Parking

Not the most interesting title but bear with me. Today I went to the parking office to get a parking permit but I couldn’t park because I didn’t have a parking permit. You’d have thought the parking office would have thought that through.

Theres just loads of people driving round and round the building, going ‘I can’t park, I need a permit!’ I reckon some have been there for years.  Jeff and Deirdre are just sat inside going,

 ‘It’s quiet aint it. Not had anyone in again’.

They’ve been there 50 years and think cars haven’t really caught on.

 ‘Only done 5 passes this week Deirdre, we’ll never stay in business at this rate’.

‘Well, they’ve never caught on Jeff’

‘I knew they wouldn’t Deirdre, always said it’.

To make matters worse, on the way there I saw a lollipop man standing at a set of traffic lights. That’s over kill. If the council can afford to pay a lollipop man to stand at a set of traffic lights just in case anyone misses the massive flashing lights then surely it can afford to pay for the parking office to have a car park. To make matters worse it was one of those sets of lights that also had a zebra crossing.  I reckon he’s just been there since the 60’s, they put down a zebra crossing and he went

‘Do one, I’ve got a fluorescent jacket  and a sign, no animals replacing me.’

Then they put in lights and he said

‘f*ck off, I say when people cross round here, I’ve got a hat. I’ve seen a zebra off, lights are nothing’.

As I was sat there wondering why the council had employed this three-pronged approach, the lollipop man appeared to begin talking to himself.  I thought that’s odd, each to their own, it’s a lonely job. Then I realized he was arguing with the lights. I was sat there for ages. In the end I had to run him over or the council would have done me for parking without a permit.

I finally found a space, after asking a couple of passersby…

‘Excuse me lads, is there anywhere to park round here?’

‘Where u trying 2 go mate?’

‘Parking office’

‘Yeah u can’t park round there mate’

I found a spot 10 minutes away, jumped out and realized I didn’t have any change for the pay and display.  Incidentally why don’t they take cash or card, they’re as bad as the lollipop man,

‘You can keep your posh notes and visa cards, I’m shillings only mate’,

I know it can’t talk but if it could, I’m pretty sure that’s what it’d be saying, once it had stopped laughing in my face.  I called it a mug and told it to get with the times. If ‘lollipop norm’ (I think his name was Norm) can talk to a machine then so can I.

Anyway, he’s won the argument and I’ve run to Sainsburys whilst illegally parked and got a cut loaf and a chomp (15p, I fancied it, I know I’m fat, don’t go on about it, if anything the breads worse).  I’ve gone self-service, one look at the cashier pretending she could do it better than the machine brought back memories of the hit and run on lollipop norm.  Luckily, unlike the pay and display this machine wasn’t a wanker and took my tenner. It’s spat me out a 5 pound note, 2 two pound coins and a few coppers. I let it keep the coppers for a job well done. Treat the wife.

I’ve ran back expecting to be greeted by the 2^nd wally in a hat I’ve encountered in this short trip, this one I expected to be giving me a parking ticket which would have been ironic seeing as no one else would give me one all day.

Anyway, I’ve got back and there’s no wally in a hat, I’m all good. Then I’ve realized the pay and display, not only doesn’t like notes or cards but it’s picky about its coins. No £2 coins apparently. Brilliant, now it’s really laughing.

So I turn around and run back to Sainsburys (earning my chomp if anything) grab a twirl, (not fat, I didn’t even want it) I already had a chomp but I had to get something for under £2 so I could get some pay and display acceptable coins. I’ve ran back chomp in one hand, twirl in the other, cut loaf under my arm and luckily still no wally in a hat. I think the parking attendant saw the lollipop shaped dent in my bonnet and thought this guy hates fellas in hats, I’m going nowhere near this Ford KA, its obviously driven by a mad man.

As it goes I’ve never liked hats, they’ve always made my ears look big. I’ve probably grown into my ears as my cheeks have got bigger but I’ve got bad memories from when I wore an England hat in euro 96, I got it free with a crate of Um Bungo and everyone  called me Dumbo.

Anyway that’s irrelevant, I’ve got my coins and I’m all set. I’ve taken a look at the machine directly outside my car and thought,

‘I don’t fancy that one, it looks a bit knackered and it’s been mugging me off’

So I went to the next one down.  I’ve whacked most my coins in and then looked for the button. That’s where I went wrong. There wasn’t one. Because it wasn’t a pay and a display, it was a pay meter, where it just says on the meter how long you can park there for.  As I didn’t like my meter, this meant the fella behind me could now park there for the rest of the month whilst I had 40p left for my, by now pissing itself meter.  I’ve whacked it in and got 40minutes, considering I’m a 10 minute drive from the parking office and I’ve just had a twirl and a chomp, I’m up against it.

After a difficult run, I finally got in the parking office. I let Deirdre know I’ve had to park 20 minutes away and suggested a park and ride system. She told me to get a ticket and take a seat in the waiting room. I said to her,

‘You don’t want us to walk round and round the office until it’s our turn then? Just take a ticket and sit down in that designated waiting area over there?’

‘Yep’

‘Bit like a car park then?’

‘No one uses them’, she said. ‘We sell permits, barely get anyone in’.

After 30 mins my number was called, I got my permit and jumped on the train back to the car. 

You guessed it, there’s a pillock in a hat and he’s writing me out a £50 ticket. He must have known Norm. Meanwhile the car behind me’s pulling out and shouting to a passing car,

‘Come in here mate, I’ve got loads of time on this’.

Back in da hood

Sup peeps. It’s been a while. I’ve been back in the UK 10months now and haven’t written since so wanted to have another pop. If that’s not sucked you in then I don’t know what will so strap in, it’s gona be a ride.

Whilst I was travelling Central America it soon became apparent that in order to be a real traveller there were a few things you had to do:

1. Never wash
2. Get a stick
3. Play an instrument
4. Befriend an old man
5. Wear Aladdin trousers

The stick was a walking aid, apparently vital for the 18-25 year old gap year market. It didn’t matter what the instrument was as long as you had absolutely no idea how to play it. The old man had to have a beard and the Aladdin trousers had to be the loudest colour(s) you could find.

I’ve gotta be honest I thought it was all a bit silly and even though I had an amazing time, by the end I was looking forward to getting back to normal society.

Once I was back I decided I better start looking for a job. Knowing I’d be short my Mum had brought me some more socks with the day written on them. She’s my Mum, she knows what I’m like. These ones weren’t any ordinary day of the week socks though they had a lil adjective for each day. Starting a bit miserable and then getting cheerier as the week went on. Monday was moody and Thursday was thirsty for example. Anyway they stopped me from going to work on a weekend so I couldn’t really complain. After lots of job hunting (always had Tuesdays off, they were troublesome apparently) I got an interview. Result.

So I whipped off my Aladdin trousers, stuck my suit on and toddled off to London with my stick. Apart from the fella wearing pink trousers in the office lobby and everyone doing that double kiss thing to greet each other (which always ends in embarrassment) the interview was going great.

Chuffed with how it was going I leant back in my chair and put my right leg over my left leg to create a relaxed air of confidence and an approachable demeanor, as I did this I saw a look of horror on the interviewers face. I looked down to where her eyes were transfixed and there, on my socks, in bright red it said…

‘Frisky Friday?’

I felt like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.

There and then I knew it was over. I’d already got the double kiss in reception all wrong. I was attempting ‘approachable and confident’ but requesting a fumble via the medium of a raised trouser leg and a suggestive sock was never part of the plan.

Anyway I picked myself up, brushed myself down and after a few weeks I got a job and was back in the game. I didn’t wear socks to the interview which I think they thought was a strange choice, especially with a suit but I wasn’t taking any chances. After a couple of months of working I started to put a ‘little’ bit of weight on, we’ve all been there, let’s not dwell on it. My family and friends were having a whale of a time whilst I was just getting called a whale so I thought it was time to re-assess my diet. Most days I would go to Sainsburys but I’d look at most people in the queue and they would be getting salads and yoghurts while I’d always go for a sandwich, crisps, sausage roll, fizzy pop and a mars bar. After realizing I was on the fast track to chubby town I bowled up one day, dragged myself away from the confectionary and got a banana and an orange juice to go with my sausage roll and space invaders. One step at a time I thought to myself. I walked out all proud, stuck my straw in my freshly squeezed OJ and tucked it under my arm to start on my banana. As I peeled it open, half of it broke off and started hurtling towards the ground. In a desperate attempt to save it (I’m a big lad, I need my grub) I bent over and tried to catch it. As I did so the freshly squeezed orange juice under my arm squished and squirted out in front of me. It was a packed shopping precinct so I feared the worst. Time stood still as I looked up more slowly than I ever have in my life to see a middle aged lady with orange juice all over her boobs.

I avoided cheap gags like ‘juicy tits’ or ‘can I help you with that?’ and instead apologized and tried to explain to her that it was organic and didn’t have any juicy bits so it could have been worse but it wasn’t helping.

That was the last day I ever brought fruit and a non-cola based drink. It’s nothing but trouble.

Another time Luce and I were going to Dublin for a few guinesses (terrible for weight gain) and a weekend away. I was in the line to board, loving life doing my best Riverdance impression. I had my saucy Saturday socks on; today was gona be a good day. Then I was approached by one of the airline staff members who asked to weigh my bag. Sure enough it was too big. She said ‘excuse me Sir, you’re overweight’. I said ‘Don’t you start!’

Anyway she asked me to check it in but worried we wouldn’t get a seat together I said I’d put a few bits on. A few bits turned into 3 t-shirts, 4 jumpers, 2 hoodies, a coat, and 3 towels (2 bath, 1 hand).

I waddled on board, looking like the whole healthy eating incident was a complete waste of time, to be greeted by a very smiley little Irish fella. I had a quick glance down to make sure my Saucy Saturday? socks weren’t winking at him (not that he would have gone for me unless he liked em ‘cuddly’) and then looked back up to see him holding out his hand…

‘Welcome aboard sir’

I shook his hand and said ‘thanks very much’

He said ‘errr, no sir, can I see your boarding pass please?’

Turns out he didn’t wana shake my hand at all. Nothing but rude these airline staff. So I gave him my boarding pass, a kiss on each cheek and strolled on.

Essentially that’s my last 10 months in a nutshell and you know what all this has made me realise? I’ll tell ya. It’s made me realise that the Aladdin’s had got it spot on from the beginning.

Let’s look at the facts.

They’re trousers are so silly they are always unemployed – avoids any awkward interview situations / sexual harassment allegations.

They’re loose fitting and elasticated around the waist – means you can eat as much as you like without having to worry about getting your top button done up and there’s plenty of space for towels if you get caught short at the airport.

I’ve dug mine out the cupboard and ordered some new ones with adjectives on the bum like ‘booty’ and ‘juicy’. Yeah I’m fat and unemployed but at least I won’t look stupid. In your face society.



Luce in her Aladdin trousers

Public Transport

Ola Amigo’s, All right chaps!

For those that don’t know once I finished my year living as a bit of an embarrassment to England in New York, Luce and I spent two weeks travelling the West Coast of the States, taking in Vegas, San Diego, LA, Santa Barbara, and San Fran and six weeks knocking about Central America; starting in Mexico (Cancun, culture), finishing in Costa Rica (costa lotta) and taking in Guatemala (did a bit with orphans, don’t like to talk about it), Honduras (excuse me, do you know Wilson Palacios?), Nicaragua (easy for you to say) and El Salvador (nearly died in a freak surfing incident) along the way.

Anyway we’re back now and I’ve got a lot of rubbish to talk so if you don’t mind I’ll crack on. I hope you enjoy reading about my misfortune.

After a brilliant time in Vegas (second best place in the world, hasn’t got a c0ck statue so Basingstoke still pips it) we boarded the infamous greyhound bus for a ten hour journey through the dessert too San Diego. We’d heard the horror stories about a man who was high on drugs decapitating someone whilst they slept because he thought they were out to get him (got to be a myth, you’d definitely wake up). Never the less with this in mind and as a heavy sleeper we decided to rush on the bus and get the seat by the toilet.

No-one wants to sit by the toilet so it’s the safest spot on the bus. Every time someone went to the toilet, part of me grimaced with fear of what was to come and part of me thanked them for saving my life. The more it smelt the further away the nutter’s moved.

Good seats, more leg-room and pleasant aroma equals decapitated whilst sleeping.

Bad seats, no leg room and terrible stench equals sweet dreams son, you should wake up with a head.

Luce was initially a bit disgruntled by this clear logic but she was soon thanking me and every toilet goer when after two hours of two women talking to them self constantly we pulled up outside a prison and picked up 10 new releases. On they hopped happy as Larry and started openly chatting about what they were all in for.

The fella sitting directly in front of me said murder and the fella opposite proudly stated attempted murder. I got straight up and moved to the other side of the bus. Luce said where you going? I said at least he f4cked his up. We’re safer here.

Then the fella in front of us started talking about fraud so I moved again. Luce really fed up with moving said why are you moving now? I said, he’s probably a murderer, the cheeky lil fraudster. Shrewd advice, Luce took it on board.

After another couple of hours of people either talking about murder or to them self, we had a welcome break. Completely different kettle of fish to our welcome breaks though. This one was full of nutter’s, should have been called prison break. Weird little town. We had to change buses so had to wait at a bus station in the middle of the dessert for over an hour. The Hills Have Eyes was a documentary.

There was an ugly woman dancing and singing inside so we decided to wait outside. Straight away we were approached by a fat ugly man (probably related to the ugly dancing woman) asking us to look after his dog while he went inside, he didn’t wait for an answer and went straight in. Before he’d said hello to his sister the dog was gone. Luce was panicking; I said he’ll probably forget he had a dog. Straight up, he walked straight out, lead in his hand, dog nowhere to be seen.

Next thing I know I turn to Luce and she’s repeatedly hitting herself with a bottle of ginger ale.

‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m trying to look mental’
‘Why?’
‘Then no-one will bother us, we got told to do it in our health and safety talk’

So I went inside and started dancing with dog mans sister.

Having survived the greyhounds with all body parts intact we moved onto Central America. The cheapest mode of transport is the oddly named chicken bus. I initially thought it was called the chicken bus in a copycat of the state side greyhound buses. But I did wonder why they didn’t go for lion bus or dinosaur bus in an anything you can do we can do better jibe to their neighbours. I thought chicken bus was a bit weak.

Anyway it turns out it wasn’t that. It was because chickens actually ride on the bus. Not on their own, they couldn’t reach over the counter to pay but with their owners. Everyone has a chicken and they don’t let them out their sight. The film Borat was spot on, you can learn a lot from film. Not just chickens though. Chickens, dogs, cows all welcome, no-one batted an eyelid. Talking of bats… Nah I’m joking, there were no bats, it was too damp. Didn’t see any sheep either, think they’re baaared. At times I thought I was on Noah’s ark. A horse tried to get on at one stop but luckily the driver said nay. That would have been ridiculous. It was silly at times, I don’t want to milk it but we shared one journey with a cow, I had to ask him to moooooove over; seat hoggers. Every time he sat down it rained, he was a nightmare.

In addition to this madness, humans got on and tried to sell you stuff. Fine as a concept but the product selection was awful. If I was selling to people on a long haul bus journey I’d go for your top sellers, bottled drinks and handy snacks and maybe throw in a couple of wild cards like cushions or a pack of top trumps. Not saying I’m right, I’m open to suggestions but they went for toothbrushes and water in a bag, which in its self is a rubbish idea. It’s essentially a water bomb and if you get on the school bus you’re soon wishing you were sat back next to a cow rather than opposite a thirteen year old with a water bomb.

As for seatbelts, they’ve had a go. They’re not quite there yet but they’ve tried. The problem they’ve got is as a first attempt they’ve gone for Velcro. Which is about as useful as when Lucy decided to buy some apples for the hobo’s in San Fran then realised when they graciously smiled at her that none of them had any teeth. Leaving us with eight granny smiths to get through. Where’s that toothbrush salesman when you need him?

In conclusion next time I’m standing at the bus stop in the rain waiting for two buses to turn up at once I’m going to look around and be grateful I’m not waiting in line with a cow, a serial killer and a couple of rebellious sheep.

Peace out New York

Whats happening dudes?

I just wanted to let you all know I leave New York tonight at 2am (technically tomorrow morning but tomato, tomatoe) so I’ve probably written my last blog post about a dopey Englishman living in New York. Although my Mum wants’ me to do one about when she came to visit so if I want a home to go to I might have to do one more.

I’m flying to straight to Vegas then providing I don’t lose all my money (didn’t think this through), we’re travelling through California for two weeks before heading to Central America for six weeks by which time I’ll probably be living in the jungle and hunting Toucans (googled that).

I’m sure I’ll embarrass myself every step of the way so will look forward to writing about it when I return home to the UK on May 13th.

Despite swimming with a floater, getting hustled by an eternally pregnant tramp and a few other little hiccups, I’m going to really, really miss New York and the land of the brave and the free. As some famous fella once said; ‘when you’re bored of New York, you’re bored of life’. Write that down (next to ‘listening kills’).

One thing I won’t miss about the land of opportunity is everyone greeting me by saying:

‘What’s happening dude?’ Or ‘Hey dude, what’s going on?’

I’ve never understood what I’m meant to say back? Do they really want me to tell them what’s happening?…

‘Personally not a lot, I’m pretending to look busy but my mates just emailed he’s been arrested for weeing on the street whilst dressed as a chicken, we’re all having a right laugh. Oh yeah and my Mums called, the dogs pooed on the carpet again and Tesco have got Jaffa Cakes two for one’.

Judging by the looks I got, I quickly worked out they probably didn’t so I normally just say;

‘Yeeaaah erm, I’m errr good thanks, you?’

Which doesn’t appear to be the answer they’re looking for either.

So far as I can work out people just say it to each other and no one really answers. When observing two real Americans in a lift last Monday it went summit like this:

‘What’s happening dude?’
‘Yeah, what’s going on man?’
‘Oohhh riiiggghhhht’

Being English I’ve got more chance of looking good in a baseball cap (and with my ears any type of headwear is strictly prohibited), than I have of pulling that off.

I thought they talked English over here, I was wrong.

See y’all soon! Laterz innit.

P.S. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read my blog; I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it!

Word to your mothers and big up yaself. I’ll let my boy Jay take it from here…

U.S.A. versus U.K. – Part 3

Queuing

Queuing in America is a con. I’ve heard them call it ‘waiting in line’ but its all part of the trick; there’s no waiting and there’s definitely no line. The line is just a decoy for the ‘charge’. People pretend to wait patiently in line then as soon as the doors open and you’re allowed on everyone charges, pushing as many people out the way as possible. It’s a dog eat dog world and looking at some of the dogs I think they probably have eaten several dogs or small animals so having been referred to as ‘monkey or chimp-like’ most of my life, I’m getting out the way. This is particularly so when trying to board the $1 Megabus. Some of them guys haven’t eaten for a while.

Essentially it’s a ‘snooze you lose’ attitude. This principle also applies to the trains where if you fall asleep you get fined. I’ve never seen it happen but me and my mates used to pretend to be asleep, then open our eyes every time the guard approached. He hated us.

Apparently the rule is in place to deter tramps from sleeping on the train. Think about it. How do they plan to enforce that? Can’t exactly send them a letter, then send the bailiffs round. If you want to stop them, confiscate their sign or take away their coat. Zero tolerance. Or, just let the poor beggars sleep on the train, no pun intended.

Also if you’re going to fine someone, probably best not to go for a tramp. Nothing against tramps, I think they’re great. There’s one by my work who has a go at me every day for not giving her any money and then last Friday I walked past her and she had a perm and colour. Make matters worse, she’d tried to go blonde and it’d gone ginger and perms are well out of fashion. That’s why I don’t give you money. Ridiculous.

Anyway being unfit and enjoying a kip means I struggle in this survival of the fittest society and can’t wait to get in a queue for something when I get home and then say ‘after you’ when the doors open while some pikey in a hood picks my pocket.

UK 3 – 2 USA

Community Spirit

Community spirit in the US is great. Yeah they’ll trip up a pregnant lady or pushover a disabled kid to get on the bus before ya but when it comes to a summer festival you can’t beat them.

In Basingstoke we have a summer festival which attracts nothing but teenagers smoking, drinking, burping and mugging. At summer festivals here families are having BBQ’s, Dad’s are playing catch (baseball) with their sons and moms and daughters are making freshly squeezed lemonade for half time refreshments, whilst Nan and her pals do the cheerleading in the background. Admittedly at that stage I’m sure some people wish the English hoodies were there. Never the less it’s a lovely scene that can be found in every New York park in the summer time (maybe not the village green in the Bronx) and when the family activities are up, every one tidies away their rubbish and leaves the park looking as beautiful as before.

Admittedly the line for the half-time lemonades is a shambles and in our defense at least our hoodies will queue up to mug ya.

UK 3 – 3 USA

Architecture

There’s no doubt New York has some of the most iconic buildings and attractions in the world. The Empire State Building, The Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, The Rockefeller Center, Times Square and Central Park to name a few.

You might think even with London’s great attractions of Big Ben, The Houses of Parliament and St. Paul’s Cathedral we’d struggle to compete. Not so. In my hometown of Basingstoke, we have a magnificent statue that even any of the seven wonders of the world would struggle against. Known as the Wote Street Willy, Basingstoke homes the worlds greatest statue of a penis. No I don’t mean there is a statue of a bloke that everyone thinks is a bit of a nobber, I mean there is a statue of a penis.

New York think Lady Liberty says freedom but in my eyes nothing says freedom more than exhibiting a big todger in the middle of the town center. In New York people pay $20 to go to the Top of the Rock, in Basingstoke if your mate gives you a bunk, without paying a penny you’re at the top of the cock. Admittedly the only views are McDonalds (if you’re tall) and Office Angels, who incidentally I believe to be misleading the public, as if they were that angelic I don’t think they would locate their office right in front of the worlds largest cock statue. Liars.

I digress but essentially the point I’m making is that Wall street have a statue of a Bull to represent the power of the stock market and we’re in a recession. I can’t help but think if they’d shown a bit more balls, literally and gone for a 12ft winkle they might not be in the mess they’re in.

UK 4 – 3 USA

U.S.A. versus U.K. – Part 2

Toilets

As you all know I had a fairly embarrassing incident with a toilet in Brooklyn which we won’t go into. I’ll never go into it again. If only the other fella didn’t go into it, I would have never needed to go into it in the first place but anyway after a short spell wearing nappies, I’ve moved on.

However a lack of doors isn’t where the problems end for New York ‘restrooms’. First of all the water level is ridiculous. Luckily I’m well proportioned or I could be getting wet. I’d imagine in Brooklyn you could do a roaring trade on willy waterproofs. Nothing flash, keep them simple, avoid zips and you’d do well. Anyway this isn’t a business blog.

Going to the bathroom in New York is a fine art which took me months to master. Having overcome both the aforementioned hurdles I started to grow in confidence. Until; the other day I went to the bathroom, door, check, water level, we’re OK, I get the perfect amount of toilet paper (excuse the graphic details but it’s important) reach round and BAM. The flush goes off. That’s strange I thought, the memories of my previous toilet incidents came flooding back but I knew I was stronger now so I shrugged it off and went for take two, BAM, it happened again. I’ve turned round and the toilet has an automatic hand censored flush. By the end of my session I was soaked.

Willy waterproofs will be available in all good ‘Games Workshop’ stores soon. I didn’t know where to stock them but figured you get a lot of nobs in there.

UK 2 – 1 USA

Flatulance

Farting at work has always been frowned upon. In the UK in general it’s socially unacceptable. Although at school, college and uni it was often celebrated amongst friends, amongst authority figures and females it was always a faux pas.

Once in Junior school I was sent out of silent reading, just for trumping and when I was first dating Luce, if she was around mine watching DVD’s, I’d turn the heater on whenever I was a bit windy. She still thinks that heater stinks. Keep that between us.

When working in a team at work you can sometimes get away with sly ones and no one will ever know it was you. Stare straight ahead and pretend you’re none of the wiser. We’ve all been there. Unfortunately for me I spent three months of my internship sitting completely alone which put me in a tricky situation.

If I l’d let one go just before someone came around everyone would know it was me. Leaving me with the dilemma of do I keep quiet which doesn’t really help anyone or tell them to give it a minute, which is fairly embarrassing for both parties? The other day being very English I opted for saying:

‘Sorry about that, Betty’s just been over.’

Here they seem to have a more mixed attitude. I had a colleague who was constantly burping and farting openly in the office. It was so bad people threatened to go to HR about it. He said ‘I hope they don’t follow through with it’. I said that’s what they’re worried about.

Then the other day I was in a restroom cubicle and the gentleman and I use that word loosely, using the urinal let an almighty fart go, then said:

‘Daaaaam bitch!’

There was a moment silence whilst I tried my best not to laugh, then he let another whopper go and followed that one up with:

‘Sweet Jesus, motherf4cker!’

I’m not sure if he thought he was alone but there’s a clear and valuable lesson to be learnt from this. When entering all toilets always check under each cubicle door before commenting on your farts.

Ultimately I don’t think people embrace blowing-off with the same enthusiasm in the UK as they do here but if we did I would have saved a fortune on heating and would be able to read in my head.

UK 2 – 2 USA

To be continued…

U.S.A. versus U.K.

With seven weeks to go and a permanent trip home back on the cards I’ve decided to pitch the USA versus the UK in a battle of the U’s. Which United is the greatest…

The Lingo

Every time I go on holiday abroad, for some reason people struggle to understand me. I thought it would be fine here as we speak the same language but no, I may as well be speaking Chinese.

We went skiing for Lucy’s birthday and everyone was jumping aboard the bus giving their surname to the organiser. I jumped up:

‘Hi mate, O’Brien’
‘No I’m Steve’
*confused look* ‘Cool, Hi Steve…O’Brien’
‘No I’m not Brian, I’m Steve, what’s your name?’
*looked at Luce*
‘His surnames O’Brien Steve’
‘Ooohhh, ha ha ha, I thought you said ‘are you Brian?’ That accents thick!’
‘OK Steve, no need for insults’.

That’s the kind of thing I have to live with every day. Just because no-one understands me Luce is constantly teasing me for being uncultured. Granted I’m not the most well spoken, sometimes I drop the odd h and forget the occasional t, I’m not a big fan of Broadway and shouted ‘oh no he didn’t’ during West Side Story. I think the MOMA (Museum of Modern Art) is the biggest load of twaddle (good word) in the whole of New York. It’s full of people standing around saying ‘oh yaaaa, I totally see what he’s done there’, whilst looking at a massive blank canvas with one line down it. Whats he’s done there is mug everyone off. The museum probably brought that for 200k and now 1000’s of people pay the museum $20 a go to walk past it and pretend we totally know what he’s done there when in reality we’re all thinking ‘it’s just a line on a bit of paper’ but because everyone’s too scared of being called uncultured we all pretend we totally see what he’s done there. The problem is if you read the little captions next to the ‘art’ they add fuel to this nonsense with things like; ‘This delightful drawing of a circle, known simply as ‘the circle’ represents the artists feelings that through his artwork he could live an eternal life, the red ink he’s used represents his feelings of anger that he himself couldn’t live forever’. When really it should have read; ‘This sh1t drawing of a circle, is a drawing of a circle because the artist struggled with squares, the red biro he’s used represents he was skint and couldn’t find a blue one’.

Then there’s the fact I enjoy a burger, yes I enjoy a burger, I like the way they taste and I can get two for the price of a ticket to look at a line, if I go to Burger King I can get 18 and diarrhea. I may have ordered one in a Thai restaurant once but how was I to know they didn’t eat burgers and everything was to share. With Luce around you don’t want to share anything. I got up and went to McDonalds.

Anyway last week we went to Il Bastardo, despite the name it’s a really nice restaurant. It’s got signs outside saying it been in ‘The City’ so most people in there have come straight from the MOMA and have totally seen what was done there. It was a three course pre-fixe menu so I’ve had the mussels, Luce went for Soup (take note), I’ve had the lamb Shank and tucked away my suet no problems, Luce copied me on the Shank and spat her suet out. Then for after’s the menu simply read ‘dessert of the day’, me and Luce, Luce and I, sorry, had discussed what we fancied at great length; Luce wanted cheesecake, I wanted chocolate fudge. On tenterhooks the Italian waiters come over and said in his beautiful Italian accent:

‘Weller, the er dessert er of the day er is a passion fruit sssoooorbet’
Luce looked gutted, puffed her cheeks and said ‘Does it come with a wafer?’

Who’s uncultured now? Even me shouting ‘it’s behind you’ in Phantom of the Opera wasn’t as embarrassing as that. It didn’t come with a wafer and Luce was distraught. Afterwards she tried telling me, ‘I meant one of those posh tubey ones’.

Back to the original point, at least he understood Lucy’s request for a wafer and gave her an answer that made sense; ‘No’. If you don’t ask you don’t get. Whereas if I ask how the weather is, they tell me they had pancakes for breakfast.

UK 1 – 0 USA

Beer Pong

Beer Pong has been a big part of my year. For those that don’t know, lots of bars in NY, mainly the divey ones, have beer pong tables, many sacrifice doors’ on their loo’s to do so. Each team has ten plastic cups set up in a triangle formation (like bowling), all cups are full with beer and the aim of the game is to throw the ping pong ball into the opposing teams cups. If you land a ball in their cup they have to down that cup, the winner is the team that eliminates all the other teams’ cups before their own are eliminated.

It’s genius and seen some magnificent moments. Lucy having to down one in a girls v boys game and ‘sharing’ it with Olivia, Cat, Flo and Lynne. Apparently she felt bad she hadn’t chipped in for the pitcher. Me and my mate Tidzy facing up against two Americans who refused to play until they’d gone through a full ten minute hand stretching routine. Jamie and I getting criticized on our ‘wooing’ after beating a very large American, who then proceeded to give us a demonstration on corrent ‘wooing’ technique and Craigy throwing two in against the reigning champs, whilst looking the opposite way making sure I wasn’t about to be sick on his jacket.

Despite all them glorious moments perhaps the best moment of all was when my older sister Emily came over and her first reaction was, ‘eeeeeeewwwwwweeee that ball goes on the floor’, then she asked if we could leave the dive bar. So I took her to the MOMA; she couldn’t wait to get back to the dive bar.

My only criticism of this undoubtedly great game is they’ve failed to take it to the next level. In the UK there is no doubt that within a week of beer pong hitting pubs, it would be called Jager Bomb pong and beer pong would be socially unacceptable and brandished ‘queer pong’ by wafer eating skinheads.

Another obvious flaw is you’re expected to go to bars and partake in several rounds of queer pong, I mean beer pong, downing numerous pitchers of beer but aren’t allowed to have a wee in a bush on the way home.

Talking of weeing in New York bushes, there’s not any, so much less concealing lamp posts inadequately take their place. In my first couple of weeks in New York I was heading to a roller disco (dunno why) in Brooklyn with Nav and Jon Fox. The journey from New Jersey is over an hour and having each necked three cans of dragon juice (real drink, don’t ever buy it) on the train, we were all desperate for a wee by the time we got there. With even less bushes adorning the delightful streets of Brooklyn we started searching for the nearest lamp post.

What I’ve failed to mention thus far is as it was a roller disco the dress code was ‘tight and bright’, so I’ve got a pair of Lucy’s hot pants on, my gay room-mate, Christians t-shirt, a pair of football socks and a headband. Jon’s gone all lycra and Nav had kinda just gone for 80’s cool; he looked a right twat. Anyway in essence what I’m saying is there’s three blokes dressed in luminous lycra in the ghetto streets of Brooklyn looking for a lamp-post to have an illegal wee against.

In hindsight if you’re going to have a sneaky wee; under a massive light whilst wearing luminous clothing probably isn’t the best time, or place, but we’ve had 3 dragon juices so we’ve gone for it, I’m sure it’ll be fine.

Suddenly in one of the most heart stopping moments of my life a Police cars lights have lit up, the sirens gone on and it’s heading straight for us. We’ve tucked ourselves back in our woman’s leg-wear; tight and bright not such a good idea now and ran for our lives. At the cross roads, someone’s shouted split up, so we did. You guessed it, the car chased me. I’m running as fast as I could, slightly restricted by Lucys hotpants not being the perfect fit and the car’s making ground on me fast. I’m honestly thinking I’m heading home in shame after two weeks. What would my Nan say? Jokes about nookie would be off the agenda and gay friends might be very much on it.

Anyway as it gets closer and closer, I decide to stop and try to sprint back in the other direction, I’m thinking the car might be quicker than me but it can’t turn as quickly so I’ve dropped my shoulder Gazza-esque (in more ways than one) and darted back the opposite way.

The car went flying straight past me, for a second I thought I was a genius, then in that moment whilst lost, out of breath, alone and wearing woman’s clothing which may have had a wet patch on my hotpants I realised they weren’t chasing me at all.

Now I can look back and laugh but all I can say is thank god they weren’t chasing me that night or I could have been locked up and staring at an indecent encounter with a queer schlong.

Queer pong; kids play. USA gets a point for the initial idea but they could advance it with ideas from abroad. Although as I found out standing still’s not always a bad thing!

UK 1 – 1 USA

To be continued…

New England? I hope not!

Ever since I was a little boy grown ups have always said to me, ‘listen and you’ll learn’. Often saying ‘less of this (pointing to their mouth) and more of this’ (grabbing their ears) which I always thought was silly seeing as I’ve always had substantial ears, I definitely didn’t need more.

Anyway listen and you’ll learn is quite a watertight philosophy, I think you’ll agree, hence when the STA advisor told us to get off the beaten track and head to Maine in New England we heeded his advice.

For economic purposes (because we’re skint) we decided to take a Megabus to Boston after work then pick up a hire car from there and drive the 7 hours through the night to Maine. It was double the cost to get two drivers put on the insurance so I was ‘Des’. I won’t lie, considering my track record with cars, that was a worry.

My driving instructor used to phone his wife and kids before every lesson. At first I just thought he was a nice guy. Then he started praying, I just thought he’d found God. Then he turned up wearing a crash helmet, that’s when I knew I was pants. After 175 lessons my Dad sold his house and started teaching me himself. I was finally ready for my test. Clearly I wasn’t because four tests later I was such a regular down the test centre that I had my own car parking space (double the size of the others) and they always had my favourite biscuits in. They weren’t all nice though. On my third test I was flying; mirror, manoeuvre, signal, I couldn’t put a foot wrong. Then the Instructor and supposed expert told me to take the next left. So I did, it was a one way street, which would have been fine, except all the cars were going the opposite way to me.

My problems with cars didn’t stop there. I passed and was the proud owner of a new Rover Metro. In general that car was good to me. It had a few problems with the speed dial, if I turned right I always seemed to speed up and if I turned left I always slowed down; I never understood that but it meant I rarely had to brake so it worked in my favour. The only other problem I ever had with it was the roof leaked. My Dad was always telling me to fix it but being a student I had plenty of hoodies so I never got round to it and it never really bothered me. Until I asked Lucy out on our first date. I asked her what she was planning to wear (praying for a hoody) she said a dress so I checked the forecast and told her to bring an umbrella.

My car problems weren’t confined to me driving either. One of my best mates Olly Espinasse used to give me lifts to and from college when I was going through my two year test phase. I finished half an hour earlier than him one day, so he told me where his car was and told me to go and wait by it for him to finish.

When I got to the car it was open so I jumped straight in the passengers side stuck a CD on, started playing with his rubix cube and waited. I was sitting there, feet on the dashboard, humming away, bamboozled by the rubix cube when a stranger came and got in the drivers seat. I jumped up and demanded to know what he was doing in Olly’s car!?
He claimed it was his car and after a short argument he was proved right, when I realised Olly didn’t have a rubix cube. I jumped out a tad embarrassed and off he drove. Then I remembered I’d put my satchel in his boot. So there I am chasing him down the road waving my arms around and screaming stop. God only knows what he must have thought when he looked in his rear view mirror and saw me chasing him. Anyway he kindly stopped and gave me my bag back. Later Olly told me if I’d done less talking and more listening I would have heard him tell me he had his Mums car because his was in for repair.

In conclusion, me driving to Maine was a gamble. I’m no Lewis Hamilton when driving on the right side of the road in broad day light, let alone the wrong side of the road in the pitch black. Pretty much all cars out here are automatic which was new to me but all my friends had re-assured me that it’s just like go-karting, what they forgot is I’m crap at go-karting.

Anyway after taking half an hour to get out the car park, we finally made it to Maine, there were a few near-death experiences on the way and Luce wet herself twice but other than that we were fine. It’s when we got there the real troubles began.

An early indication we were in hillbilly land was when we couldn’t find our the hills have eyes style motel. I saw a lady walking a bear so pulled over and jumped out to ask her.

‘Excuse me’
‘GO AWAY!’ she screamed whilst running away; actually running. Nice place I thought.

We had a real adventure weekend planned so first up was hiking the tallest mountain in Maine. It was estimated to take 2 hours to get to the top. We took 4 and a half but we had to battle past the feminists who weren’t impressed by me pulling my shirt over my head when my Dad texted me to say we’d gone 1 up v West Ham. In fact they seemed generally unimpressed with me full stop. Past the snakes, well snake. I stepped on one when I stupidly went off the beaten track of the hiking track which was in Maine which was off the beaten track.

I know what you’re thinking; what was I doing climbing a mountain when Spurs were on!? Well that morning I’d been to every bar in the town (both of them) looking for the game but it soon became apparent that cable was merely a vicious rumour in Maine. They don’t like change.

We finally got to the top, amazed by some of the sights but exhausted. Evening was drawing in and we decided to grab a drink at the gift shop; worst gift shop in the world, hardly worth the 4 and half hour trek. I asked the till lady where the bus stop back down was?

‘Bus stop!?’ she said. ‘There’s no bus stop’.

Luckily (kinda) a couple close by saw the pain on Lucy’s face and offered us a lift back to our car at the bottom. Before we could confer Luce jumped at the chance. I pulled her to one side and said ‘have you never heard of stranger danger!?’ She said ‘they’ve got a kid’, I said ‘it might not be theirs’.

Anyway we accepted the lift, they were alright, the kid wasn’t, kept staring me out. She clearly didn’t know I was the three balloons playgroup staring out champion. Luce said she probably thought I was the Haribo Kid.

Either way we got back safe, ordered a take-away pushed the closet up against the door, bolted the windows and went to bed.

Next up was white water rafting. Driving there we saw the weirdest man in the world walking around in his underpants and open shirt, possibly just murdered someone, were nearly attacked by a dog when I pulled into the wrong place and all they played on the radio was ‘My Big Green Tractor’ (straight up).

The journey there aside, it was one of the best things I’ve ever done except for the ex-con instructor who was the sort of bloke that if you’d climbed Kilimanjaro, he’d hopped up it backwards whilst piggy-backing an elephant and being chased by a herd of dragons. I’m not sure if herd is the correct terminology for a group of dragons but there was more than one. He told us of his numerous fights with moose’s, tales from his prison days and if we wanted a good night out the Maine strippers, ‘would do things you didn’t think were possible’, which went down as well as me staring out the 5 year old daughter of the kind couple who’d just given us a lift, with the 3 young girls and elderly, very well spoken couple we were rafting with.

Another night sleeping clutching the bible in one hand and a coffee maker in the other passed (I don’t like coffee but it was the only weapon I could find) and our final day was upon us.

Lined up was, kayaking and a helicopter ride.

The helicopter ride was uneventful and the people were lovely so for the purposes of generalizing the whole of Maine as a bunch of murdering mentalists we’ll skip past that bit.

Kayaking was awesome, again except for the instructor who referred to himself as the ‘Kayak King’ on his website, his voicemail and most amazingly in person.

‘Hi, I’m Sam’
‘Hi Sam, I’m the Kayak King’,
‘Cool, I’ll just call you that then’.

He had three kayaks to bring down to the water from his 4×4 at the top of the hill, so I offered to help. He refused then spent the next hour dragging each one down one by one on his own; strange, strange man. I can only assume he’s got trust issues since he found out his Dad was his brother.

By this time I was busting for a wee so I asked the instructor if there was anywhere I could go before we started.
‘Go to the top of the hill and there’s a hotel, people sometimes go there but you shouldn’t’,
‘OK KK, so can I go there?’
‘Who’s KK?’
‘Kayak King, that’s you’,
‘Well I’m not saying you can’
‘OK but can I?’
‘Well yeah but what ever you do don’t get caught and don’t tell them I told you’.

I sprinted there and back as fast as I could which isn’t very fast. When I got back the Kayak King looked really worried and asked me if it was all OK?

‘Well I got caught but I told them you didn’t tell me to go there’.

He didn’t see the funny side.

In fact he didn’t see the funny side of anything especially if it was during his 45 minutes health and safety talk.

‘Any Questions?’ he finished with,
‘Can I go to the toilet?’

By this point the man responsible for my safety definitely wanted to kill me.

To summarise, when I haven’t listened I’ve ended up asking my date to put her brolly up whilst inside the car and chasing a stranger down the road because my backpack was in his boot. Both admittedly fairly embarrassing.

BUT when I did listen I was nearly hit by oncoming traffic on a one way road, then when I went off the beaten track I was nearly murdered by moose man, the Kayak King and a 5 year old girl.

Listening kills. Write that down.

When I grow up I’m going to tell my kids:

‘Listen and you’ll learn. Don’t listen and you’ll live’.

The choice is yours.

P.S. For anyone interested this is ‘My Big Green Tractor’

It’s the most wonderful time of the year

I’ve always loved Christmas. So much so I was mentally and physically bullied until I was 13 when my Mum broke my heart and told me Santa wasn’t real. I’m not even joking, to be fair when I was ten I went to Lapland and saw the real one so I took some persuading. Deep down I still believe. I saw him with my own eyes and pulled his beard, it was real so explain that one.

Anyway being a huge fan I was really looking forward to Christmas in New York. It was everything I imagined.

There were elf’s everywhere in Manhattan, mainly giving out flyers for discounts in shops and bars. Not sure whose big idea that was but I’d probably sack him. Nothing against dwarfs but surely the first rule of marketing is ‘get noticed’. A 3ft dwarf (sorry elf) standing in the middle of the busiest city in the world (don’t quote me on that one, China are taking over everything these days) probably isn’t the best way to stand out. I would have loved to have been in the meeting when that decision was made;

‘Right team, sales are down we need a big idea, shoot!’
‘Online advertising’
‘Too expensive’
‘Radio?’
‘No one listens to the radio anymore’
‘I know lets dress a dwarf as an elf and stand him in the middle of the city giving out flyers’
‘Now we’re thinking outside the box, good work Brad!’

If you’re going for the flyer approach, at least go for a man on stilts, a giant, a naked cowboy or a polar bear. Animal rights might have something to say about it but you’ll stand out, mission accomplished. Stepping away from its business merits I can’t fault it.

Then there was Santa, he was everywhere too. Bit confusing for kids but I think my Mum always told me Santa had lots of helpers around Christmas time. Once my Dad was Santa at the Junior school Christmas fete, I thought it was wicked my Dad was one of Santa’s helpers; coolest Dad in the world. That explained why when I was 11 I caught him putting my stocking at the end of my bed. What a Dad!

I love a Santa’s helper but was a bit concerned at the impact the rapping beardless CD selling black Santa’s could have on his image amongst kids.

‘Mummy black Santa sold me a blank CD’
‘Lucky that son, the ones with words on are worse’.

Not exactly ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’.

On my last night in New York before heading home for Christmas Luce and I went to see the Radio City Christmas Spectacular which is a famous Christmas show that has been running for 5,000 years in New York. It was mainly 36 girls kicking their legs in the air but what really caught my eye (bit gay) was the real life sheep, donkeys and camels they used for the nativity. I read in the program (borrowed somebody’s, didn’t buy one) that they keep the ‘animal stars’ in one big stable back stage. No wonder the camels looked a bit sheepish.

Unless you’re Claus-trophobic (you can have that one) Christmas in New York is amazing but to me Christmas will always be a family time so I waved goodbye to the marketing elf’s, black Santa’s and real life nativity stars and flew home on the 23rd.

My Nan and Grampy (Kit and Percy, great names); yes I do still call him Grampy, probably should have switched to Grandad in my teens but after my Mum breaking the Santa news there was no way I was giving up Grampy. Anyway as I was saying they always come over and stay at Christmas.

I love them to bits; my Mum got a text on Christmas day and said:

Mum – ‘I’ve just got a text from my friend Dan, wishes us all Merry Christmas, that’s nice of him’
Nan – ‘Is that the gay one?’
Mum – ‘Yeah, he’s lovely’
Nan – ‘oooooo it’s nice to have a gay friend.’
Mum – ‘Why?’
Nan – ‘well it just is; what’s his name again?’
Mum – ‘Dan’
Nan – ‘oooooo little gay Dan’.

He’s not little.

Then later I’m explaining to my Nan about how our apartments are set up in New York. I explained that I have a room-mate but Lucy has her own room.

Nan – ‘oooooo that’s good’
Me – ‘Why Nan?’
Nan – ‘you know’
Me – ‘No Nan, what?’
Nan – ‘weeeeellll, you know’
Me – ‘what Nan?’
Nan – ‘well you can have a bit of nookie!’
Me – ‘Nan!!!’
Nan – *slapping her own wrist* ‘oooooo I am a naughty Nan’.

Gramps spends all day cracking one liners, trying to distract you so he can steal your dinner and eating all the pudding. Literally cuts himself a slice of pavlova then eats the rest. Nan tries every single bit of food we have even though she’d never dream of eating it at home; she’s got to try it because it’s Christmas. She’s been ‘trying’ Walkers ready salted, mince pies, Quality Streets, After Eights and Pringles for the last twenty years.

My Mum spends most the day hula hooping on the Wii Fit (badly); this year she got Wii Fit Plus and spent half the day flapping her arms, pretending to be a bird; who needs HD TV when you’ve got that kind of entertainment. When she’s not doing that she’s crying about how lovely it is that we’re all together again and generally getting more and more like my Nan.

At tea time I’ll make my Nan a sandwich with nothing in and she won’t notice till halfway through, often saying what a nice sarnie; works every year. Then we’ll watch Noel Edmonds make the whole worlds dreams come true, The Royle Family, Gavin and Stacey and go to bed.

As far as I’m concerned you can keep your Gavin and Stacey, Laurel and Hardy, Robson and Jerome, Bodger and Badger and even Delboy and Rodney, the greatest double act of all time are Kit and Percy!

I can’t wait for next year!

Happy New Year everyone! xxxx

Sammy Tale of New York

S’up peeps! As there’s only two sleeps to go until the bigman pays us all a visit I’ve turned my hand to song writing and re-mixed the Fairytale of New York to reflect my time in NYC so far. To get the full Christmas extravaganza experience please listen to the original below whilst reading the new improved words (to be honest it’s rubbish without the music). Admittedly it’s a classic in it’s own right but change must be embraced.

It was in Brooklyn babe
In the dive bar
An old man said to me: you’ve got a little one
And then they sang a song
The rare old double loo
I turned my face away but my bum was still in view
Got an unlucky one
Came in as I showed my bum
I´ve got a feeling
This year´s got more moments like that to come
So happy Christmas
I love you everyone
I can see a better time
Where all my blogs aren’t about poo

They got pools big as malls
They’re so fat they break stalls
But the wind goes right through you
It’s no place for the old
When you first took my hand as we boarded the plane
You promised me Broadway was waiting for me
I was handsome now I’m hairy
I looked pretty scary, when the tramp took my money he gave it me back
Sinatra was swinging Luce and I were singing
I pissed on a corner
Then danced through the night.

And the phantom NY pool pooer is still pooing away
And the lifeguards are shouting out
get out the pool

I’m a bum I’m a gimp
I’m a chimp with a limp
what is that on your head, you look a twat they all said
You scumbag you jerk
You regularly get murked
Happy Christmas your arse I pray god it´s our last.

And the blank NY CD salesman are still selling away
And the pregnant hobo’s
lose weight every day

Gerry could have been someone
if it wasn’t for you, you plum
You took his dreams from him
when he first met you
You lost some children babe
that wasn’t in new york
u left them all alone
that’s not entire-ly true…

But the boys a complete an utter ass, still smiling away
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!