Warning: Objects in Photo do not actually appear in the UK - except for the crap ale. That tastes like celery.
I just landed from across the pond, and let me be the first to tell you that the UK has themselves one exceptionally fine city over there. London is beautiful, and the people are friendly. On top of these two distinctive factors, they talk funny, which only adds to the enjoyment. There is just something about watching a real football match on a proper pitch, in a proper Pub, drinking proper ale that stirs the Brit in you that refused to leave even as Washington forced a surrender at Yorktown in 1781. Something, however, that left the American's psyche at that surrender was the ability to mindlessly suffer through things, without a dire need to make things better. We Americans pride ourselves on our ingenuity, and the Brits commend us (at least, after they get done bitching about us) for our seemingly endless optimism.
Optimism? huh. I hate to clue in our friends across the way, but it's not optimism - it's good old fashioned problem solving. You know - problems like "hey, my beer is warm, and tastes like celery." Well then - let's cool that puppy down to about 33 degrees, add some carbonation, and have it served by scantily clad women. Hey, Britain, it's not eternal optimism, it's fucking common sense. And yet - amazingly - the British seem content to suffer silently without doing a damn thing about it. The perfect example? Football. Proper football, that is.
Now, as an aside, it should be noted that I, Beauford Bixel, am a big supporter of soccer. You set me down in front of FIFA 2006, and I'll whip your ass right quick, provided I'm Chelsea, and can trade for Thierry Henry for my center forward. Those are my conditions - take them or leave them. Hell, I like the sport so much, I even DVR'd the World Cup two summers ago so that I could watch the US get smoked like hashish in Amesterdam. But come on, the game can end 0-0. You can sit and watch 90 minutes of grown men running around a beautifully manicured pitch, and have absolutely nothing resolved by the end. I wotched a beeg mutch betwixt Chelsea and Liverpool frum a propah Eenglish pub that ended nil-nil. I sat drinking ale, amiably watching the telly for 90 minutes, and the most action I saw was in the loo where somebody had posted an escort service advert. But, amazingly, the Brits were happy as could be with the outcome.
Made to suffer, the British people are. I'll tell you what - lets put some modern day armor on those lads, make the ball slightly oblong, and have them hit each other for 90 minutes. At least then I could get my need for violence quenched, even if the score would still be nil-nil. Oh wait - they have that too. It's called "rugby" and no one knows exactly how it's played.
In all seriousness - go to London the first opportunity that you have. It's a great, great city.
Champ's got something for us tomorrow, and I promise it will have to do with football. You know. proper football.
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