After two weeks of resting my leg (ouch. Ouch. Boo hoo. Ouch. Nothing else to say in two weeks) I am finally okay and ready to resume life. But-wait, there have been some interesting developments.
My friend lives in Dublin. She loves reading this blog-says it is hilarious, and most people over there don't have any love for the English, so she's been passing every post to her Irish friends. (goody). However-and there is a however-she now has an English partner. It's bad enough that he's English-but he is from (horror of horrors) Essex. So he read the blog and has taken exception to my taking the mickey out of the Brits. He has taken particular exception to my laughing about Essex. Well, keep reading, and see if you don't agree with me.
First of all, he said that not all Englishmen have very small willies. I wonder how he knows this...I did ask, but got no reply. Obviously, he's been checking out every other British male he can find. It reminds me of something one of the French cabinet ministers said about British men: she said they're almost all gay. Well--so how does he know about other men's willies? And he also said that he is highly offended by my comment about sheep shaggers. He states that most sheep shagging is done by Albanians and Greeks. And how does he know this? I asked. He just does. What a plonker. So, if you are reading this and are Albanian or Greek, I was given this load of crap by a twit from Essex-and just the fact that he is from Essex means that anything he says is probably untrue. He's from Essex; he can barely walk and talk at the same time, so don't take anything he says as gospel. I don't know any Albanians, but I do know that the Greeks have enough problems (financial screw-ups, defaults on loans, and, of course, thousands of migrants stuck there with no place to go because none of the "partner" countries want to take them) without some Essex twit offering pronouncements when he probably can't even spell Albania. Or Greece. Or Essex.
I have to say that my friend stood up for me-and I told her to keep him away from my blog, because he is a total ass. I also said that I thought she had more taste and better judgment. Ewwww....Essex.
Having said all that, now I have to tell you how I finally got over this pain in the leg and knee. I spoke with my friend Dani, who is also a very fine acupuncturist. She told me to hobble over to the train and come out and see her. And where does she live (and practice)? Errr...Essex. But-she isn't from there originally. She isn't English, either. And I have been checking over the past fifteen years to make absolutely certain that she has not contracted the British Braindead Disorder. So far, she is still fine. But I do wonder how long she will stay that way.
So, last Thursday I did the three hour journey to Essex - and about 15 needles later, I began to feel a bit better. I'll go back again in April-it'll take that long to recover from three hours there and three hours back.
I was struck by the fashions: all neon and spandex (and that was just the men). I nearly fell over going back to the station as I looked at people who had their huge guts hanging over spandex pants, and clearly thinking they looked terrific. They looked something, that was for sure.
I always look in shop windows-especially boutiques-because they can tell you a lot about the people who live in the area. And I turned the corner to walk down the hill to the station-and there it was.
Hanging in the window of this little shop (exclusive, I was told by someone near me, who looked at my jeans, sniffed, and walked away) and saw-a neon and spandex catsuit. It wasn't just neon: it looked like someone had thrown a can of paint on the top and allowed it to drip down. In blues, and greens, and neon urine yellow, as well as bile green. It was hideous, and I started laughing. Now, looking down I saw a pair of gold sneakers (called trainers here, but still gross, whatever anyone calls them). Gold sneakers. And it gets worse.
Right in the middle of the window, staring out at me, was an envelope clutch. It was just about large enough for someone's phone, keys, lipstick, tissues, can of mace...and smack across the front was: a pair of lips. That is what I said: a huge pair of bright red lips-covered with (sit down) glitter and sequins. Pardon? Yep. Essex fashion, along with the bleached hair and abundance of cheap (not gold) neck chains. Glitter. Sequins.
I stood there, transfixed, and thought that the only thing that would make it even more tacky would be if the lips lit up. I waited-but I was disappointed, because nothing happened. But I laughed so hard I got a pain in my side. In fact, I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself-not that anyone here would know the difference. I laughed all the way to the station.
You know, I think there are two parts to Europe (and we are still part of Europe-while everyone is fighting for the referendum to either take us out or keep us in). One is what everyone calls the "Continent": France, Italy, Spain, etc. And the other part is Britain: the Incontinent.
It hasn't escaped me that today is Super Tuesday. I'm as gobsmacked at those hideous outfits last Thursday as I am that anyone would even entertain the thought of putting Donald Trump in the White House. Trump? He would need an extra room just for his hair.
I first thought that only rootin' tootin' gun totin' redneck dipshits would vote for Trump. But-it seems like even normally intelligent, thinking people are looking at him and thinking he would make a great President.
What?????? I am already taking a lot of stick over Trump (as I did over Bush); God forbid he ever got elected, I would never go home. Ewww. And I'm not the only American who feels that way. In fact, I would have to leave here because the abuse would be too much. In fact, I would have to find another place to live-me, and millions of Americans who would make big tracks out of the USA.
Don't come here-that would be jumping from the frying pan into the fire (of Hell). Syria isn't really recommended- but- I hear that Iceland is very nice in November.
