2017 is already a crazy ride!

Before I start……Happy New Year!!!!!

It’s New Year’s day and I’m working.

My shift started at 4am, so I had to leave the house around 3am.  This meant driving through post-New Year crowds and traffic….in Las Vegas.

This is what I encountered:

  • A mere 45 seconds into my drive an oncoming car veered into my lane for about 10 seconds before realising they were on the wrong side of the road.  I had to stop the car otherwise I would have hit them!
  • A multitude of cars were drifting between lanes without any indicators [turn signals] or awareness of others around them.
  • A few cars straddling lanes for extended periods of time.
  • Lots and lots of red lights.  Seriously, I was at a set of red lights for almost 5 minutes, with no other cars going through the green lights on the cross street!
  • A truck stopped in the middle of the road, blocking everyone.  No reason that I could see.  Also, no driver that I could see.
  • Lots and lots of cars cutting each other up/off.  One driver was so impatient at a red light that he moved into the ‘Right Turn Only‘ lane and then when the lights went green he went straight, cutting up the driver to his left just to get in front.  He pulled over and parked 100 yards later.
  • Lots of loud, drunk people teetering on the edge of the pavement [sidewalk] threatening to walk out in front of my car.

Now, this was the first time I had EVER had to drive to work on New Year’s day in Las Vegas.  I couldn’t believe the experience compared to my normal commute…..

It was no different.

toystorybaddrivers

Food, friends and fist bumps.

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…

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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.

 

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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.

The tale of apes and alcohol

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.

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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.

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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.

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Drinks, Doners and Denial

On Friday I was made redundant and, to celebrate (or should it be commiserate?), we all went to the pub to have leaving drinks.

It was messy.

I must have had about 20-25 drinks before we decided to call it a night and leave London to get the train back to Crawley.

When we finally arrived it was midnight and a very inebriated wife and I thought it would be a great idea to have doner kebab meat and chips (with chilli sauce).

I think the word ‘great’ was a bit of a stretch.

After we’d eaten like pigs at a trough we each took an Alka-Seltzer XS (with caffeine) before we went to bed. This was an attempt to avoid the inevitable hangover that was lurking a few hours away.

In the morning I didn’t have a headache or anything, although my stomach felt all weird and trembly.

It must have been the caffeine.

Yes…definitely the caffeine.

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Oh do shut up

Oh fuck.

I’m sat at a table on the train surrounded by seven horse-teethed 40 somethings (probably with names like Tarquin, Jeremy, Marjory, Cynthia etc.) drinking wine, gin & tonic and grazing on hand made crisps, guffawing at tedious jokes and japes at a volume fitting of a jet engine.

I’m so glad I’m trying to watch Doctor Who on my phone.

The volume just won’t go any higher (on my phone, not on these plum voiced pricks whose volume has no ceiling)

Exterminate!
Exterminate!

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Financial Slimes….

The suit next to me on the train who is reading the Financial Times and smells suspiciously like alcohol and cigars (which makes me thankful I’m not hungover) keeps having phlemmy coughing fits into his fist.

He’s proper loud. I’m starting to get ‘oh dude, I’m glad I’m not you, we all feel your pain’ looks from the other passengers!

Hello Tuesday; you’re going to be a bit of a bastard today aren’t you?

Morning after the night before…

Whilst tidying up from the night before I can hear Jus in the kitchen going “eeew!” and “gross gross gross!” and “why is it wet here; what IS that?” and my favourite…”oh god it stinks of alcohol; I think I’m going to be sick!”

Lol xx