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?

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.

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.

Don’t interrupt…

Posted on Jan 20, 2016 by headinablender

I’ve noticed that a lot of my posts recently have been highlighting all the frustrations and annoyances of living in America. It’s been very anti-USA and that’s not entirely fair

I do actually enjoy living here….there is so much about America that is awesome and I will share events when they arise. However, if I wrote about all the things I like about my new life, my posts would be less ranty and more unicorny and rainbowy.

So in keeping with the negative trend, I want to share something that really annoys me when speaking to an American customer over the phone.

Firstly, let me give you some context…

Let’s say a woman is calling our company to order a new jacket for her son. She bought a jacket with us last year and wants the same one again but in a larger size.

Got it?

Good.

Now, in England, the conversation would go something like this…

Customer – “Hello, I’d like to ask you about a jacket for my son”.

Me – “Uh huh, OK”. (verbally nodding to demonstrate I’m listening)

Customer – “Now, I ordered this jacket from you last year…”

Me – “Mm Hmm”

Customer – “…but it’s too small for him now, so I wanted to check if you had the same one but in a larger size”.

Me – “Sure, no problem. Let’s bring up your details so I can find the jacket from last year. Do you have your account number?”

Customer – “Yes, my account number is 123…”

Me – “…123…”

Customer – “…456…”

Me – “…456…”

Customer – “…789…”

Me – “…789, thanks. So your account number is 123456789?”

Customer – “Yes”

(Brings up account details)

Right, now here’s the same conversation with an American customer…

Customer – “Hello, I’d like to ask you about a jacket for my son”.

Me – “Uh huh, OK”. (still verbally nodding)

– Silence –

Me – “Hello?”

Customer – “No it’s OK; you go ahead”.

Me – “What? No, it’s OK. I was just listening; you go ahead”.

Customer – “OK, so I ordered this jacket from you last year…”

Me – “Mm Hmm”

Customer – “Sorry, go ahead”.

Me – “No no, please continue”.

Customer – “OK, so I ordered this jacket from you last year but it’s too small for him now, so I wanted to check if you had the same one as before in a larger size”.

Me – “Sure, no problem. Let’s bring up your details so I can find the jacket from last year. Do you have your account number?”

Customer – “Yes”

– Silence –

Me – (rolls eyes) “So what’s your account number?”

Customer – “123…”

Me – “…123…”

– Silence –

Me – “Hello?”

Customer – “Yes, I’m here, go ahead”.

Me – “So you said it’s 123..”.

Customer – “…123…”

Me – “123123?”

Customer – “…456…”

Me – (getting annoyed now) “…yep…”

– Silence –

Me – “Go ahead”.

Customer – “No it’s OK, you go ahead”

Me – (through gritted teeth) “I need the rest of your account number, please continue”

Customer – “…789…”

Me – “…789, thanks. So your account number is 123123456789?”

Customer – “Yes”

(No account details…unsurprisingly)

Farkin’ ‘ell!

Now, let me be clear, this isn’t the case with conversations face to face, this only happens over the phone. If you so much as fart it spooks them like a deer in the headlights of common sense.

During a face to face conversation I don’t have people stopping mid sentence…unless I flop my cock out.

The power of AI

Posted on Dec 13, 2015 by headinablender

Today’s post isn’t about a particular incident or experience that has happened to me recently. Instead I want to comment on something that causes my eye to twitch.

In order to do this, I need to highlight the power of the letter ‘i’. Let’s do a little test.

Below will be a variety of words which change with the addition of the letter ‘i’, in both the meaning and pronunciation. I want to focus on the latter.

If you’re feeling participative, or not in an awkward place like the toilet, mid coitus or at a funeral, then say these following words out loud.

Mad – Maid

Pal – Pail

Brad – Braid

Pad – Paid

Lad – Laid

Crag – Craig

Now, if you’re English, the ‘i’ infused words will have changed; the ‘ai’ now rhyming with Pay, Say or Day. This would’ve been consistent across all these words.

If you’re American, you pronounced the last one as ‘Creg’.

Yes, ‘Creg’.

I have never understood why this is the case. Like the words ‘herb’, ‘basel’ and ‘pasta’, the name ‘Craig’ is one of the words that America has difficulty pronouncing correctly, despite not being related to Italian cooking.

Prior to moving to America, the name Craig hadn’t been one I’d encountered much in my life. I knew one at school and, other than him, the only other Craig I know of is the singer Craig David.

That’s it.

But in the USA, the name Craig (Creg) comes up a lot, not because I’ve met a lot of Craigs, but due to a small known website called Craigslist (Cregslist). This means I get to hear ‘Creg’ on a lot of occasions.

Lucky me.

This is exacerbated by the fact that a major street in Las Vegas is also called Craig. I cross that bastard every day.

So, by this logic, the name Meg should actually be spelt ‘Maig’ but it isn’t. Yet, the name Megan is pronounced ‘Maigan’.

Twaits.

And yes, I’m very aware that the word ‘Sad’ becomes ‘Said’….but let’s not talk about it, OK?

Stop, America….just stop.

Posted on Dec 8, 2015 by headinablender

Last night I had an encounter with a driver that infuriated me. It’s something that happens a lot and pisses me off to a level that is unwise in a country where guns are so readily available.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is a warning; today’s post is a rant.

Ok, so….this encounter last night involved a 4-way stop junction which, in my opinion, are as effective as chipotle flavoured hemorrhoid cream.

Why the fuck can’t Americans just use roundabouts (sorry ‘traffic circles’) to maintain the flow of traffic like sensible countries? Oh yes, that’s right, apparently they’re ‘confusing’ and Americans don’t know how to use them.

I suppose I can understand that. It’s a circle. Very confusing.

After all, they have to simultaneously use TWO pedals AND a steering wheel; how could we possibly expect them to navigate anything other than a huge, wide straight road?

What was I thinking?

Now, for those who don’t know, a 4-way stop has two simple rules; The Stupid Rule and The Vague Rule.

The Stupid Rule dictates that you MUST stop, even when you can see there are no cars coming for miles and miles and miles.

Add to this the fact that 4-way stops are at almost every intersection, it makes for a very jerky drive.

Stop. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Ad nauseum

It takes forever to get anywhere. And don’t even get me started on the speed limits.

I use the word ‘speed’ liberally, of course.

Then there’s The Vague Rule; it dictates who gets to go first. You see, it all depends on who got to the intersection first. If you’re there first, you go first.

That makes sense, right?

This never results in bell-ends (no US translation for this one) speeding up to get there seconds before you do, just so they can go first.

Never.

Ever!

However, there is one distinct fault with this rule; one that was never taken into consideration when it was apparently concocted by chimps.

People.

It didn’t factor in the sheer stupidity that people bring to the mix.

Most of the time it’s pretty easy to see who gets to the junction before or after you. If they’re stationary when you arrive, they got there first. Otherwise it’s you.

And yet, despite being easy to establish the pecking order pretty sharpish (quickly), there are still those tentative, hesitant, dribbly twats who get there before you and then don’t move, resulting in me and all the other twitchy cars wondering what they’re doing and if we should just go.

I’m pretty sure I’m not the only driver shouting words of encouragement like: “GO then, you fucking turd”

In those situations I just go.

Fuck ’em.

So, was it one of these idiots I encountered last night? Oh no dear sir, it most certainly was not.

No, last night was a whole new level of dumbfuckery.

Now, before I continue, I have a little quiz for you.

Ready?

Question 1: Which indicator (turn signal) do you use when turning left?

A – Left indicator

B – Right indicator

C – Both indicators

D – No indicators

Question 2: Which indicator (turn signal) do you use when turning right?

A – Left indicator

B – Right indicator

C – Both indicators

D – No indicators

Question 3: Which indicator (turn signal) do you use when going straight ahead?

A – Left indicator

B – Right indicator

C – Both indicators

D – No indicators

The answers are: 1-A, 2-B and 3-D.

If you scored less than 100%, please click here.

Otherwise, please continue reading.

So now’s the time for me to set the scene for last night.

I approached the 4-way stop, slowed down and stopped. The car coming in the opposite direction did exactly the same, a second before me. There were no cars coming from the left or right.

It was just the two of us.

According to The Vague Rule, he had the right to enter the intersection before me. He didn’t have any indicators flashing, so he was going straight ahead, just like me.

Naturally, I entered the intersection at the same time as him because, after all, we were simply going to pass each other. Right?

Wrong.

This cocksmoker was turning left.

This meant he had to stop IN the intersection and wait for me to pass, making sure I could see ‘the error of my ways’ by slamming on his brakes and giving me that look to say I was in the wrong.

At least, that’s what I think he was doing, it was difficult to see past the limbs of his kids splatted against the windscreen (windshield).

How the fuck was I supposed to know he was turning left?

I know why I got that look; it was that ingrained sense of entitlement. It was HIS turn to go.

Regardless of whether his maneuver interfered with mine or not, it was HIS turn.

I should sit there like a good little boy and wait.

Not this little boy.

This little boy wanted to get out of his little car and punch him in his little dick.

Why do people here have such an inability to signal which direction they’re turning?

My wife tells me that Las Vegas drivers are the worst, but some of the people I work with – who come from all over the US – say it’s a nationwide epidemic. I’m starting to believe them.

It’s not like they’re driving manual cars over here. They’re not having to negotiate the clutch, the gearstick, the biting point, etc… In fact, UK drivers have all that shit to deal with AND they still manage to use their indicators.

No, here it’s a different distraction. With their free hand they’re either texting, sipping coffee or masturbating.

Like me.

Thanksgiving…it’s not British don’t you know?

Posted on Nov 26, 2015 by headinablender

Today is Thanksgiving.

I’m at work.

“What??”, I hear you cry.

“On Thanksgiving!!??”, you continue.

But let’s be honest here, I’m English; I don’t give a shit about Thanksgiving.

It’s not that I dislike it or anything, but it’s just not something that’s been in my life, like tampons.

It’s there, and I’ve seen it on TV a lot, but that’s for someone else to deal with.

Plus, my side of the family are a little over 5100 miles away in England so we wouldn’t have been together anyway, enjoying a holiday none of us celebrates based on something that never happened in the UK and is entirely America in origin.

You’ll be surprised how many people have asked me if we celebrate Thanksgiving in the UK.

(shakes head sadly at the state of the education system)

It also baffles me why Americans think we celebrate the 4th of July over there too.

I suppose, if they celebrate St. Patrick’s Day (Irish) and Halloween (Celtic), why wouldn’t we celebrate Independence Day? After all, it’s a holiday that commemorates the United States’ independence from the British Empire.

Sounds a hoot.

In fact, I think I’m supposed to be offended.

But I’m not, because I don’t care.

Tampons.

The only 4th I celebrate is Star Wars day in May. The nerd in me loves the pun.

To be honest, I seriously believe that no-one here knows why they celebrate the 4th of July, only that it has something to do with Will Smith.

High on caffeine and as slow as hell

Posted on Oct 28, 2015 by headinablender

I want to take a moment to look at the word ‘Entitled’.

It’s a common word of which I’m sure you’re familiar. If you’re not, here’s a dictionary definition:

verb (used with object), entitled, entitling.
– to give (a person or thing) a title, right, or claim to something; furnish with grounds for laying claim.

Well, in America, this ‘right’ or ‘claim’ seems to extend to all those walking Bags Of Pus Filled Shit we called pedestrians (or BOPFS for short).

Now, I’m being very specific here; I’m not referring to people in general – of which I have varying levels of tolerance – but I am instead talking about people when they’re in the role of ‘inconsiderate prick’.

As a human being (barely) I have been a pedestrian many times in my life, and there are certain unwritten rules of pedestrianism (is that a word?) that should be adhered to. These aren’t complicated rules taught in schools or training courses, they’re just common sense rules laced with decency, common sense and manners.

It’s also inevitable that these rules vary slightly in the US than they do in the UK, but surely not enough to send this calm(ish) Brit into a seething rage on a daily basis?

Oh yes, they do.

You see, there’s something that BOPFS do here that really pisses me off. It’s something so fucking infuriating it makes me want to smash the bonnet [hood] of my car into their soft fleshy bodies at high speeds; sending their stupid twatty faces (and Starbucks) up in the air whilst I let out a maniacal laugh that sounds like a donkey with its cock stuck in a milking machine.

What is this thing?

Entitlement.

In America, a BOPFS will just walk out in front of you without looking. Now, I can forgive a momentary lapse of concentration when crossing in front of a car (maybe you’re reading some awesome blog on your phone), but this happens everywhere, all the time.

In America, like the rest of the world, pedestrians always have the right of way, but that doesn’t mean you have to be a festering dick about it.

In the UK if someone is crossing the street at a non-allocated crossing[1], they will do it quickly so as to not disrupt the flow of traffic. In a car park [parking lot] they will move even quicker, often smiling and raising a hand to say ‘thank-you’.

Courteous.

Well mannered.

Awesome.

In America you’re lucky if the person acknowledges you at all. They simple walk – no, I’m not going to use the word ‘walk; that implies speed – they AMBLE out in front of you.

They KNOW you’re there but still they walk out like they own the fucking road and often proceed to slow down.

What makes it worse is that some of them walk at an angle so they’re walking in the same direction as you like a Funeral Conductor walking in front of my car.

My car isn’t a Hearse.

Although soon it might be.

Plus, my car is white, with the potential for a lot of sudden red.

And brown.

Don’t forget the Starbucks.

I can’t believe people here have the nerve to abuse their ‘right of way’ entitlement to this extent. It makes me want to abuse my ‘go to jail for murder’ entitlement.

Fuckers.

These people shouldn’t mess with large and dangerous killing machines, especially when they’re behind the wheel of a car.

I should drive around them and then stop in their path, and then when they attempt to walk around me I should keep blocking them.

My father in law said a woman once stopped in front of his car and proceeded to adjust her toddler’s clothing while he just sat there, unable to proceed. Apparently she couldn’t walk the last few feet and do it to one side.

All this in a nation that allows guns.

And this got me thinking about Red Bull.

(“Eh?” says the reader).

There seems to be an epidemic of energy drinks in the USA. People are seriously hooked on them. The standard can of Red Bull is basically sugar and caffeine. Add to this that a lot of people drink these back to back throughout the day. That’s a lot of caffeine.

By rights, people should be walking around like an old black and white silent movie!

So taking this into consideration, why are they all walking so fucking slow in front of my car?

I hear Red Bull gives you wings.

So will I.

[1] ‘jay walking’ isn’t a thing in the UK. If you want to get to the other side of the road, you just cross…the…road. You don’t have to walk 3 miles to an allocated crossing so you can cross the road and walk the 3 miles back to the place where you wanted to be.

Come hell or high water

Posted on Oct 22, 2015 by headinablender

Did you know that American toilets contain more ‘bowl water’ than those in the UK?

No?

Here’s a British toilet.

Here’s an American toilet.

Oops! Sorry, HERE’S an American toilet!

Now, this might seem like a pointless waste of water, but I think the Americans are onto something here.

Firstly, no splashback.

Genius.

You’d have to drop a turd the size of King Kong’s finger to generate enough downforce to splash your arse [ass] in this country.

Secondly, and most brilliantly, no skidmarks. Not one.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen a single Zebra patterned toilet bowl since I’ve been here. I don’t even think it’s possible to create them.

Challenge accepted.

Pass me the bran.

United States of Oblivious

Posted on Oct 17, 2015 by headinablender

I’ve noticed that some companies and brands in the USA have names and wording that could be considered…well…downright inappropriate and fucking hilarious in the UK.

Case in point…

Delicious, right?

Now, the dictionary definition of a growler is:
1. a person or thing that growls.
2. a small iceberg that rises little above the water.

To Americans, a growler is some kind of bottle with a handle that is usually used to hold beer.

A growler (snigger)

In England, the word ‘growler’ is slang for vagina.

Over here it’s entirely acceptable to say “Hey, check out her growler” without getting a slap.

In England it’s deemed a bad chat up line to use.

And it gets better.

In the UK we have a verb that is slang for, erm, ‘obtaining a beer foam moustache from partaking in a growler’, if you know what I mean.

Know what I mean? 😉

This verb is ‘Mott’.

For my English brethren who have ever seen Celebrity Juice on UK TV, you will have heard (and seen) Keith Lemon talk about ‘motting a lady’.

This is usually met with raucous laughter as he demonstrates it on one or more of his celebrity guests – more often for an American who has no idea what it means.

Mott mott mott!!

So imagine my joy at seeing these in Walmart last night.

Take a sip, you know you want to.

Although I do have some concerns about these.

Crisps vs. Chips; a story with flavo(u)r

Posted on Oct 17, 2015 by headinablender

A couple of weeks ago I posted a little amusing event involving crisps [or ‘chips’ as the Americans call them].

Since then I’ve written a few other posts and the subject of crisps hasn’t entered my head at all. In fact I haven’t given them a second thought and instead have focused on compiling a multitude of notes and scribblings about other non-crisp related things.

Well, I noticed the other night – whilst shopping in Walmart with the wife – that there is a radical difference in the flavours [flavors] of the crisps [chips] on offer in the USA [USA….oh, wait, that’s the same. Never mind].

With the sheer abundance of crisps [chi….oh you get the point] in America I thought there would be a massive variety of flavours too.

But no.

Now, before I go ‘full rant’, I want to preface this post by saying that I’m not talking about specialist flavours of crisps like Jalapeño and Lime, Sea Bass, Garlic Snails or Children’s Tears…no I’m reserving this for the everyday flavours you expect from your everyday crisps, every day.

Make sense?

Good.

Now, I want to quickly talk about Doritos. When it comes to Doritos, the flavours are pretty much the same in both the UK and the USA.

Having said that, ‘Cool Ranch’ in the USA is somehow called ‘Cool Original’ in the UK because, apparently, the English aren’t able to comprehend what Ranch is.

Admittedly we’re not like the Americans who worship and bathe in the stuff like Cleopatra did in milk, but we know what Ranch is!

We have it as a salad dressing.

Also, ‘Cool Original’ as a name makes no sense. It implies that this was the first ‘original’ flavour to be released when they hit the UK, but in fact they were accompanied by Tangy Cheese and Lightly Salted (thanks for the clarity Doritos, I’ll look elsewhere for ‘Heavily Salted’ shall I?).

Also, the word ‘cool’ suggests these corn snacks are somehow hip and trendy. That’s just a bit weird.

It makes so much sense when they’re ‘Cool Ranch’ because, well, Ranch is cool.

Like bow-ties.

Also, the variety of Doritos flavours in the UK are almost identical to those in the USA, except for Nacho Cheese. How is that different to Tangy Cheese? Tell me America, how?

But as far as general flavours on other brands of crisps are concerned, there are significant differences.

In the UK, the general flavours you will find – over several different types of brands – are:

Ready Salted
Cheese and Onion
Salt and Vinegar
Cheese
Crispy Bacon
Beef and Onion
Prawn Cocktail
Pickled Onion
Hot and Spicy
Barbecue
Marmite
Worcester Sauce
Roast Chicken

We even went crazy and had limited edition flavours like Tomato Ketchup, Fish and Chips, Sausage and Egg and Hedgehog.

Yes, Hedgehog.

Seriously.

In the USA there are hundreds of brands across different styles all offering this wide variety of flavours:

Salt
Salt and Lime
Salt and Vinegar
Barbecue
Cheese
Barbecue Cheese
Hot and Spicy
Hot and Spicy Barbecue
Hot and Spicy Cheese

Are you noticing a pattern here?

I see these huge aisles of crisps in the supermarket and I get excited only to find it’s either salt, cheese and barbecue OR the hot and spicy versions of salt, cheese and barbecue.

Don’t get me wrong, there ARE exotic flavours like Jalapeño Lime and Garlic Bread, but we have those in England too and I consider these to be specialist, exotic flavours.

Where America gets it right though is with Pringles.

In the UK we have a few flavours, but in America there are SO many more. Here are a small selection of the ones that have made me stop in my tracks and buy them:

Wasabi and Soy Sauce
Buffalo Wing
Honey Mustard
Mango Salsa
Dill Pickle
Cinnamon Sugar
Pizza
Loaded Baked Potato
Salsa De Chili Habanero

And there are a lot more, but these are the ones I’ve seen so far. I shudder to think what else they have in the works. Probably Hot and Spicy versions of each.

Now we just need to work on getting some UK classics over here.

Nothing to be sniffed at

Posted on Oct 13, 2015 by headinablender

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.

Are we speaking the same language?

Posted on Oct 6, 2015 by headinablender

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.

The breakfast contradiction

Posted on Sep 20, 2015 by headinablender

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.

The DMV was everything I expected it to be….unfortunately.

Posted on Aug 29, 2015 by headinablender

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.

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.

United Steaks of Hamerica

Posted on Aug 23, 2015 by headinablender

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?”

“What?”

“Super salad?”

“Is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Super?”

“Is what ‘super’?”

“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.

[1] Although people in I.T. swear by them 😉

[2] Also known as ‘half cooked, slightly raw and snotty’

[3] Main course

Coming live from Las Vegas!

Posted on Aug 21, 2015 by headinablender

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.

I can’t wait to find out.

When life does a full 180

Posted on May 21, 2015 by headinablender

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.