--I was flipping through my Englandnotes earlier today (I'm dying
to go back already…), and noticed a few stray stories I didn't tell
in the big honkin' Londonextravaganza.So, I'm going to tell them to you now.
Hopefully enough time has passed that you're not all groaning in
unison right now…I worry
about Englandfatigue, and turning into a
travel-bore.Nobody likes a
travel-bore.
Anyway,
when we were touring the Churchill Cabinet Rooms, the youngest Secret
had to find a pee-catcher.I
asked a guy at the ticket counter where the "washroom" was
located, and he halfheartedly pointed in a general direction.
We found it, and there were international symbols on the door
apparently indicating it could be used only by water-headed men,
titless women in hoop skirts, and/or sexless beings strapped to
wheelchairs and staring straight ahead.
But that's too bad; our nine year old American child was going in
there, whether they had a symbol for him or not.And if they didn't like it I'd piss all over Churchill's
pillow, bedspread, and night table.
I looked inside and saw that it was a tiny one-hole bathroom, so I
waited in the hall.After a
minute or two, a buzzer started going off and lights began flashing.
TF?Was this part of the World
War II experience?Was it
supposed to be an air raid siren?If
so, it didn't sound very authentic.I'd
heard air raid sirens in movies, and this crap sounded more like a
weed-whacker.
Turns out the Secret had gotten confused and pulled a Handicap In
Distress lever.I guess they
have an alarm in there, in case some paralyzed man slides off the
toilet and paints a stripe up his back (or whatever), and our boy
thought it was yet another exotic European flush handle.
And just like at our hotel, when I'd set off an elevator alarm with my
fat, we walked quietly away with no expressions on our faces.And when we'd made it a safe distance, we both buckled over in
laughter.
One night I was at the humongous Sainsbury's grocery store around the
corner from our hotel, buying a four pack of what we hillbillies call
"tall boys."I'd made
my selection and was headed toward the self-serve checkout stand, when
a woman approached and handed me a slip of paper.
Oh
great, I thought, this is probably one of those deaf mutes passing out
pre-printed I'm a Deaf Mute So You're Obligated To Give Me Money
cards.I've lived in Atlanta, and know all the angles…
I
looked at the woman, sighed, and reluctantly read what was printed on
the paper.And the headline
said, "Unhappy With Your Weight?We
Can Help!"
What the?!I was ready to ask
if she only handed these out to fatties, but she'd already moved on to
some Humpty Dumpty gentleman with a built-in neck brace, and I never
got the chance.
But ain't that a bitch?
On another day, in the early morning, Toney walked to the same store
to buy us gigantic coffees at the Starbucks inside.The boys and I stayed in the room, and I started flipping
through the TV channels.
I sincerely hope the television options at our hotel aren't
representative of what's being offered in general over there, because
it was nothing short of dismal.It
seemed to be lots of dreary sky-is-falling BBC newscasts spread across
many channels, a couple of shows about gardening, Friends, and
not much else.Holy crap was it
dull.
I stopped at one of the many BBCs, and a female reporter was doing a
live broadcast from a Sainsbury's that looked a lot like the one near
our hotel.And the more I
watched, the more I was convinced it was our store, just a few hundred
yards from where I was sitting.
Where Toney was!
I called the boys over, and we listened to what the woman was saying.
Was there a robbery, or something? Had there been a shooting?! Holy
shit!
No, she was talking about plastic grocery bags.Apparently stores are now charging 3 pence for each bag, and are
encouraging people to bring their own from home, to help the
environment.The woman was
going around asking people their opinions on this.
And my suspicions were confirmed: she was indeed reporting from the
store where Toney was currently buying coffee.Maybe we'd see her in the background?Heck, maybe she'd be interviewed?!This was exciting.
But, unfortunately, it never happened.The only fun was when the chick rammed her microphone in some
old codger's face, and he provided the brand of opinion she clearly
wasn't interested in.
He said the whole thing is silly and will add up to nothing, that
carrying your own grocery bag won't make even the tiniest of
differences.If we really want
to get serious about the environment, he continued, we'll need to have
the Chinese and Indians involved, because they're the worst offenders.The stuff we're doing here, he said, is so we can pat ourselves
on the backs; it doesn't matter if it actually accomplishes anything,
as long as we feel good about ourselves.
The reporter couldn't wait to get away from that dude, she had a look
on her face like she could smell turds.And I thought about running over there and shaking the old
guy's hand.He was excellent.So calm, so smooth, so unwelcome at the BBC.
The breakfasts at our hotel were always a challenge for me, because
they featured things like fried tomatoes, coffee that tasted like
boiled-down dirt clods, and pork 'n' beans.
I usually ended up eating Canadian bacon, a spoonful of discouraging
eggs, and a bowl of Frosted Flakes (called Frosties there), for the
equal of fifteen U.S. dollars.
But, man, the Brits seemed to love that stuff.They were just eating and eating and eating.
I watched some kid wearing a flannel jacket and a hat with earflaps,
pile up a plate with toast, poached eggs, and beans ladled across the
whole mess.It was an amazing
thing to behold.
And he was dressed like a boy from the 1940s, or something.I eavesdropped on a conversation he was having with his parents
and sister, and they were full-on British.I told Toney, "Check that shit out.It's the European Opie – it's Europie!"
We kept seeing them at breakfast every morning, and maintained a
running commentary on what Europie was eating.'Cause man, he could disappear some eggs and beans.
Eggs and beans... Can you imagine sleeping in the same hotel room as that kid?Wow!
And
that pretty much closes out the category.I don't think I have any more stories about England,
but I can't make any absolute promises.
I
will make this vow, however: Steve
and I are going to the Baseball Hall of Fame next Friday, and I
promise not to talk about it for any more than three or four months.It's the least I can do, under the circumstances.
--I hope you guys remembered
that today is Talk Into Your Sleeve Like a Secret Service Agent Thursday.It's the most
wonderful time of the year!
--And I'll leave you now with
a questionable Question, based loosely on my threat above to pee on
Winston Churchill's bedding.Do
you have any stories to tell about revenge urine?
You know… maybe somebody made you mad, so you pissed all over their
couch, twisting from side to side at the waist and taking it armrest
to armrest?That sort of thing.Use
the comments link below.
The only one I can come up with happened at a high school basketball
game, in 1980 or 1981.It was
during the playoffs or somesuch, and emotions were running high.In the parking lot was a car, obviously driven there by one of
the enemy, with all sorts of derogatory remarks about good ol' Dunbar
High written on the windows in shoe polish.
So a gang of us peed all over it, as well as into it.The driver had made a serious miscalculation, and left the
doors unlocked.And we
deposited quarts of reconstituted Miller High Life into the
floorboards of that bastard, into the upholstery, and way up on the
dashboard.
Ahhh… such sweet memories.
If you've got anything on this, or anything else for that matter,
let's hear it.Don't be shy,
hit that comments link!
