Well, hell-ooo London.
I'm keeping this short because the $40 "My Giant American Prong's Too Powerful for Your Wee British Socket" adapter kit I bought before leaving the States doesn't work for my computer and I'm trying to maximize the amount of battery I have left, at least until I go sob to the staff of the closest electronics store and explain that my trip will absolutely be ruined unless I can blog about it.
Anyway, my flight was uneventful and actually dropped into the UK half an hour early yesterday morning. It was maybe a quarter full, which meant that I flipped up all of the armrests in the middle row, combining seats 26 C through F to make MEGASEAT. I popped two Benedryl before getting on the plane and that--combined with a meal that one side of the plane was told was beef, the other informed it was chicken, but everyone agreeing that it tasted like heavily salted mop water--meant that I stretched out and slept until the Cap'n announced our approach into Gatwick.
The customs line took forever, a situation that I probably didn't help by writing "Blogger" as my occupation on the immigration form. Anyway, after train to tube to inevitably wheeling my suitcase half a mile in the wrong direction, I was ready to start my holiday.
This is where the magic happens. And by "magic" I mean convincing myself that the furtive rustling I heard within the walls during the night was actually the tooth fairy, not a tiny foraging mammal.
The view from my hotel room. Moving on.
Yesterday took me toward the West Ham-Manchester United football* match, and although tickets were more than my hotel room, it was still beyond entertaining to see the crowds. If you think you love Your Favorite Sports Team, please take a moment to reconsider. After spending the afternoon in a swarm of Hammers fans, I assure you that you do not.
The official West Ham team toaster. Because breakfast just tastes better with your team's logo burned into it. This was on a rack that also featured West Ham baby bottles, West Ham shoelaces, and a West Ham intra-uterine device.
I stopped in the doorway of this house to wring some of the rain out of my eyelashes and then noticed the marker. As delighted as I was to locate Benny Hill's place by accident, I was also thrilled that there's something called the "Dead Comic's Society". They're keeping an eye on you, John Cleese.
The rest of the day involved alternately getting drenched and/or shivering, wandering around the Oxford Street area, grabbing a bite at pub called The Goat on Kensington High Street, and collapsing in a wet socked heap by 9...which of course meant that by 3:30 a.m. I was wide awake and watching Take That videos on television.
I noticed this during a pre-dawn soap opera... instead of closed captioning, there's a chick in the corner who actually signs the dialogue, which I found to be more entertaining than the actual program.
It's just after 7 now and I'm ready to grab a bite and take on the day. More from me later, assuming I don't suffocate myself in the folds of a flaky breakfast pasty.
* They call it football here. In America, we call it boring.**
** I KID! I KID!
ALSO: What's the best Indian restaurant here? I'd knife a bitch for some chicken korma.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Well, hell-ooo London.