Pardon my French…er, I mean American.

Posted on Aug 18, 2016 by headinablender

Last week I was walking behind an American woman who was holding hands with her young daughter and talking to two young French girls. She was asking them about France and how to say certain words in French.

As I got closer I heard:

“So, how do ya’ll say ‘Camden‘ in French?”

There was a pause as the two girls looked at each other bemused, and then turned slowly back to the woman.

One of them replied:

“Er, Camden eez ze name of a market in London, no?”

Woman “Uh huh” said the woman, not getting it; “So how do y’all say it in French?”

There was another pause as the French girl tried to decipher if there was something she missed, or a meaning she hadn’t considered…or if it was simply a stupid fucking question.

Finally she looked back at the woman and gave the only answer she possibly could.

“Camden”

The French have another word that’s the same as English.

Imbécile.

Expect the expected

Posted on Aug 18, 2016 by headinablender

Here’s a post I haven’t been able to post due to switching computers at work and technology was acting like a Cuban Airport Employee.

Well, I’ve managed to retrieve the file before launching the old machine through the air, and the window, into the street.

Here it is.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Yesterday I went to the cinema to see ‘Star Trek: Beyond‘.

It was awesome by the way.

I had booked my ticket¹ online, which meant downloading the app (because mobile sites usually suck dick), finding the closest ‘Galaxy’ cinema to me, selecting my movie, selecting my preferred time and choosing my seat.

Pretty standard stuff. At every step of the way I had all the information I needed available to me; 2D, 3D, Dbox, Dolby Atmos, IMAX, movie rating and full running time.

(2 hours and 2 minutes, in case you were wondering).

Now, the ‘Galaxy’ cinema chain do an awesome thing before each and every movie; a member of staff stands at the front of the auditorium and announces the following to everyone:

What film they’re here to see (because some people are that stupid).
How to use the recliner seats (because some people are that stupid).
What the running time of the movie is.
If there’s anything to see after the credits.
If anyone uses their phone or is distracting during the movie, they will be kicked out.
Sit back and enjoy the movie

I have to thank Galaxy cinemas for numbers 4 and 5. These are little touches I would implement if I owned a cinema chain, except theirs have fewer snipers.

Anyway, as the staff member was going through his repertoire, he reached number 3 and announced the film was just over 2hours in length. At this point there was an audible groan from almost everyone in the theatre.

Double-U, Tee, Eff?

I couldn’t believe it. What were people expecting?

This isn’t 1985 anymore; movies aren’t a standard 90 minutes in length. In fact, ‘Back To The Future‘ was released in 1985 and that piece of excellence is still a cool 2 hours in length.

Some² people get on my tits.

There would have been outrage if we had been told the movie was 45 minutes in length. If anything, I wanted the movie to be 4 hours long for the price I paid!

I would certainly not be setting my phaser to stun.

¹ Yes, singular. Want to make something of it?

² Most

Irony is wasted on the clueless.

Posted on Aug 6, 2016 by headinablender

I’ve just seen a woman, easily over 300 pounds in weight, wearing a t-shirt that read:

Work Hard

Train Hard

Live Hard

More like “Eat Hard”.

And then eventually “Die Hard”.

Then again, replacing the ‘H’ with an ‘L’ would’ve worked too.

Isn’t it a bit contradictory to produce that article of clothing in any size larger than, well, Large?

Unless of course its purpose is to inspire people to get fitter and lose weight.

She was sat outside a ‘Red Robin’ burger joint waiting to go in.

What do you think?

Rating responsibility

Posted on Aug 2, 2016 by headinablender

My wife and I just sat down to watch the latest Jason Bourne movie. We’ve been sat here a few minutes and a couple have walked in with a 2yr old girl…..and sat right in front of us.

Why bring a 2yr old to a violent film like this?

Maybe it’s to save money on childcare….nope, it can’t be that judging from the amount of food and drink they’ve just wheelbarrowed in with them.

Honestly….there’s no accounting for stupidity.

The trailers alone are adult themed thrillers and horror movies with violence, screaming and jump scares.

Apparently, in America, the film’s rating doesn’t apply if there is an adult in the party. That means a 10 year old can see a rated R movie as long as their parents are with them.

How does that make sense?

In the UK, if a film is rated ’15’ or ’18’, you have to be 15 or 18 years old to see it, regardless of who is in your party. I know that sounds like crazy talk, but them’s the rules mate.

If the filmakers want people under a certain age not to see their film, there’s probably a good reason behind it. The movie doesn’t suddenly become child friendly just because twats of the right age are present.

Surely, by the same logic, it’s ok to have sex with an underage child providing the parents are present…right?

Harsh?

You bet it is; but so was Jason Bourne graphically strangling a man who had earlier brutally shot people in the head at point blank range, spraying their brains and blood on the walls.

“Yay Daddy! Again! Again!”

Yes I’ve used this picture before….I wonder why?

Don’t make me think when I’m snacking!

Posted on Jul 8, 2016 by headinablender

I recently bought a packet of Red Vines.

For the uninitiated (or ‘not American’) among you, these are what Red Vines look like:

I think they’re supposed to be cherry or strawberry flavoured (flavored) chewy sweets.

I have begun referring to them as ‘Plastic flavoured chewy plastic sticks’.

Now, for clarity, these aren’t to be confused with Twizzlers which look like this:

I call these ones ‘Chewy plastic flavoured plastic sticks’.

Anyway, today’s post isn’t about the variety and quality – or lack thereof – of American sweets (candy).

No, today’s post is about this:

I’m sorry, what?

How does this make any sense? Why not display the calories per bag, per half bag or (if common sense were even a factor in any way, shape or form) per stick??

I think the purpose of this laughable piece of information is to confuse, bewilder and appear somehow less calorific to the calorie-conscious of us pushing these into our faces like a log into a chipper..

By the way, it’s a total of 490 calories…in case you were wondering.

Surely it would just make more sense to display it as 123 calories per serving, with 4 servings per package?

But no; that would be too easy. Some dipshit thought 3.5 servings was the best way forward.

Then again, maybe it’s a smart move on the part of the government.

Maybe it’s a subtle attempt to increase the brainpower of the average American by surreptitiously posing mathematical equations on their junk food in a bid to sharpen their minds while they soften their waistlines.

…

Nah.

Are you talking at me?

Posted on Jul 1, 2016 by headinablender

I’m currently sat in the waiting room of the physical therapy clinic whilst my wife undergoes another session following her double ACL knee surgery a few weeks back.

Whew, that was a long sentence.

Anyway, I’m sat here reading crap on my phone (as usual) when I felt the prescence of someone sit down three seats to my left.

A miniscule fraction of a nanosecond passed before I heard a southern American drawl aimed in my general direction.

“That’s a lot of tattoos”

I chose to pretend I hadn’t heard her and kept reading whatever bollocks I was reading on my phone, knowing full well she was talking to me.

How do I know? Well, because:

A) I have two full tattoo sleeves, and

B) I’m the only other person here.

I could feel her looking at me awaiting some sort of response, like a gormless child waiting for a firework display to begin; slack jawed and unblinking.

The act of ignoring someone does not come as easy to me as many would think, so I succumbed to literal peer pressure and looked up at her old, heavily tanned, heavily cheekboned (due to one surgical procedure too many) face.

I gave her a fake smile.

“A lot of tattoos huh?” she pointlessly asked, in case I hadn’t caught the gist of her last unwelcomed comment.

For a second I toyed with the cliché response of “Oh shit, where the fuck did THEY come from??”, but instead I lifted one arm, admired it for a moment and chuckled a friendly(ish) reply:

“Yeah. And a lot of pain too.”

That should be enough to end this unwanted conversation, I thought.

Wrong.

“Wow, gee whizz”, she continued with me now back to my phone, attempting to re-ignore her.

She then paused for a few seconds to, I assume, scan all my artwork.

Then she let out an audible shudder.

Have you ever heard someone audibly shudder?

What kind of reaction is that?

It’s impossible to describe the sound with the written word, but it was like she had spiders suddenly running up and down her sinewy but saggy, slightly hunched, leathery body.

Silent shudder.

Living in America isn’t as painful as England

Posted on Jun 15, 2016 by headinablender

I’ve already posted about medication in the US, and I’m sure I’ll post again about it in the future, but here’s an easy to swallow entry (cue pervert smile).

Take a look at this.

Do you see how many there are in this container? Yes, that’s right; FIVE hundred tablets. That’s enough for 250 headaches!

And this wasn’t the largest; they also come in 1000s!

This is awesome!

Now, to my American friends and family this may seem normal, but in the UK the largest quantity of Ibuprofen you can get is 24.

Yes, twenty four.

This ISN’T awesome. If anything, it’s Awe-less. It’s lacking awe in every possible way.

Most UK brands will max out at 16 tablets per pack, but there are a couple of chemists (or ‘pharmacies’ as they call them over here) that stock them in packs of 24 if you’re lucky enough to find them.

In fact, most shops, supermarkets and chemists will limit your purchase to two packs in one transaction. I assume this is so you don’t have the means readily available to top yourself if the shitty weather (or T.O.W.I.E.*) gets too much for you.

Wow,you REALLY have to mean it in England.

In fact, to successfully overdose in England you’d have to buy over 20 packets, via multiple transactions, across several different establishments whilst adopting various disguises and questionable accents.

That is a serious commitment to the cause.

Alternatively you can just ask a friend to help buy them.

Mind you, if a friend is willing to help you AND you’ve had to undergo all that pissing about getting the tablets, you will probably want to end it all anyway.

At least you’ll have a valid reason.

At least in America you have the opportunity to be spontaneous. You can be all dramatic and end it all if they give you soy milk in your Starbucks venti, half-whole milk, one quarter 1%, one quarter non-fat, extra hot, split quad shots (1 1/2 shots decaf, 2 1/2 shots regular), no foam latte, with whip, 2 packets of splenda, 1 sugar in the raw, a touch of vanilla syrup and 3 short sprinkles of cinnamon.

Phew, just reading that gives me a headache.

249 remaining.

* ‘The Only Way Is Essex’ – a TV show about useless ‘dumb-as-a-bag-of-rocks’ fuckwits doing nothing and yet somehow becoming role models for the younger generation; a lot like ‘Jersey Shore’ in the US, only twice as stupid.

No photos please, this is America

Posted on Jun 10, 2016 by headinablender

My wife is currently attending her second physical therapy session, having torn the ACL (Anterior Cruciate Ligament) in both knees a couple of months ago.

Yes, BOTH knees. At the same time.

It’s been a fun few weeks.

Anyway, I decided to take a photo of her during today’s session – as you do – and after having taken a seat, a member of staff quickly approached me.

I knew what he was going to say.

He wanted to advise me that, for legal reasons, I had to ensure no other patients were present in the photo.

I knew it…but I was so annoyed that I was being ‘educated’ that I looked him square in the eyes and put on my best ‘in disbelief’ face.

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

He wasn’t.

I had to show him the photo.

Seriously.

What does ‘ the legal system’ think I’m going to do with the photo?

Maybe I’ll post it online and then tag these people randomly in the hope I somehow correctly select them from the 1.65 billion users currently on Facebook?

Maybe ‘the legal system’ is worried I might want to keep it for the wank bank?

Yeah right. These people should be so lucky. These people would be able to stop the vinegar strokes. They would kill any degree of rigidity.

(looks down)

*slap* *jiggle* *slap*

Nothing.

Jesus, it’s just a photo; it’s not like I’m aiming at them through a high powered rifle laser scope.

But joking aside, I know what the problem is; the physical therapy centre doesn’t want to be sued for unauthorised use of photography of their patients without their expressed permission.

Either that, or the member of staff wanted to check the sweet photo I took of my wife.

I can’t blame him.

(adds it to the wank bank)

Maybe I’ll counter sue these delicate background babies for photo bombing my photo. Had they considered that, huh? Had they??

I didn’t give THEM permission to be in MY photo.

But seriously, what next? Should I expect to be contacted by distraught family members of people featured in the backgrounds of photos from my childhood? There are literally hundreds of those lurking in photo albums at my Mother’s house.

There was a LOT of skin in the background of those beach photos.

And a LOT of Speedos.

Tight, miniscule Speedos

*slap* *jiggle* *sl…

Wait, where’d he go?

Thank you for not being a dick

Posted on Jun 7, 2016 by headinablender

Today at work we had a team meeting. It wasn’t the usual fare with topics and issues that needed addressing; this was lighthearted.

So that was nice.

In our department have the option of writing small paper notes of positivity and appreciation. These are then collected and shared at these meetings for everyone to enjoy.

Is ‘enjoy’ the right word?

It’s all very touchy feely.

Here are some examples with the names changed to protect the innocent (although not THAT innocent as one of them is very, very pregnant):

To James.
I always appreciate the way you come in and say ‘good morning’ to everyone. Your positivity is contagious.
From Kim.

Or…

To Becky.
Thank you for letting me feel your baby’s hiccup.
From Linda.

(“Becky’ is the pregnant one. Linda isn’t just a weirdo.)

(Much)

And…

To Betty.
You’re always putting others first and never have a bad thing to say about anyone.
From George.

You get the idea. It’s enough to make you want to vomit into your mouth a little bit.

This went around the entire room and there wasn’t a single one for me, until right at the end.

To Daniel.
Thank you for not sticking your middle finger up at me today.
From Doris.

Yep, that seems about right.

Is the pen REALLY mightier than the sword?

Posted on Jun 3, 2016 by headinablender

There are phrases out there in the world that people have tattooed on bodies, printed on clothing and plastered all over social media profiles to make them appear somehow more profound.

I’m talking about the sort of drivel designed to be inspirational or empowering, but actually results in me despising them more than a complete stranger should.

These are words of encouragement to let you know you’re special…a unique little snowflake.

Here are a couple of examples:

“Only God can judge me”

Hmm, I’m not sure I – and groups of people all over the world known as ‘Juries’ – fully agree with that one.

“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger”

What about arthritis?

Anyway, yesterday at the gym I saw a guy wearing a t shirt with this slogan emblazoned across the back of it.

“No weapon formed against me shall prosper”

So I shot him.

No offense. Oh….wait….

Posted on May 9, 2016 by headinablender

As some of you will know, the over-censorship of media and entertainment in America really pisses me off.

I’m not a child. I can handle the word ‘fuck’ in a movie filled with uncensored (and apparently child friendly) blood, gore, guts and violence.

Well, this morning as I drove into work I heard censorship on the radio that pushed censorship (and me) to the next level.

It happened during the song, ‘I Write Sins Not Tragedies’ by Panic At The Disco; it’s a great song with an incredibly catchy chorus.

The beginning of that chorus goes:

‘I chime in with a “Haven’t you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?!”

No, it’s much better to face these kinds of things with a sense of poise and rationality’.

Guess which word was censored?

Yep, that’s right, the word ‘Goddamn’ was censored. The irony of that second line of lyrics was most definitely lost here.

I love this song, but the joy of singing along was ruined.

You see, in America religion is a big deal and it’s so easy to offend people. I knew this was the case before coming in, but I had no idea it was this bad. The phrase “went to church” comes up in more conversations than I’m comfortable with and a lot of my new friends here in the States are very religious.

This is something I have tended to find out when they casually mention going to church or they post something ‘God-ish’ on Facebook. When this happens I get a real sense of dread because I have to think back over every conversation we’ve ever had.

Did I say something blasphemous or offensive?

Have I made jokes about God or Jesus?

Did I sacrifice that goat in front of them?

In fact, not 10 minutes ago, this very subject came up at work (not instigated by me, I hasten to add) and one of my colleagues said, “I swear a lot. I use ‘Fuck’, ‘Shit’, ‘Asshole’ and all that, but if I use GD or JC, then you KNOW I’m pissed!”.

It took me a moment to figure out what she meant by GD and JC. She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words.

To her, saying ‘God Damn’ or ‘Jesus Christ’ is worse than saying ‘Fuck’.

What the Goddamn?

Is it me, or does that seem a bit fucked…er, I mean, ‘Jesus-Christed’ up? This would go some way towards explaining why the word ‘Goddamn’ was edited out of the song this morning.

A few months ago I said ‘Goddamn it’ at work and got told to watch my language. I couldn’t believe it. I was being scolded like a 7 year old by a woman I have heard swear numerous times.

I’ve even started to replace “Oh my God” with “Oh my goodness”. I hate that I’ve started doing this.

But people here are way too sensitive, and the entertainment business knows this. Out of fear of being sued,they’re pandering to the masses by censoring the shit out of television.

Unless the customer is paying for it of course.

Netflix anyone?

Nothing on Netflix is censored and I hear it’s a popular service[1].

So, is America OK with bad language, blasphemy and sexual content when they’re charged a premium? Apparently so.

My wife pays a yearly subscription for something called XM radio in her car. It’s pricey, but there’s little to no censorship. It really expands the selection of music they play as they can air otherwise unplayable tracks and, being a premium service, there are no Goddamn, Jesus Christing commercials.

When it comes to TV, the UK have it right with censorship. Everything is the same as the US until 9pm. Well, I SAY it’s the same, but that’s not strictly true; they don’t play violent action movies on a Sunday afternoon when kids can see it. But apparently it’s OK for kids to see heads being chopped off and people being riddled with bullets, as long as there’s no sign of a nipple or someone saying ‘Goddamn it’.

At 9pm (or the ‘watershed’ as it’s called) it is assumed that your delicate little snowflakes are all tucked up in bed. After that, it’s the parents’ responsibility to manage what their kids watch.

At 9pm, all bets are off. The only word that is bleeped out is the word ‘Cunt’.

Sorry; ‘the C word’.

After 9pm, TV is for adults and if you’re easily offended, change the channel.

[1] Sarcasm, in case you didn’t realise it.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince.

Posted on Apr 23, 2016 by headinablender

Yesterday was one of the saddest days of my adult life.

Yesterday, Prince died.

I can’t even begin to explain in words what he meant to me growing up, so I don’t think i’m even going to attempt it, But I feel that I need to say something as a dedication and tribute to, what was, the finest musician ever to grace this planet.

Firstly, I have to commend Las Vegas for their tributes to Prince yesterday. A majority of the radio stations were playing his songs back to back, Fremont Street added a Prince tribute show to their famous Fremont Street Experience, and a few landmarks changed their lights to purple, including The Venetian hotel, The Palazzo hotel and The High Roller ferris wheel.

The Fremont Street Experience

The Venetian

The Palazzo

The High Roller

Thank you Vegas.

But for me, yesterday was both sad and contemplative.

As I drove home from work, listening to Prince on the radio and crying like a dove as I sang along with “Baby, I’m a star”, I started thinking about all the years I’ve loved his music and everything it has done for me.

One of the best things to have come out of my love for Prince was a friend who I met at college back in the UK. We had a few things in common; we were both a bit nerdy, we both loved video-games, we both owned Commodore Amigas (showing my age now) and we both had a mutual love for Prince’s music.

That said, we were also very different. He loved rock music – something I wouldn’t come to fully appreciate for another 10 years or so – and had enough face and ear piercings to warrant being cautious when walking past a fridge covered in magnets.

But Prince was the glue that held us together. We even started calling each other ‘Cuz’ like Christopher Tracy (played by Prince) and Tricky (played by Jerome Benton) did in the film ‘Under The Cherry Moon’. It was that ingrained in our lives.

In the 90’s, Prince opened a shop in Camden (Which is in London, in case you didn’t know), and my friend and I would visit regularly.

Usually we would drag girlfriends along with us, who were obviously as thrilled as we were to drool over any sort of crap that had the infamous ‘Symbol’ logo on it.

I can’t remember everything I bought from that shop, but I do still have my Tamboracca somewhere in a box labeled ‘Stuff For Las Vegas’.

I wasn’t leaving it behind in the UK.

No way.

When a Tambourine and a Maraca love each other very much

Over the years I bought every album, bootleg CD, bootleg video (VHS, don’t you know), magazine, book, cassette tape (look it up, kids), tambourine/maraca hybrid and whatever else I could lay my grubby little hands on.

It was an obsession.

Prince was a god amongst musicians and his music connected with me at a level I can’t possibly explain. And this was without the use of any form of opiates or hallucinogens.

In your face, Pink Floyd.

And when I think about it, I can recall the exact moment when I discovered Prince’s music. It wasn’t ‘Purple Rain’, nor ‘Sign ‘O’ The Times’. No, my discovery of Prince was the most unlikely of Albums’; it was the ‘Batman’ album.

Seriously.

We were visiting family in Milan (Which is in Italy, in case you didn’t know), and my cousin was playing the Batman album on vinyl. Straight away I asked her who it was.

As soon as we got back to England, I bought it for myself.

Back then I used to buy vinyl and then record it straight onto cassette tape so as to preserve the vinyl, not realising the loss of quality that involved.

I didn’t care. This Prince dude was pretty awesome.

Soon after this, Prince released ‘Graffiti Bridge’ and it was monumentally different from the album I had listened to a thousand times, yet somehow, I still loved it.

What the hell?

This was the moment I realised I’d found something special. Imagine my joy when I discovered there were ten albums before these!

But before I had a chance to go through the back catalogue, he released another album; something Prince did every year!

That next album was Diamonds and Pearls. From that moment on, I was hooked. What an album. Still one of my favourites to this day.

So anyway, back to my story.

As with anything, life got in the way and in 2007 my friend and I went our separate ways. I must admit that I often wondered how he was doing and what life had thrown at him.

Not magnets, hopefully.

So I bit the bullet and contacted one of my Facebook friends who I knew was still in contact with him and asked her if she would forward a message for me.

I wasn’t looking to reconnect or bring up old wounds, I had no hidden agenda or motive, I simply wanted to convey my condolences. Even though we hadn’t spoken for almost 10 years, I wanted to reach out and make sure he was OK.

You see, to us, Prince was our friend. He was the third person in our exclusive friendship. No matter what happened, he was always there, telling us how much he cared.

He was always in our hair.

And yesterday we both lost our friend.

He replied in no time to say he had been thinking of me too and reciprocated my condolences. That was all I needed. He was finding it as hard as I was and I only hope he gained some comfort from knowing he was in my thoughts.

And now, here we are. It’s a day later and I still can’t believe Prince is gone.

No more concerts, no more albums, no more anything.

My only wish now is that Paisley Park makes the decision to release all the music and videos held in Prince’s infamous ‘vault’.

That would be the ultimate gift to the world.

Let us bathe in the Purple Rain, just one more time.

Rest in peace Prince.

Thank you for everything.

A small entry (apparently)

Posted on Mar 30, 2016 by headinablender

I try to avoid posting twice in quick succession, especially since it’s been a writing drought recently, but I simply had to share this.

I was driving home from work today and, as I joined the freeway, there was a huge billboard offering ‘Vaginal Tightening’.

This was an occasion where ‘LOL’ was appropriate.

I really did. Loudly.

It was highly amusing and therefore I shared it on Facebook. I mean, it’s funny but I didn’t think it warranted a post of its own.

Anyway, as I neared home I saw a store selling alcohol; a self proclaimed outlet of alcohol, or ‘liquor’ as they called it.

Yes, that’s right, it was called ‘Liquor Outlet’.

I had to pull over before I ROFL’d into the car in front.

Spelling it out really doesn’t help me.

Posted on Mar 28, 2016 by headinablender

I haven’t really put pen to paper – or fingers to keyboard – recently and this is due to two simple factors:

I have recently started a new job at the company I work for and have therefore been preoccupied with not fucking it up.
I procrastinate more than (note – come back and add example here)

This isn’t to say I haven’t been making notes of life events; I have. It’s just a case of sitting my arse down and actually writing something.

The irony is, I actually started drafting this post…got sidetracked…and in the meantime posted something else entirely. Well, now I’ve decided to sit down and at least attempt to finish this entry.

To manage your expectations, this isn’t a big amusing moment in my life, but more of a mini-rant about a gripe that I never realised was a gripe until it began rearing its ugly gripey head.

And this isn’t the only gripe. To be honest, there are a few small issues here in America that I simply wasn’t prepared for. For example, America doesn’t seem to have a word for ‘peckish’.

I’m sorry….what?

I used it in a sentence the other day at work and was met with lot of blank faces.

No word for peckish? Really?

That evening I went home and asked my wife if there was an American word for ‘peckish’ and all she could come up with was ‘a little bit hungry?’. This astounds me in a nation that is known for being in a constant state of graze.

Saying ‘I could eat’ isn’t quite the same.

Also, another unexpected gripe is the fact that most people I’ve met can’t read the 24hr clock (or ‘Military Time’ as they call it here). I’ve lost track of the amount of times I’ve seen them deducting 12 on their fingers and quitely mouthing the words.

“So, 17:00 is…(counting on fingers, under breath) 16:00, 15:00, 14:00, 13:00, 12:00, 11:00, 10:00, 09:00, 08:00, 07:00, 06:00, 5:00. it’s 5pm, right?”

Amazing.

Admittedly I do remember struggling with this myself, when I was SEVEN.

Anyway, back to the case in point.

I speak to a lot of Americans on a daily basis at work and, more often than not, I need to take their email address. This isn’t anything out of the unusual, except for the way they read out their email address. It simply baffles me.

Me – “What’s your email address?”

Them – “D as in Dog, A as in Apple, V as in, erm, Van, E as in Everyday, S as in Sam, M as in, erm, Mary, I as in Insulin, T as in Tommy, H as in Happy”

Small pause.

Me – Sorry, you said that so quickly, so it was D for Delta, A for Alpha…”

Them – “No, A like Apple”.

Me – “What’s the diff….er, I mean, can you repeat it for me?”

Them – “D as in Dog, A as in Ask, V as in Vanessa, E as in Egg, S as in Sam, M as in Mary, I as in, erm, (Inbred? Idiot? Imbecile?) Illinois, T as in Tree, H as in Hello”

(Usually always completely different words from the first attempt).

Another pause.

Me – “So, ‘DaveSmith’ then?”

Them – “Yes”

Me – “Ok….?”

There usually follows an unnecessary pause while the customer assumes I magically know their email domain name.

Me – “And the rest of it?”

Them – “What?”

Me – “Davesmith…..at?

Longer pause whilst they try and understand that I’m not a fucking mind reader.

Them – “@gmail”

You’ll notice the lack of “.com”. In the US, if they don’t say ‘.org’ or ‘.net’, then it’s an assumed ‘.com’.

This has caused me no end of problems when I give out my email as I still use my ‘.co.uk’ address. This usually takes some explaining and is met with a blank, open mouthed stare.

Drool optional.

So this is my issue, why don’t the majority of Americans actually say their email as it’s written? I could understand if it’s something like 15t8f725d54it4@blah.com, but it rarely is.

It’s usually something that can be read out like ‘davesmith’, ‘rockdude’ or something laughably awkward like ‘sexxychick’ or ‘hotmama’.

These last two are particularly interesting when you can hear little kids in the background.

Seriously love, have a different email address when you’re shopping; your poor husband must hate calling on your behalf and being asked for it.

At least I understand why HE prefers to spell it out rather than say it.

I was talking to my wife about this and she said a customer had given her “K for Knife”. What next; ‘P for Pneumonia’ or ‘J for Juan’?

Sometimes I try and help them out and they disagree with my suggestion.

Them – “P as in, erm…P as in….”

Me – “P for Peter?”

Them – “No, P as in….erm, Psalm!”

F as in Facepalm

You may have noticed, from the examples I’ve given, there appears to be no grasp of the phonetic alphabet here; at least the official one.

How do I know this? Because it confuses the shit out of them when I use it.

For the uninitiated, the phonetic alphabet is:

A – Alpha
B – Bravo
C – Charlie
D – Delta
E – Echo
F – Foxtrot
G – Golf
H – Hotel
I – India
J – Juliet
K – Kilo
L – Lima
M – Mike
N – November
O – Oscar
P – Papa
Q – Quebec
R – Romeo
S – Sierra
T – Tango
U – Uniform
V – Victor
W – Whiskey
X – X-ray
Y – Yankee
Z – Zulu

Admittedly, I have spoken to a few people who have used the phonetic alphabet correctly and I’ve openly commended them for it. It’s a nice refreshing change from the random selection of words I’ve heard.

Mind you, there are a few unofficial phonetics that seem to have become the standard, even thought they’re not.

These are:

B – Boy
M – Mary
N – Nancy
D – Dog

I hear these every time.

And yet, oddly, they don’t use C for Cat.

Hmm.

I have a C word they can use.

Sarcasm is a dish not found on the menu.

Posted on Mar 21, 2016 by headinablender

On Saturday night my wife and I attended the Purple Reign tribute act at The Westgate in Las Vegas. It was awesome and definitely worth a visit, especially if you’re a Prince fan like me.

Anyway, beforehand we had booked a reservation at an Italian restaurant to make it a proper date night.

Upon arrival we were shown to our seats and handed the largest menus I think I’ve ever seen. These things were like windsurfing sails. Looking around the restaurant I could see people struggling to keep their chairs in place as they fought against the air conditioning.

At one point I saw a crying child fly overhead.

After a few minutes the waitress came over to our table.

“Hi, my name is (I genuinely can’t remember); are you ready to order, or do you have any questions?”

I looked up at her with a wry grin and replied, “Yes actually, I do have a question; is it possible to get a larger menu? This one isn’t quite big enough.”

She smiled back and said, “Yes, I know. The print is just so small and difficult to read. We really need to make the whole thing bigger, sorry about that.”

At last, someone that gets it! She knew I was joking and ran with it, commenting on the size of the text on these huge, wobbling cardboard monstrosities. At last I had found someone that picked up on the subtleties of my English humour and gave as good as she got.

I was so happy.

After she had left, my wife (seeing my smile of satisfaction) leaned in, and said “You realise she thought you were serious, right?”

Fuck.

Slower than the speed of lights

Posted on Mar 3, 2016 by headinablender

I start work very early in the morning; 4am to be precise. This means I leave the house around 3:10am which, as you can imagine, is an easy drive with minimal traffic and plenty of dubious drunk people walking the streets.

Well, this morning it was me and a pick up truck heading in the same direction towards the freeway. To be honest I wasn’t anticipating it would be him and me for very long as he was going about 15 miles per hour slower than me. Before long he was a small twinkling dot of light in my rear view mirror.

And yet, he reached the freeway before I did.

How?

Fucking traffic lights.

That’s right, every set of traffic lights turned red as I approached them.

Every.

Single.

Set.

What the hell is the problem with lights in this city? There’s not another soul on the road for miles around, and yet the lights turn red to allow all the cars that aren’t sat there the opportunity to not go anywhere.

So of course, as I’m sat there giving way to all the invisible traffic and tumbleweeds, the twinkling dot behind me is getting bigger and bigger. Then, just as he’s about 20 feet behind me, the lights turn green and he flies past me. The fucker didn’t even need to apply his brakes.

Grrr….

Despite overtaking that prick about 30 times, he still got there before me.

But I’m OK with it, really.

Talking crap

Posted on Feb 16, 2016 by headinablender

I’ve just been for that first satisfying bowel movement of the day. The one that usurps all others.

It was great.

But, unlike those I enjoy at weekends, this one was at the office.

A downside to curling out a fresh biscuit at work is that you’re not always the only baker in the bakery. This visit was one of those times.

Now, a story like this isn’t unusual under normal circumstances, but this was far from normal. As I entered the toilets [restroom/bathroom] I could hear that the occupant of the far cubicle [stall] was talking to someone. He was on the phone.

I took the first cubicle because, well, no-one likes to poo within a foot of another person. I don’t care if there’s a layer of wood between me and him; if I can see the shadow of his feet, I’m too close.

The toilets at work don’t have piped in music, nor are they located next to an airport runway so it was deathly quiet in there and therefore I could hear every word he was saying.

“I know”

“Yes, I heard you”

“Well, you hurt my feelings”

“Yes”

“Yes I know”

“OK”

There was a pause.

“I love you”

His call must have ended at that point because he then proceeded to wipe his arse.

Nice.

I finished my performance, flushed and then spent an unnecessarily long time washing and drying my hands.

Why?

Well, it could be because I believe in good personal hygiene, or it could be because I wanted to see if this guy had the bollocks to come out of his cubicle and reveal himself.

He didn’t.

I wouldn’t have either.

So, to respect his privacy and integrity, I left.

Then, out of respect for the guy, I didn’t hang around in the kitchen waiting to see who emerged. I didn’t think it was right to make myself a coffee really slowly so I could check out if it was someone I knew (who may read my blog and somehow take this invasion of privacy personally).

After a few minutes he emerged. Thankfully I didn’t know him.

It was just one of our security team; a massive bastard built like a brick shithouse.

This could be my last post.

Food, friends and fist bumps.

Posted on Feb 13, 2016 by headinablender

At lunch yesterday, a few of us went to a local eatery to spend time and catch up.

During our conversation we were talking about a recent work funded night out at a local nightclub

*cough* Hakkasan nightclub at MGM Grand *cough*

Anyway, one of our party was telling us how much she had drunk that night, concluding her tale with my favourite sentence of 2016 so far:

“I was forced to double fist.”

She meant this…

But the action of half choking on my drink, gasping for air and laughing like a busted lawnmower, indicated to her that maybe…just maybe…I thought she meant something else.

I had to share this, it was two good to pass up.[1]

Stuff like this doesn’t just make my day, it makes my hole weak.[1]

[1] not typos.

Stroking the Aardvark

Posted on Feb 4, 2016 by headinablender

Moving from England to Las Vegas has come with its fair share of life adjustments (if you hadn’t already noticed from this blog!).

Amongst these was something I did not see coming. Something that was never an issue in the UK because it was rarely hot (or warm, for that matter) and the humidity was a lot higher.

Plus it rained….a lot.

So what is this new stress in my life?

Dry skin.

Now, in the past when I have visited this fine city as a tourist, it was always hot and I spent a lot of the time slathered in cream; mooching along the strip, shopping, eating, gambling or simply laid out by the pool getting shitfaced.

All of this was fine because I was covered in enough cream to mistake me for a female porn star at the end of a shoot (pun intended).

In case it wasn’t clear I was always moisturised.

The same can be said now that I live in Las Vegas…but only when it’s hot. I’m either covered in factor 100, sitting under a huge umbrella or neck deep in a pool.

It’s a hard life.

Without any form of sun protection, I tend to resemble a cooked lobster…in glasses.

I am, without question, the sun’s bitch.

However, it’s currently Winter here in sin city which means I’m covered in layers of clothing rather than cream based chemicals and the lack of humidity in Nevada has resulted in me having incredibly dry skin. This is especially so on the most exposed parts of my body; my hands.

It was getting to the point where it was hurting. I was worried about making a fist in case my hand crumbled like dry leaves. This was difficult because lots of things in life make me want to make a fist.

To combat this I decided to be a bit of a girl and buy hand moisturiser (that’s ‘moisturizer’ to my American friends…just in case you guys aren’t sure what I mean). So last week I went to Wal-Mart and headed to the skin care aisle.

Fuck me, there are a lot of moisturisers on the market.

I was stood there for at least 5 minutes trying to decide which hand cream would be the best. I was getting some strange looks from people as I tried to decide which would be the best without spending $15.

Seriously?

$15 for a tube of moisturiser? That stuff had better be laced with heroin.

Eventually I settled on a small unassuming tube of Vaseline intensive care because…

I recognised the brand
It was specifically designed for hands and
It was fragrance free. I did NOT want to smell like yo’ mama!

And that was the end of that. My hands are now pain free and supple.

It’s not an exciting story, nor does it have a particularly witty climax.

Or so I thought….

Fast forward to yesterday at work. A friend came over to my desk to see how I was doing and, during the conversation, I pulled out my tube of cream and started applying it to my hands.

“Sorry about this. I know it’s a bit girly, but my hands are so dry. I don’t usually use moisturiser”

He smiled at me. It was a smile I didn’t recognise.

“Sure you don’t”, he said.

I was confused.

He continued to smile at me, adding an eyebrow wiggle.

There was a further pause as he realised I didn’t have a fucking clue what he was getting at.

“You…you DO know what I’m referring to, right? You know, ‘moisturizer’?”[1]

The penny dropped.

It was my turn to smile.

“Sorry mate.” I said, “I don’t need it. That’s the difference between us Brits and you guys”

It was his turn to look confused.

Peek-a-boo

This did get me thinking about my trip to Wal-Mart though. To me, I was trying to figure out which hand cream would best moisturise my poor cracked hands. To others I was openly looking for a lubricant; picking them up, smelling them and basically making a performance of choosing a decent dick cream.

No wonder I got strange looks.

Now that I think about it, people were scurrying away; probably before I had the opportunity to ask them which one they thought would be best for some good ol’ fashioned self abuse.

Us Brits don’t need it.

Not where we come from.

Not in our hood.

Gotta love the little wrinkled bugger….

[1] Spelt the American way, because he’s American and would’ve said it that way.

A very ‘British’ cup of coffee

Posted on Feb 1, 2016 by headinablender

I’m currently at work and I’ve just been to make myself a mug of coffee.

Here’s what happened.

I poured the coffee, added sweetener (I try and avoid sugar from a health point of view, despite the fact that sweetener is nothing but chemicals…but hey, less calories right?), and opened the fridge to get a carton of milk.

One of my colleagues was pouring herself a coffee, saw me add the milk to my coffee and said “How very British”.

I looked at my coffee confused for a moment, then at her, then back to my coffee. What’s very British? Coffee? Er, I think you’ll find that’s a very American thing.

Then she placed her cup under one of these bad boys…

…and starting pumping her beverage with Hazelnut…erm…’cream’? Is it cream?

(Shrugs) Who knows?

I smiled at her as she pumped 6 doses of this stuff into her coffee and said “I used to use that until I saw the calorie content. That’s why I went back to using milk”

She looked at me blankly for a moment. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to comprehend what I’d said or if she was recuperating from having to count all the way up to 6.

She eventually replied with “And you guys put milk in your tea, right?” as she curled up her nose in disgust.

“Yes we do. Actually it’s only you guys who don’t”, I said, a little defensively.

There was a pause.

“Yeah”.

She had clearly lost her way in this conversation and went back to stirring her mug of Hazelnut ‘cream’ with a bit of coffee in it.

As I walked away I turned back, smiled, and said, “Tea with milk is epic”.

She laughed.

I don’t know why.

I don’t think she knew either.