It’s funny, every time someone sneezes in America at least 4 people say “bless you”.
Back in England you could be laying on the floor clutching your chest, coughing up blood and all you would get is some eye rolling and probably some tutting.
Yesterday (Friday), was a pretty amazing day at work.
Firstly, it was the last day of training at my new job which meant it was ‘graduation day’.
As part of graduation day we were asked to collectively choose a theme. As there were almost 60 of us, we all pitched in ideas and then put them to the vote.
Considering the date of this post, you wont be surprised to read that the consensus was the vastly unimaginitively unoriginal theme of ‘Hallowe’en’
Or ‘dress up in whatever the fuck you want’ day.
I wanted to represent the British sense of humour, so I went as a Whoopie Cushion.
No, really.
What’s even better is that my co-worker and friend Trevor (the guy in the picture with me) decided his costume would be ME!
Yes, that’s right….his Hallowe’en costume was ME!
He even had tattoos drawn on his arm.
They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Personally I find it to be a really good blow job.
But Trevor wasn’t swallowing it.
Also, it’s worth noting here that us Brits don’t use the word ‘costume’ when it comes to dressing up like a bunch of idiots.
We call it, ‘fancy dress’, and we wear ‘fancy dress’ to a ‘fancy dress party’
It was my wife who made me realise that fancy dress is a stupid way of saying it.
“I say Nigel, your attire is positively fancy”
It makes us sound like prancing twats with lace handkerchiefs in our hands and thumbs up our arses.
Anyway back to graduation day.
As a Brit I didn’t realise the sheer magnitude of the word ‘graduation’ here in America.
In England it’s not a big deal and conforms to the dictionary definition of ‘receiving an academic degree or diploma’.
In America it means ‘A celebration that is batshit crazy like rabid gibbons in a banana farm’
Seriously, it was lunacy at its best with over the top celebrations for (essentially) turning up every day and learning what you were taught.
I’d heard that people had failed training in past training groups but the quality of the training and the sheer determination by the trainers that you actually LEARNED the content only suggested that these cockwombles were either asleep, dead or too busy masturbating in the toilets to pictures of gibbons in banana farms.
But that’s not why I’m writing, although I hear http://www.bananafarmgibbonlove.com is getting some traction, as is Kleenex.
No the reason I’m writing is because I made an interesting cultural discovery about my American chums, particularly when it comes to bar etiquette.
After the graduation ceremony had finished and all the gibbons had been rounded up, we all decided to celebrate by wiping off the remnants of confetti, silly string and mashed banana and going to a local bar.
We piled in and made a beeline for the bartender.
Straight away I got the first round in.
“Right, who wants a drink?” I asked.
I received requests for 2 Bud Lights, a Jack Daniels and Coke, a pint of Guiness and a some vodka cocktail thing that was far too complicated to be a drink; I think there were body parts and aviation fluids mentioned.
Anyway, the round came to about $40 which I was happy to pay.
My co-worker who had ordered the complicated vodka monstrosity kept offering to give me the money for her drink. I found this to be a little odd and slightly insulting.
Did she think I couldn’t afford it? She’s usually so lovely.
I blame the booze.
Anyway, my beer was downed in about 3 minutes and after about half an hour I was getting thirsty for another, but no one had offered to get the next round in.
Fuck it. I headed to the bar again and joined some of my fellow graduates.
Like before I offered to buy them a drink.
This round was about $30.
‘No biggie’ I thought, ‘at least I’ll have a few drinks come my way later’.
About an hour passed and one of the guys came over with a bottle of Bud Light and said “this is because you bought me a drink earlier”.
Well obviously.
And that was it.
We were in that bar for almost 4 hours and no-one other than one person (thanks Justin) bought me a drink, or even offered.
I found this to be a little weird. I thought these people liked me.
Later that night I told my wife about it and she enlightened me.
Americans don’t do rounds.
Seriously, they dont do rounds…they only buy drinks for themselves – or for a friend or someone they’re trying to shag.
Oh god, do my co-workers think I was trying to get in their pants? Do they now feel that it was a blatant attempt to throw one up them?
This might explain why my lovely co-worker and friend was desperate to pay for her drink. She must’ve felt guilty and was worried she might have to, ahem, ‘flatter’ me later on.
It’s OK, I’ll tell her it was Trevor all along.
On the drive into work this morning I was behind this plumbing truck.
I couldn’t resist sharing these brilliant slogans.
OK, I’ve been in the USA for 7 weeks now and, as you can imagine, I’ve experienced quite a few differences between here and the UK.
I could talk at length about the lethal plug sockets that occasionally terrify you by sending out little sparks when you plug something into them, but I actually want to focus on something we all know is there, but I haven’t touched on it yet.
I’m talking about the differences in English and American-English.
This is causing me a little distress as I now work in an office where everyone spells the American way, or – as we English call it – the wrong way. It’s exacerbated by the fact that every computer I use keeps telling me my spelling is wrong. In fact, as I type this on my US bought laptop, I have a few red squiggly lines under perfectly spelt words like….well….’spelt’!
But it doesn’t stop there.
I have to live with the fact that they insist on dropping the ‘u’ from many words like ‘colour’, ‘flavour’ and ‘neighbour’ and then have the audacity (or is it ‘adacity’ America? Hmm? Is it? IS IT?) to tell me that the English actually inserted these rogue letters unnecessarily.
Apparently the ENGLISH made these amendments to the ENGLISH language that means it isn’t actually proper ENGLISH.
I beg your fucking pardon, mate??
Sorry, sorry, I got all English there!
Sorry.
I suppose I can’t be too dismissive of their version of our beloved language. It’s a valid language after all, and it’s not like they’ve dropped the letter ‘o’ or anything.
American counts.
Another thing that’s causing me issues is the way they’ve changed words that end in ‘ise’ so they now end in ‘ize’; words like ‘summarise’ now becomes ‘summarize’ and ‘apologise’ becomes ‘apologize’. It annoys me further that my fucking (sorry, ‘fcking’) laptop is putting red squiggly lines under the English versions of these words as i’m typing this.
Speaking of my laptop, I’ve noticed that American keyboards switch the ‘@’ symbol and the quotemarks (“”). That hasn’t caused me to fuck up emails at all. Not once.
Also, I don’t have a ‘£ ‘sign on my keyboard anymore. I have to hold down the ‘Alt’ key and type 0163; not at all annoying when emailing the UK about monetary matters.
Anyway, I’ve had the conversation about the whole ‘ise’ versus ‘ize’ with my colleagues at work and they insist it’s because the end of the word sounds like it should end with a ‘z’ and not an ‘s’. They look all smug and pleased with themselves right up until I ask them to spell ‘rise’.
It’s fun watching them try to come up with an answer like a man trying to quickly explain to a vet why he has half a ferret sticking out of his arse.
Sorry, ‘ass’.
Also, if they use the letter ‘ize’ to emphasise (sorry, ’emphasize’) the sound at the end of the word, how come they haven’t changed the word ‘surprise’?
Then there’s the classic one I always hear from both the Yanks and the Brits, the contentious word that is ‘Aluminium’.
Now, this isn’t an idiotic pronunciation of the same word akin to the Americans’ butchering of the word ‘herb’ by removing the ‘h’ and pronouncing it ‘erb’; this is actually the removal of the letter ‘i’ in the word so it’s effectively a different word. Let me put them one above each other so you can see the difference.
A L U M I N I U M
A L U M I N U M
This one I can deal with. I’m OK with it. It’s spelt differently and will therefore be pronounced differently.
I even accept that the word ‘theatre’ is spelt ‘theater’ here, although I recently found out that a building that puts on plays is still a ‘theatre’ and a place that shows movies on the big screen is a ‘theater’.
Actually, fuck it, I take it back; the whole ‘theatre/theater’ thing is a load of bollocks.
But going back to what I was saying; I can also accept that Courgettes are Zucchinis, Aubergines are Eggplants, Coriander is Cilantro and Swede is Rutabaga.
Yes, Rutabaga. That’s a real word; no red squiggly lines or anything on that one.
I’m also fine with a bonnet being a hood, a boot being a trunk, a wing being a fender and chips being fries whilst crisps are chips.
Confused yet?
Biscuits are cookies, taps are faucets, trainers are sneakers and mobile phones are cell phones.
It’s a fucking minefield I can tell you.
What I can’t accept is Pasta being pronounced ‘Paster’ and Basil being pronounced ‘Bayzel’. Basil is also a man’s name and you get it right when it’s a man’s name and not a ‘erb.
These are the exact same words we use in England, so get it right America. How hard can it be? You also spell ‘Parmesan’ correctly, but then pronounce it (almost) the Italian way with a ‘g’ in it; ‘Parmigian’.
Bonkers.
Also, it’s ‘Autumn’, not ‘Fall’. Where did this change come from? Did someone point at the falling leaves, grunt the word “Fall” and it stuck?
We don’t call Summer, ‘Suntime’ or Winter, ‘Cold ‘n’ Wet’, so stop it.
Now.
And don’t get me started on ‘fanny’ and ‘growler’. In American a fanny is your bum, and a growler is a type of large beer bottle.
In England, both words mean ‘vagina’.
Visits to micro-breweries have been interesting!
But after all is said and done, I can’t chastise (spelt with an ‘ise’; no squiggly line) the Americans for their language. I knew most of this before I moved here.
Except ‘rutabaga’. No-one expected ‘rutabaga’.
I had seen enough US TV shows and movies to have an understanding of the differences in English and American-English. It’s actually the differences in the language and the bizarre quirks that makes it all so interesting.
Sooner or later I may need to bite the bullet and start using American-English in my blog. I haven’t decided yet if i’m going to, so let me know if you think I should or shouldn’t.
I’ve even started calling the last letter in the alphabet ‘zee’ rather than ‘zed’ as we do in England. This wasn’t through choice though, this was a necessity. If you say ‘zed’ here, it’s either not going to be understood, or someone will think you’re referring to their redneck uncle who married his sister.
Which come as no surprize.
It seems I’ve dropped the ball when it comes to uploading new posts. The last few weeks have been hectic with my new job, receiving our shipment from the UK (finally) and generally offending Americans with my ‘distinct’ sense of humour [humor].
I plan to upload a couple of posts this weekend based on the notes I’ve been making (I haven’t been THAT lazy)
A few days ago at work we had some suppliers come into the business with all sorts of gifts and giveaways. Amongst them were several bags of crisps [or ‘chips’ to my American chums] from the UK.
I was so happy as one of these bags were my favourite [favorite]….some deliciously addictive cheesy curls of mouth pleasure known as ‘Quavers’.
Mmm Quavers…
There were also a few other bags of crisps [chips] from the same company, ‘Walkers’.
Mmm Walkers…
As I was emptying my bag of Quavers all over my face in slow-motion like a badly lit money-shot, one of the guys I work with asked, “Walkers? Who are they?”
I pointed out, through cheese dusted eyes, that they’re the UK version of ‘Lays’.
Lays…
See? Same logo.
His reply was priceless:
“Is that because in England you guys are super healthy and walk everywhere and in America all we do is lay down and get fat?”
His words, not mine.
Besides, I had a mouthful of cheesy goodness and was desperately trying not to laugh and cover him in it.
Today is my wife’s birthday so – in the face of all the visits to the gym over the last month – we decided to treat ourselves to breakfast at IHOP.
For those who don’t know IHOP, it’s an acronym for ‘International House Of Pancakes’.
It’s not international.
Anyway, on my way to the toilet I passed a woman sat having breakfast with her family.
She was huge. I mean BIG!
This isn’t unusual in this fine country, but I have to say that her ‘Planet Fitness’ T-shirt was a bit of a stretch (or a lot of a stretch if you know what I mean).
Fitness indeed.
“Fitness whole stack of pancakes in my mouth” more like.
It’s been a little over two weeks since the move to Las Vegas from sunny (ha!) Crawley in the UK. In that time I have compiled notes on a million[1] things I want to write about but I have to resist otherwise i’ll be posting two or three times a day, and that’s a bit too much to deal with; like the Kardashians.
As an update on the important things over here, I secured a job on Tuesday[2] with a small, unassuming multi-million dollar company[3] AND obtained my full 8 year driving licence [license]. I may write separate posts about those, but for now I use those memories to aid in masturbation.
On this post I want to share my observations of the gym here in Las Vegas.
I’ve been to gyms all across the country in the UK and now that i’ve moved to the USA I’ve noticed a difference in the calibre [caliber] of people that go.
In the UK the average person in the gym looks a little something like this:
Which is fair enough, right?
But in the USA, they’re like this:
Or this.
Seriously this is a thing here.
It all makes me feel a bit….
[1] Not literally. Maybe six; possibly five.
[2] Today is Thursday, not that you care.
[3] Woo hoo!! Yeah!! (does a little dance)
Yesterday I needed to go to the DMV to begin the process of applying for a driving licence [license].
To all my fellow Brits across the pond, the DMV (Department Of Motor Vehicles) is the American equivalent of the DVLA (Driving and Vehicle Licencing Authority) but with more attitude, sneering and total disregard for anyone and everyone.
We had, in fact, been there the day before at 7:30am which was half an hour before they opened. However, the queue [line] was already about 80 people deep, so we said ‘fuck it’ and decided to go shopping for some delicious home comforts at the international market.
I’ll write about this another time no doubt.
So yesterday we arrived at the DMV at 7am; a full hour before they opened, We were still about 40th in the queue [line]. Luckily the sun wasn’t beating down on us making me sweat through my shirt, so that was nice.
It’s amazing watching Americans queue up. Us Brits are renowned for our amazing ability to queue. If it was an Olympic sport we’d win gold every time, next to moaning about the weather and apologising [apologizing].
The queue was snaking around (what the Americans call) the ‘planters’ and getting quite long.
This is a real satellite photo…honest.
Now, let me ask you a question; where would you join the queue? I mean, REALLY think about it…where would you stand if you turned up and saw all these pink dots, er, I mean people?
At the end of the queue maybe?
Well, some Americans decided to go down this route…
Dumbfuckery at its finest
I seriously couldn’t believe the nerve of these people. They were blatantly attempting to join the queue by giving the snake a second tail.
My wife and I were stood right on that corner, so she politely and with an air of “don’t you fucking dare” pointed out that the back of the line was behind all these increasingly angry faced people. She may have appeared like she was smiling, but I think a more accurate description would be ‘snarling’.
It amazed me that these twats looked genuinely surprised; like i’d kicked them in the balls without warning.
These people didn’t actually realise what they were doing, which isn’t reassuring when you consider they all have driving licences.
Anyway, once the offices opened we all shuffled in to….well, the same queue, but indoors. At least it was air conditioned, which was nice.
We got to the desk in no time and was greeted by the clerk who took our details including our phone number (the DMV staff all seem perplexed that we didn’t have a mobile [cell] number and had to take what’s called a ‘home number’). We were then given each a form to complete and told to take a seat in the waiting room until the last four digits of our phone number was called over the tannoy. The clerk said it wouldn’t take long as there were only 2 people in front of us.
Great.
So we sat down and completed our forms. And we sat.
And we sat.
And we sat.
We ignored the dickhead sat next to the ‘please wear headphones’ sign with his phone blaring out YouTube videos.
And we sat.
People came and people went, but we still sat there waiting for our number to be called.
After an hour my ‘smiling’ wife went and rejoined the bastard queue from hell and was told by another desk clerk that our number HAD been called and we missed it.
Er, no we fucking didn’t.
It seems that your number is only ever called out once. If you miss it you have to rejoin the queue and register it again.
Apparently they also text you to notify you that your number has been called.
No cell phone number, assholes…remember?
Our number must’ve been called in the 4.2 seconds it took to walk from the front desk to the waiting room.
There was no way we could’ve heard it because they don’t have the same tannoy speakers announcing the numbers anywhere else BUT the waiting room; not even in the toilets!
That makes for a nervously quick visit if you’re on your own.
Anyway, our number was FINALLY called half an hour later and we went over to desk 12 and took a seat.
The woman behind the desk – let’s call her Bitchelina – barely looked up at us and said “So what do you want?”
Not “How can I help?”, or “What can I do for you?”. No, she went with “So what do you want?”
My wife explained that she needed to renew her licence, change her surname [last name] to her married name and change her address. I got halfway through explaining that i needed to apply for a US licence when Bitchelina barked, “Why did they send you to ‘Admin’?”
“I don’t know, we were just told to….”
“You shouldn’t have been sent to ‘admin’. Why did they send you to me?!”
How the fuck should we know? Ask the person who sent us; don’t sit there and talk to us like we’d somehow decided it would be funny to come over to your desk and fuck up your day.
Anyway, Bitchelina huffed and puffed about it, moaned openly to her colleagues that we were in the wrong place, stopped processing us on several occasions to socialise with colleagues and generally made it blatantly clear that we were an inconvenience to her.
She was rude, abrupt and only seemed to ask questions that consisted of a maximum of two words.
I had two words for her, and one of them was ‘off’.
(The other was ‘fuck’…in case you were wondering).
Anyway, once I had proven I am a real human being by providing a passport, US visa, proof of address (which still had to be verified by my wife), bank details, birth certificate, blood and urine sample, a cheek swab, the big toe on my left foot and my unborn first child, she thrust the paperwork I needed and grunted in the direction of the testing office.
Before I left I asked her to clarify if the driving portion of the test accepted hand over hand steering, or if it had to be hand to hand (like in the UK).
She didn’t know.
Of course she didn’t.
And that was probably my fault, somehow.
At this point I realised just how true the portrayal of the DMV is in TV and films. The staff there are truly awful. It’s where personalities go to die.
Anyway, I went to the testing office, handed over my paperwork and was allocated a machine to sit at for the written part of the driving test. The machine resembled a cash machine [ATM] complete with touchscreen.
I sat down, pressed the ‘Start’ button and the screen advised there would be 50 questions, of which I had to answer 40 correctly.
No problem; I’d read the Nevada State driving manual and knew all there was about the rules of the road, what the road signs meant, how to navigate the road markings and how the traffic lights [traffic signals] work.
Question 1 – What is skidding?
Oh come on, this is going to be easy!
Question 2 – What do you do at a red light?
This is going to be a walk in the park!
Question 3 – How heavy should a baby be before they can sit facing forward?
Er, what? Ok, no problem…I can skip it and come back to it.
Question 4 – If you suspect a driver is drunk, what telephone number should you call?
How is that relevant to driving? I took a guess. A wrong guess.
Question 5 – If you have an accident, other than the driver, who else should fill out an accident report?
a) A passer by
b) Other passenger(s)
c) The registered owner
Well duh, it’s obviously the other passengers as they would’ve been there at the time of the accident. Nope, it’s the registered owner.
What??
Did you know that you can also lose your licence if you’re convicted for graffiti? Nothing to do with vehicles or driving, just the simple act of defacing property with paint.
I didn’t either.
Needless to say, I failed the test.
Bollocks [gosh darn it]
Not only did this mean I felt stupid – considering it had probably been passed by people with an inability to understand the simple act of queuing – but it also meant I had to resit the test. Imagine my joy when the ‘examiner’ (the woman sat behind the counter scratching her arse [ass] and probably scrolling through her Facebook news feed) told me that I can only do one resit a day.
You mean I have to come back again tomorrow?
Shit.
So that evening I read the booklet cover to cover – including the date it was published (July 2014) and the number of staples used (2) – because i’d realised that the written test wasn’t about learning the rules of the road, but testing if you’d actually read the booklet. If it’s in the booket, they’ll test you on it.
This morning my wife and I went back to the DMV at around 10am, queued up, got snarled at by the desk clerk, gave our telephone number, ran to a seat in case we missed our number being called out, paid the resit fee and went into the testing room to be sat in front of the ATM again.
This time it didn’t ask questions about babies and telephone numbers, naturally.
This time I passed.
Then I was directed to a desk where Bitchelina’s cousin was sat. She told me I had to wait until the 23rd of September for the driving portion of the test. That’s a month away!
Then she sternly said “You can come along any day and get yourself on the standby list, but there’s no guarantee you will get a test and you can be sat here all day”
I wanted to make sure this option was in ‘addition to‘ having a scheduled test, rather than ‘instead of‘, so I replied, “Oh, so I CAN have the test earlier than the 23rd September?”
She repeated, “You can come along any day and get yourself on the standby list, but there’s no guarantee you will get a test and you can be sat here all day”
That’s not really answering my question.
“So it IS possible to attempt a standby test even if I have a scheduled test in September?”
Without flinching she replied, “You can come along any day and get yourself on the standby list, but there’s no guarantee you will get a test and you can be sat here all day”
Hopefully you’ll get the movie reference, and not photo-sensitive epilepsy.
Each telling of this sentence became more and more insipid; like a piece of fruit gradually decomposing.
Although this particular piece of fruit was bitter to begin with…like a lemon! Yes, she resembled a rotting lemon.
Hmm, that’s not a sentence I was expecting to write when I began this post.
So that was my first (and technically second) experience of the DMV. It was a service so far removed from the expected level of customer service you get in the USA.
Maybe they should work on tips like they do in restaurants, then the DMV would be a delightful place to visit. But until then, they will remain to be a bunch of Demeaning, Monstrous Vaginas.
(See what I did there?)
I will no doubt write about the driving part of my test when it occurs. It may be on the 23rd of September, or any day when I can get myself on the standby list, but apparently there’s no guarantee I will get a test and I can be sat there all day.
I’ve been in the U S of A almost 5 days, and already I have SO many notes compiled on things that I’d love to blog about.
That said, I don’t want to blow my load on one post, so I’ve decided to drip feed them in an attempt to look like I’ve thought long and hard about each and every post.
I probably haven’t, just so you know.
Today’s entry is food related.
Last night my wife and I went to a restaurant called Brio in Tivoli Village. Great restaurant with the usual oversize portions and suspiciously joyful staff.
When the waitress (I don’t like the word ‘server’ [1]) took my order, she said “super salad?”
“The salad?”
There was a pause….
My wife tapped me on the arm and said “Soup or salad”
Yeah, that made more sense.
It seems that choice with your meal is a big thing in the United States. If you want eggs, you can have them sunny side up [2], over easy, scrambled, boiled, poached or the waiter can bring the chicken out and you can suck the egg directly from its arse.
If you want chips (fries) you can have them regular, curly or seasoned. Alternatively you can have them boiled, baked or mashed; not to mention the option of hash browns, wedges or having them peeled and inserted rectally to save yourself the calories.
And if you’re having breakfast you can have pancakes, waffles, French toast, English muffins and all sorts of artery clogging carbohydrates….with or without cinnamon frosting or powdered sugar.
Oh, and by the way America, French Toast isn’t French; nor are English muffins English. Both are American.
Crepes are French, but oddly you don’t call those French pancakes.
Also, smothering anything with Marinara sauce does not make it Italian.
But I digress.
Going back to the subject of choice when dining, you also get free refills on a lot of things. Having visited America a lot in the past I am fully aware that you get free refills on coffee and soda (yes, I use the word ‘soda’ now)…but imagine my disappointment when I once declined another bowl of delicious soup at Olive garden only to find out afterwards that it was, in fact, a free refill.
On soup!
This morning I saw an advert on TV (amongst the many, many, many, MANY adverts) for a restaurant called Applebee’s in which they offer free refills on fries.
FRIES!
But, to be fair, you only got these free refills on fries when you order one of their massive, supersized, over the top burgers that includes meat from every species known to man, topped with 8 cheeses and sugar, or something.
It’s like the Heart Attack Grill found on Fremont Street who give free meals to anyone weighing over 350 pounds. This is a place where they have a burger called the Quadruple Bypass which totals 10,000 calories.
My wife told me that a guy once had a heart attack in the Heart Attack Grill on Fremont Street and, considering the ‘servers’ are dressed like doctors and nurses, all the other diners though it was some kind of show.
Well, it’s Vegas after all.
But going back to Olive Garden for a second, they offer a “Buy one, Take one” deal on entrees [3]. You order your main meal and they give you another one free.
Seems normal, right?
Well, this second dish isn’t for your dining partner; it’s for you to take home to presumably eat naked and alone in the dark, sobbing with shame.
Lunacy.
But it’s not all bad, they have twist off bottle caps on their beers. That’s something they’re getting right.
Oh, and they have Spinach and Artichoke dip.
That’s a thing here.
It needs to be a thing everywhere.
Now.
[3] Main course
I’ve made it! I’m here!
I now live in Las frickin’ Vegas!
What a massive cow shit of a difference from Crawley in England.
We arrived on Tuesday and it’s now Thursday, so I’ve had a little time to get my bearings. I know I have a lot left to experience, but even in this short time I have some early observations that I want to share.These observations will be separated into three headings; Driving, Shopping and “Oh, you’re From England?”
The first of these is:
Driving
It all looks so easy. The roads are about three times as wide as those in England, most of the cars are automatic and the speed limits are lower…so by rights it should all be smooth and easy.
Not so.
There are no road markings! Ok, I exaggerate, there are a FEW road markings, but only a fraction of what I’m used to in England. This makes junctions mildly terrifying.
Also, they don’t really make it clear that a lane is ending on the three lane road you’re on, despite the fact that the road doesn’t actually narrow in width. For a guy like me who is used to specific lanes (WITH road markings), it gets a little unnerving that you’re now effectively driving on a lane and a half.
Then, out of nowhere, the lane you’re in suddenly becomes a mandatory left or right turn with minimal warning and you’re somehow expected to deal with it without impaling yourself on the massive 18 wheeler in the correct lane!
Over here it’s all about signage. Small postage stamp sized signs with full sentences to read, positioned in obscure places tucked away out of your field of vision. Well, except for ‘STOP’ signs; they’re EVERYWHERE! In addition, they require a mandatory stop, even if you can see that there aren’t any cars coming for miles around.
These octagonal bastards are used a lot at four-way junctions (or ‘intersections’) where the rule is: ‘The first person who gets to the junction and stops is the first person who gets to go’. I suppose it makes some kind of vague sense until you arrive at an intersection the exact same time as someone else; then it becomes some kind of weird Mexican stand off.
I miss simple ‘Give Way’ road markings.
Then there are the traffic lights. Where do I start?
In the UK they play a simple role; red for ‘Stop’ and green for ‘Go’ (with amber as the transition between them). In Las Vegas they seem to have different rules depending on which junction you’re at, whether it’s a Thursday or if your star sign has the moon rising in Aquarius.
For example, you should stop at a red light if you’re turning right, right? Nope, you CAN turn right at a red light, that is UNLESS the microscopic sign fifteen feet above you tells you ‘No turn on red’; that’s nearly caught me a few times.
Then if you’re turning left, you can obviously do so if the left arrow is green, and you can’t if it’s red….but if it’s flashing amber you can turn left providing the lofty sign says ‘Yield to Traffic’. Surely that means you have to stay still and let traffic pass? Nope, it means you can turn left providing it’s safe to do so.
Then there are flashing red lights that sometimes mean stop and sometimes mean there are lights ahead….or is that flashing amber?
Did I mention that if you’re in a lane designated for turning left or right, you STILL have to ensure your indicators are on.
Plus, the speed limits are laughable. Near our house it’s a 35mph limit on a road the size of a UK dual carriageway, which is 60mph. These are long, wide roads with plenty of room, so why so slow?
With the speed limits, Stop signs, unmarked roads and traffic lights from hell….it takes forever to get anywhere.
All this in a country where 32% of citizens own guns.
Still, one thing that the USA does do right with regards to motoring is the price of fuel and the fuel pumps that lock into place.
Although, if I hear Wiz Khalifa and Charlie Puth’s “When I See You Again” on the radio one more time, I’m going to make it 33%.
Shopping
One of the things I wasn’t looking forward to in the USA was the sheer magnitude of adverts (or ‘commercials’) on the TV. Every 10 minutes, for 10 minutes.
I have to say the frequency of these interruptions is a bit annoying, but at least the adverts are better than those in the UK. American commercials tend to be funnier and more upbeat. Plus, hearing all the side effects of some miracle drug or another is just laughable.
‘Want to reduce your blood sugar? Ask your doctor about Fuckitol. Side effects may include dizziness, high blood pressure, impaired vision, rectal bleeding, the loss of one or more limbs, nasal collapse and excess navel hair. So ask your doctor about Fuckitol today”
Now, I know this next thing has been covered a million times on a million blogs, but adding tax to your purchase at the cash register sucks!
This is mildly annoying when buying clothes and stuff, but we bought a laptop at Best Buy and I got stung for $26 extra when I came to pay for it. At least in the UK you paid what it said on the label. I miss that already!
Today we went to Barnes and Noble, which is America’s answer to Waterstones. But that’s where the similarity ends. This ‘bookshop’ had (in addition to books) Movies, toys, movie merchandise, a café and restrooms. Yes, this bookshop had toilets! It seems that almost every shop (or ‘store’) in Las Vegas has toilets. This is where England gets it wrong.
No-one likes to shop on a full bladder (or bowel). Well done America, you win with regards to retail.
“Oh, you’re From England?”
No matter where we’ve gone over the last 3 days, as soon as someone hears my accent I get asked where I’m from.
Most correctly guess England; some still think it’s Australia.
As soon as they learn that I’m from England, they tell me they have a cousin/uncle/sister in law that either lives in England/Wales/Ireland (pick one), or originally comes from there.
I don’t care. Just give me my laptop.
My favourite (I can’t bring myself to use ‘favorite’ yet) encounter, however, was in Trader Joe’s; an organic and vastly overpriced supermarket. The cashier was loving my “British accent” and asked me “Is it always foggy in England?”
Yes, and Jack The Ripper still roams the streets of London.
Now, this is only after three days of being here. God only knows what experiences I’ll have going forward.
A friend of mine on Facebook posted this picture…
Apparently it’s Saint Judas (Jude) Thaddeus, and is allegedly watching over him.
I’m not convinced.
Looks like an Olympic gold medalist to me, for pole vaulting.
Or a candle.
Saw this sign on a fence in Hyde Park, London.
Bit awkward!
‘Look out’ indeed!
Well, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything. As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, this is mainly due to nothing happening in the jobless lead up to emigrating to America.
Have I mentioned that I’m moving to Las Vegas?
No, I probably haven’t….over and over and over again.
Anyway, last night my wife and I were at a restaurant rubbing our joy in people’s faces when I decided to visit the restroom (yes, I said ‘restroom’; I’m getting into practice because I know Americans will have difficulty with ‘bog’, ‘carsey’, ‘gents’ and probably even ‘lavatory’ and ‘toilet’).
I walked into the bathroom (still practicing) and walked to the urinals.
Ladies, there is an unwritten rule that you never stand next to another man having a piss unless you have no choice; you should always leave a space of at least one urinal between you.
Well, I had no choice on this visit as there were three urinals and the middle one was occupied. There’s nothing more comfortable and lacking in awkwardness than standing shoulder to shoulder with another man holding his penis.
Thankfully as I started taking care of business, he concluded his and began to zip up his fly.
I wasn’t watching him by the way, but I was so close to him I would’ve been able to tell you how much change he had in his pocket.
£2.37.
However, this guy was taking forever to do such a simple task. This was mostly because he’d undone every fucking button on his jeans, including his belt, so he was now painstakingly taking forever to sort himself out.
Come on man, learn how to use your fly. You only need to undo a few buttons to unleash the beast.
To drink juice from a carton, you open up a flap at the top to get at the contents; you don’t open the entire thing at the seams!
What next?
Nope….mine’s British (and a little bit German, and a little bit American).
I’ve just checked my phone.
I expected notifications. I did not expect THESE!
This is the second time this has happened to me.
I laughed just as hard that time too.
A week or so ago my wife and I took a trip to Venice. In lieu of our upcoming move to Las Vegas we felt it wise to visit some places in Europe while they were still pretty close by (and a lot cheaper!)
Plus, as we are moving to sin city, I thought it was a good idea she see what Venice REALLY looks like, rather than basing her ideas on The Venetian hotel on the strip. We’d already visited Paris the year before and she’s already been to New York, so the only one left – that the Las Vegas strip had ripped off – was Venice.
And before you mention The Luxor, friends of mine have been to Cairo and apparently it’s a shithole; so fuck that.
Anyway, I want to tell you about our trip.
But, Headinablender isn’t a travel blog, nor will it ever be unless something weird, wonderful or funny happens. I’m not about to go on and on about the beautiful canals, the crippling expensive food and drink, the amazing architecture or the overpriced gondolas driven (driven? Is that right?) by uninterested Italians with an oar in one hand and their phone in the other.
No, i’m talking about our actual experience of getting there and back; literally ‘the trip’.
There are certain moments in life when you realise you’re now ‘a proper grown up’ These include hosting a dinner party, paying rent/mortgage, choosing curtains and, in the case of our trip, checking in at an airport.
I remember going to the airport when I was a kid and just following my parents around while they organised tickets, passports and luggage. It was just a thing they did until it was time for all of us to sit on the plane. I never considered the effort that had been put in before we’d even got to the airport.
The thing is, no-one pulls you aside at school and shows you how to book a holiday, you just ‘wing it’. Nowadays it’s pretty much all done online. There seem to be two types of holiday companies; those you’ve heard of, and those who are cheaper. Either way, you select your holiday, type in some stuff, pay some money and it’s done. Apparently.
No tickets, no paperwork. That’s it.
Then you find out you have to go to the airline’s website and enter your passport information and pay extra if you want to take a suitcase.
Still no tickets or paperwork. Just faith that all will be OK when you get to the airport.
So, when we arrived at the check in desk and the clerk took our passports, checked us in, took our luggage and handed us our boarding passes, I felt like a proper grown up.
I felt like turning to an imaginary 5 year old me and winking, but I decided against it as I didn’t want to appear twitchy or weird and I wanted to actually be allowed on the flight.
Anyway, fast forward to the departure gate.
We were walking down the tunnel to the plane and there were a lot of people in front of us, and more coming in behind us, including one couple who had a little boy that kept running up and down the tunnel.
“Elliott! Elliot! Come back here darling. Elliott! Elliott!”
His name was Elliott.
After we (and a lot of our fellow passengers) had enduring Elliott’s delightful stomping and kicking of our hand luggage, shins and patience, we finally boarded the plane.
Then, after waiting an eternity for people to put their hand luggage in the overhead lockers and actually sit their fucking arses down, we took our seats and relaxed.
This relaxation was short lived as, sat noisily behind us, was Elliott and his fucking family, comprising of mummy, daddy and younger sister Imogen. How did we know their names? It was all…..we fucking heard…..for the duration…..of the fucking……flight.
Mostly from ‘Daddy’
“Elliott, try not to kick the seat in front”
(my wife’s seat; Elliott was playing a very dangerous game)
“Elliot, please sit down”
“Elliott, please let Imogen look out the window”
“Elliott, please stop crying. Look out the window, can you see the clouds?”
“Imogen, please stop crying. Look out the window, can you see the clouds?”
“Imogen, let Elliott have a go with the colouring book”
“Elliott, please don’t throw the pens on the floor”
“Elliot, please try not to kick the seat in front”
(this was a popular one. Notice the word ‘try’)
“No Elliott, you can’t sit by the window now, we’re about to land. No, please stop crying”
And then, once we’d landed and taxi’d to the gate, we were treated to this moment of absolute fucking lunacy…..
“We’re here! I’m going to get you an ice cream for being such a good boy”
You had to be shitting me!
Once the ‘Fasten Seat Belt’ sign had been switched off we stood up and joined the rest of the plane, who had already stood up a long time ago, to retrieve our bag from the overhead locker.
This was my opportunity to turn around and get a proper look at these people who had made our two hour flight feel like ten.
The parents looked like death. Gaunt, tired and dead behind the eyes. They almost looked grey; drained of all the colour in their lives by the little prick jumping up and down on their laps.
So that made me feel better.
To be honest, the best part of the flight was shortly after the wheels had hit the tarmac.
We were sat over the wing, so as the plane was still hurtling down the runway we were able to see part of the wing lift up; creating more drag and slowing the plane.
I smiled, turned to my wife and said “Flaps”.
We both laughed.
It was all we could do not to strangle (H)Elliott with his seatbelt.
Speaking of seatbelts, have you noticed the crew walk up and down the plane to ensure you’ve fastened it, and THEN show the demonstration of how to fasten your seatbelt? It seems as redundant as showing a pregnant woman how to lose her virginity.
Anyway, we left our woes at baggage claim and went on the have a great time in Venice. What a beautiful city. If you ever get the chance to go, go. Photos don’t do it any justice, it truly is stunning.
By the end of our stay we were looking forward to our flight home. We had chosen a late night flight to ensure we got as much time in Venice as possible and we could also enjoy a nice sleep on the plane.
Yeah, that didn’t happen.
We had the ONLY drunk person on the plane sat behind us, sprawled out across three seats kicking us both in the back for the entire flight whilst he snored like a baboon being sawn in half. We lost count the number of times the cabin crew had to show him how to use the seatbelt.
If anyone needed to pay attention to the safety brief and seltbelt demonstration, it was this guy. Mind you, he was having problems blinking both eyes together so it’s unlikely he’ll be able to successfully operate a life jacket.
Silver lining.
Also, we were lucky enough to have three incredibly noisy Italian kids on the row behind him who were the ONLY people on the plane making a noise; everyone else was sleeping.
This is the reason they don’t allow guns on planes.
Still, two amusing things happened during our stay in Venice that i’d like to share with you.
My wife really wanted a new purse/bag, so I said I’d buy her one. Big mistake.
I was dragged into almost every bag store in Venice, and when you consider that shops in Venice only sell either Bags, Gloves or Masks (yes, masks)…..that’s a lot of fucking shops.
I noticed a lot of the bags had ‘Vera Pelle’ written on them. Never heard of her. This designer was everywhere!
My wife pointed out that ‘Vera Pelle’ means ‘Real Leather’ in Italian. I could be forgiven for my mistake, but i’m half Italian!
Twat.
And the second funny thing was this:
Nuff said.
A couple of days ago my wife and I decided to go into town to shop for shoes. Well, my wife wanted to go into town for shoes and I was driving…so….
Anyway, at one point I saw a woman who was either:
A) fat
B) pregnant
I could only assume she was fat because, well, she was the ugliest thing I’d seen since Gremlins.
Seriously, parents were pulling their children away from her.
Either way, I don’t think she saw the irony in being fully kitted out in Adidas sportswear.
My wife and I went to the cinema yesterday to see ‘Tomorrowland’ in IMAX. We enjoyed it and it’s well worth a watch.
After the film I had to visit the toilet; the inevitable consequence of drinking a LOT of Coke!
As I was having the longest piss in history, I started to get bored and began looking around.
(I was in there alone….otherwise it would most definitely have been ‘eyes forward’)
As I looked to my left I saw this vending machine:
Yes, that’s right; this vending machine – in a cinema – is selling various lubes of different flavours and sensations, Tic-Tacs (important), a form of Viagra (impotent?), condoms and vibrating cock rings.
I’m not a prude, but come on!
This isn’t a pub or a club; it’s a c-i-n-e-m-a.
I guess kissing in the back row has come a long way.
Pun intended.
Time for an update methinks.
My last entry was a little over a month ago, and since then there have been some massive changes in my life that have been on the horizon for over a year now.
Time to spill the beans.
As you know I was made redundant at the end of February. This was a little saddening and…and….oh who am I kidding; I was over the moon! I practically cart wheeled to the tube station to catch the last tube home.
I am not going to miss those hot, sweaty, vacuum packed metallic cylinders full of joyless, shuffling, mouth breathing vacuous twats.
So long, suckers!
Outwardly – to most – I was melancholy at the loss of my job, but the truth is I was relieved. I hated my job and most of the people who worked there. Not all, but most.
They ones I liked, know who they are…and I will genuinely miss working with them.
Unfortunately my wife still worked there, so I had to be diplomatic. If the company had found out the following piece of news, they would’ve got rid of her quicker than a teenager hides porn.
Plus, we still needed money coming in…for now at least.
So why wasn’t I freaking out about having no job? Why wasn’t I worried about money? Well, this is where it gets exciting.
My wife, as you know, is American. The whole reason she came to the UK back in 2013 was so we could be together whilst we sell my house and arrange my US visa so we could move back to her home town of……..
……..LAS VEGAS!!!
Yes, you read that right; LAS ‘holy shit, I can’t believe it’ VEGAS!
However, once we started the visa process it emerged that being married less than 2 years added complications and fees.
Bollocks.
So we decided to stick it out until our 2 year anniversary and then bugger off. Our 2 year anniversary is this August so in three months, off we shall bugger.
My house sold back in February to an investor looking to buy a property he could rent out. My estate agent was so slick he got the guy to view it BEFORE we even put it on the market.
First viewing. Full asking price. Boom!
He even agreed to rent it back to us until we leave for……..
……..LAS ‘Seriously, i’m so excited I peed a little’ VEGAS!
The tedious paperwork and legalities came to a head in April and we finally got the money from the sale. My wife quit her job 20 minutes later.
In three short months we will depart these UK shores for the desert and I can honestly say it can’t come quick enough.
As much as I have loved England growing up, I’ve outgrown it.
I’ve outgrown the weather, the cynicism, the bad attitudes and the stiff upper lips. It’s time for a new chapter in my life.
So stick with me people. In August this blog will take on a whole new life as I share the trials, tribulations, frustrations and lunacy as a Brit in……..
……..LAS ‘Jesus, it is fucking hot’ VEGAS.
I can’t wait.
Well hello there.
Yes, ’tis I.
It’s been over a month since I’ve written a post, but there is a pretty good reason for that.
Nothing has happened to me.
Seriously.
As most of you will know, I was made redundant at the end of February which, to be honest, wasn’t a big deal for me. I knew it was coming and I had made peace with it.
But my inspiration to write and poke fun at life stems from actually being out there and interacting with the dribbling masses of the world; all the bastard commuters, the idiots I worked with (and for), and the shuffling zombies that made every day a living hell.
So it transpires that, without these pointless creatures of vacant thought and stupidity, I have no muse; no poo from which I can pick the peanuts of inspiration and laughter.
“So find another job you lazy twat!” I hear you cry.
It’s not as simple as that.
“Why not!?” I hear you ask, rapidly losing interest.
Well, that’s something I can’t share with you yet for reasons I can’t go into, but rest assured there will be a post in the not too distant future where my dam of diplomacy will burst and wash away the brown and lumpy scum that has been building up over the years.
So this has left me having to take a different approach to how – and what – I write. A lot of my posts have been a re-telling of an event (or events) that I have either seen or experienced first hand; seeing the funny side of someone falling over, or losing their shit.
Occasionally I rant about stuff in life that generally annoys me, but my bread and butter is the sheer lunacy of daily life around me. Something I don’t have a lot of….for now.
In fact, my whole blog began as mere Facebook status updates detailing the weird and wonderful commuters I shared 3 hours a day with. It was only through peer pressure that I decided to convert it to a blog.
You may have noticed that I’ve recently started writing about TV show addictions, visits to the supermarket and innuendo-laced lunch dates with friends which, when you consider how far I’ve come, has been incredibly hard and often difficult to swallow.
Well, now my focus is shifting. I don’t have commuters to berate. I don’t have work colleagues to face palm myself to, so instead I have to rely on what I see, hear and do as an unemployed bum.
Over the next year I anticipate some new muses (or is it musi?), so bear with me. All in good time…
Until then, I’ll keep filling these pages with my utterly mindless wank.
Thanks for sticking with me….it’ll be worth it 😉
Aren’t you excited?
Head In A Blender 