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Nasty says he finds it strange that sometimes I don’t want to socialise.
I say I find it strange that people would want to stand on a street corner, outside a pub, in the cold, holding onto a beer from the corner-shop next door, talking non-meaningful things to people you don’t know.
I was more amused munching on my roll of After Eights, and watching as a black cab gets a flat tire from running smack right over a beer bottle.
Can we at least sit inside?
Took the Friday off and spent a brilliant 3 days at Bestival on the Isle of Wight (an island off the south coast of England).
I’ve never been to a music festival before and had absolutely no clue what to expect. The incredible sight of tents for 40,000+ people blew me away.
We journeyed from London by tube and train to Portsmouth Harbour, where we then took a ferry to the Isle of Wight.
The sun was shining and not a drop of the infamous rain that is a staple of British festivals to be seen. Last year was apparently one giant mud bath!
As if the journey to the island wasn’t long enough, we queued for a shared taxi and then trekked through a ticket checkpoint, a security checkpoint, down a hill, through the festival grounds and into the camping area with all our gear of backpacks, mats, tents, sleeping bags, food and water.
I don’t care if you’re sick of photos of tents already, but I was amazed at the sight of all the tents there. I still am. I’ve never seen so many tents in one place before in my entire life! We arrived just about after 12noon, and due to premium spots close to the festival grounds having been snapped up already, we continued trekking through a couple of fields to find a good spot to set up camp.
These are our tent neighbours. By the time we’ve set up our tent (took a few attempts to get everything right) and unpacked, all I wanted to do was crawl inside and curl up into a ball and sleep….
I know I’ve said this before, but the use of the word “bird” to describe girls just really peeves me.
Work-mate: “Well, before I get a bird….”
Nasty: “But she really is a fit bird!”
Guy: “That is the ugliest bird I’ve ever seen!”
Americans: “Check out that hot chick!”.
Brits: “Now that’s a fit bird!”
Why are we birds?
Like being whistled at, it reminds me of construction workers, beer bellies, rough northern country types, rednecks, chavs and little respect. (Yeah, no stereotypes intended. Ha.)
If we are hot chicks and fit birds; can guys be hot dogs and fit dicks?
I suppose I’d be less bothered if there is an equivalent term for men, to tip the balance right.
But at the same time, men don’t give a shit what they’re called.
In fact, call them a dick and they’ll take it as a compliment.
Having been in London for a while now, you tend to forget how outrageously expensive things here are.
However, I got reminded one evening at a tube station.
Apparently from out of town because they didn’t have Oyster cards, a silver-haired elderly couple tried to get tickets at the Covent Garden tube station.
The husband squinted his eyes and studied the price chart and said to his wife, “Do you have change? We need change to buy tickets but I don’t have any.”
(Typical men. That’s what my dad used to always say to my mom when buses used to accept only cash.)
The old lady opens her purse. “How much is it?”
“Four quid each.”
“FOUR QUID?!” The wife squeaks, shaking her thin pale arms, brandishing her purse.
The husband, although a wrinkly old grandpa now, is still pretty much the guy’s guy: hands in his pockets, he squints at the chart again, “Yep, that’s what it says. Four quid.”
“FOUR QUID?!?! THAT CAN’T BE!!!” The wife pushes her way to the front of the chart.
There was apparently a youngster who was (seemingly reluctantly) taking them around and who, for reasons unknown, just shrugged “Yep, that’s the way it is.” instead of getting them an Oyster card each, which would effectively cut the cost of their journey in less than half.
As I went through the gates, the old lady was rummaging through her purse, still shaking her head repeating “THAT CAN’T BE! THAT CAN’T BE!” as the old man and the youngster stood by nonchalantly with their hands in their pockets, a mirror image of each other.
I was left reminded of three things:
1. How expensive transportation costs are here (both in London and in the UK in general)
2. Guys, no matter how young or old they get, will always be guys
3. Girls will continue to shriek about this and that ;)
Things don’t seem to like turning out the way they should for me these days…
This evening, I decided that I will go and see a live stand-up comic in a cozy little pub theatre. I have never seen live comedy before, and with the title of Happiness, I figured things couldn’t go too wrong.
I showed up at the pub half an hour before the show to get tickets, hoping that they haven’t sold out.
I opened a door signed Box Office and walked up the narrow stairs. I thought it was strangely quiet, but hey, who am I to know? Never been to a pub theatre either. (It is essentially a theatre and a pub in the same building, with the theatre upstairs, and the pub downstairs.)
I was greated at the top of the stairs by a tall skinny man with glasses.
Tall skinny man smiled (I thought strangely): Yes?
Me: Hi! I’m here to get tickets to the show starting at 6:30?
TSM looked at me, jaw dropping open.
I decided I’ll drop my jaw too. Maybe this is what people do what you buy tickets to see a comedy show.
TSM closed his mouth, composed himself and said: Umm. I think the show is cancelled.
Me: What?! (He thinks?! He doesn’t know?! And I’ve just checked the website 2 hours prior!)
TSM: <pause> Um, yeah…I think you’re the only one who’s shown up for it.
Me: WHAT?! (This time my mouth involuntarily drops.)
TSM: Well hold on, let me go downstairs and ask.
He bobbed down the steps and I after him.
On the way down, TSM: So how do you know about this show?
Me: The theatre website…(I feel as if I’m not supposed to know about it?)
I got back downstairs, looked around and realise that the comic himself is standing at the bar.
TSM thought maybe he (or I) could persuade him to put on a show just for me. (Haha!)
I stood there thinking: Gees, if he puts on a show for me alone, will I have to laugh at all of his jokes just so he wouldn’t feel bad?
At that point, Alistair Barrie himself has come up to me, apologising that the show is cancelled, that he’s got new materials hoping to bounce off an audience, but unfortunately, just me is not gonna do. However, if I’d go on to his website and drop him a line, I might be able to smooch off him and get to see another show of his.
He offered his hand and a huge smile: “I’m Al by the way.”
I felt bad for him. Imagine no one wants to see your show?
But you know what? I travelled all that way and didn’t see a show. But I shook the hand of a very strikingly handsome man with a wonderful smile and I really appreciated the fact that he came to speak to me personally. I think I might go see him next time, just because of that.
(I know, girls are such suckers.)
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