I say, chum, just back from jolly old UK
Excuse me. Did something happen to Martha Stewart?
Sorry, but I’m still a bit sketchy on current events. You see, I’ve spent the last several weeks traipsing all over the United Kingdom with my lovely wife, Sherry.
This was my first trip there (her second). I found the UK media to be woefully short on dispatches from the Americas. In fairness, however, some English newspapers still feature Page 3 photographs of near-naked pinup girls.
So it all evens out.
I had plans to catch up and address the topics of the day. But since returning, I’ve been displaying the classic symptoms of jet lag:
1. Mental befuddlement.
2. Middle of the night fish and chip hunger.
3. The fear I’m about to become an Irishman’s prom date.
There’s a scientific explanation as to why my internal Timex has, technically speaking, warped its mainspring.
England is hours and hours ahead of Spokane. So as I struggle to write this on Monday for Tuesday’s newspaper, in the UK it’s actually 3 a.m. Aug. 15.
It also doesn’t help that while ordering a drink in a London pub I was, in fact, wet kissed by a drunken Irishman.
“Give uz a luv, mate,” slurred the small stocky man who suddenly embraced me and planted his besotted lips on my left cheek.
It was horrible.
(English translation: bloody ‘orrible.)
After a few uncomfortable moments I managed to untangle my person. I slinked back to my wife, who was thoroughly enjoying this international incident from a nearby table.
“Now I know why the British are always talking about the Irish problem,” I told her.
But having to fend off an amorous leprechaun is the only blemish on an otherwise wondrous adventure. I found the Motherland to be a country rich in customs, culture and carbohydrates.
As unbelievable as it sounds, England and Scotland (we avoided Ireland due to my aforementioned psychic trauma) seem to be completely untouched by the Atkins diet.
You can’t walk 5 feet down an English street without passing a display window festooned with pastries, cookies, muffins bigger than the Queen Mum’s scones. Every other corner has a cart hawking ice cream with 40 times the butter fat of the frozen swill we sell.
Tea time? That’s just an excuse to laze away an afternoon mainlining clotted cream and jam.
Brittania may never again rule the waves. But it sure does rule when it comes to the dessert tray.
We stayed in this Georgian bed and breakfast in Bath. (English translation: “Bawth.”) The owners told us of a ridiculous American guest who wouldn’t eat anything but meat.
“He wanted five eggs for breakfast,” scoffed the lord of the manor with a head shake.
“The cad,” said I, choking down my fifth slice of marmalade-slathered toast.
How can anyone not cherish this land with its narrow cobblestone roads and quaint place names such as The Jolly Tar, The Headless Woman, The Pied Bull…
Starbuck’s Coffee.
I’m not saying the UK is in danger of becoming Americanized. But an English gift shop near Windsor Castle was sandwiched (har) between a Burger King and a KFC.
We saw so many historic sites: Hadrian’s Wall. The Lake District. Stirling Castle. Buckingham Palace. Big Ben. The Tower of London…
Eerie Stonehenge.
“Not much more than a pile of rocks, isn’t it?” offered a Birmingham woman in a nonplussed tone.
And no trip to Great Britain would be complete without a pilgrimage to its holiest shrine.
No, not Westminster Abbey.
Liverpool.
Two star-struck wanderers, Sherry and I bought a ticket to ride on the Magical Mystery Tour bus.
“On that corner right there is where Paul McCartney waited for a bus to take him to John Lennon’s house,” noted Eddie our guide. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”