Sylvie and Sioux - I will soon be putting my fifty penn'orths worth into your little saga on my Serb Apathy posting as soon as I get myself rested and can read through the cryptic muddled meanderings of your veiled insults.

And, sadly, I feel I am somehow driven to unleash my wrath upon the buffoon who dared to mention the kick & clap code on my blog – Mr. SpringbokBeaverEagle (adopted RSA nickname perhaps Andre or Morne). Sorry old chap, no toffs allowed on this site. Go on, sling your ‘ook!!!!!

There are two basic types of motivators: big-uppers and ball-breakers. While both achieve success in Western countries, ball-breakers will find it much harder to motivate the fearless Serbs into shifting their idle arses... at least for the time being.

After years of playing rugby league as a youngster, I learnt that there are two basic types of coaches: big-uppers and ball-breakers. These coaches (or company managers in the real world) are, of course, defined by their tactical approach to their charges.

A couple of days ago (1st August) was the fourth anniversary of my arrival in Serbia. Four whole years in Belgrade and I’m still making more grammatical errors than a dyslexic Nišljanin or a Microsoft Word spellchecker.

And it was on the occasion of my alter-ego’s fourth birthday that I sat back and reflected upon why I haven’t really gone native after all, though a large body of evidence suggests that I have become a ‘Srbenda’: my tendency to indulge in a breakfast consisting of strong, black, bitter ‘Turkish’ coffee and two cigarettes; my love of greasy burek with yoghurt (which I hated when I first arrived); my tendency to instinctively swear in Serbian if some idiot cuts me off in my car or I stub my toe, the fact that I know the words to quite a few EKV and Partibrejkers songs and am always quick to defend Serbia; the fact that I’m immediately turned off by anyone who listens to music I don’t consider ‘normal’ or frequents bars I consider too ‘fancy’ or too much of a ‘rupa’ (hole) and, as ‘Colin/bgd’ quite rightly pointed out in an earlier comment, I’ve “mastered the only true discipline of every native "serb-warrior-jedi" master: self-delusion”.

Before heading down to Montenegro last week, I went through the usual rigmarole of declaring my departure at the local police station, which is necessary each time I leave Serbia. However, when I crossed the border into the independent Republic of Montenegro no customs officers entered the bus to even look at our passports/ID cards. Concerned that the police in Belgrade would give me grief about the lack of a stamp in my passport when going to declare my arrival, I made a point of getting off the bus at the border on the return leg of my trip and requesting a stamp in my passport. I was greeted by a confused looking customs officer who explained that I couldn’t get a stamp because I hadn’t left the country.

Morning Madness on Kalenić Market

It was the morning after the night before. My Saturday headache was exceeding its usually intensity, thanks to a combination of MB (Maim your Brain) Pivo, the deafening night time noise of squealing water pipes in the building and the grating whines of cats on heat.

As I said in a previous posting, learning the Serbian language is not enough to gain an understanding of the Serbs. Indeed, before one can even attempt to comprehend what makes the Serbs tick, it is important to develop at least a cursory understanding of the Serbian interpretations of Balkan history.

A Sunday morning on the Belgrade side of Palilula

It was 10am at an anonymous kafic (café bar) on Takovska Street.

I was sipping strong black ‘Turkish’ coffee in the smoggy sunshine and talking to our lass, when one of the regulars arrived.

“Stigli su jagnjici” (the lambs have arrived), said Kiza.

When I first arrived in Belgrade I felt like I’d discovered a slightly neglected parallel universe. I suppose I’d expected to find a poor, crumbling example of a failed Eastern Bloc state (and in many ways I suppose I had). But, as is always the case, it was the little things – the creature comforts - that convinced me that this place was in no way inferior to our own world, just… well… different.

The family I stayed with had all the accessories and appliances one would expect to find in any normal, urban world: multiple colour TVs, home PC, washing machine, etc. But I’d never heard of these manufacturers or seen these models before. ‘Maybe in this universe Beta had won the war against VHS’, I remember thinking. They hadn’t, of course, but it was a thought.

First sentences are always the hardest. Do you go for the friendly ‘hi, I’m Mark, and I’m going to write about puppies…’, and end up sounding like a slightly camp junior school teacher; or do you go for the harsher, yet infinitely more direct, ‘Oy! People! Listen to me! The planet is doomed and we’re all to blame…’, and end up sounding like a bearded, unkempt, over-wound Greenpeace activist.

In this instance, I’ve gone for both first lines, as you can see, and now we can move on.

Through the medium of this B92 blog, I’ll be taking you on a whirlwind tour of the life and times of one seriously displaced Yorkshireman who’s managed to carve out a life in the heart of the Balkans and develop a warped understanding of the people of Belgrade.