe turned back to address me. “She says thank you but she is not crazy. Where are you from?” By now, Kenan was coming down the spiral staircase. He looked over the bannister at me, assessed the situation, and then came over. “This is a professional girl, my friend,” he said. “I think you prefer the club.”
Kenan was only confirming what I’d already figured out- when something looks too good to be true, it usually is. I have occasionally rattled very attractive women but not ever have they sat in hotel lobbies making fluttery eyes at my fat ass before I’ve even had a chance to begin my silver-tongued magic. I said good bye to the young lady and her madam. It was all quite polite.
A taxi pulled up outside.
“Mate, I’ve heard Odessa is pussy paradise but so far I’m very disappointed. That one whore aside, I see more fuckable women on Northumberland Street.” “Where is this?” “Newcastle.” “Don’t worry,” Kenan laughed. “I’m sure the nightclub will be better.”
If you don’t buy Daygame Overkill, you’re a bit of a daft cunt. It’s by far the best in-field coaching product out there.
1 – One lay with a 24-yr old stunner I picked up in Gipsy nightclub at 2am while drunk out of my mind and banged ten days later on first date. Again, the irony is not lost on me. Also two near misses with very hot young women, a few make outs, and a few dates to nowhere. 2 – Except for Balls Deep second edition which is a whopping 210k words.