British Bits (Non-Dirty Version)

So I've been saving little bits I've come across in my British life and tucked them away for a rainy day when I didn't have much else to write about. Since it's been monsoon weather for the last forever days, the “rainy day” analogy is quite apt. Also, since it's been raining (and raining and raining and fuck me it's never going to be summer again) and we haven't done anything more than look mournfully out the window wondering if the sun still actually exists, I think it's time I whipped these bits out. That sounded dirty. Heh.

As a quick side note: Seeing as my peoples in Wisconsin are suffering through 100+ temps with humidity, this is all I'm going to say about the rain* we've been having (rainy-est summer since 1910!). I will forever trade 'never feeling dry again' to 'sweating my tits off while never feeling dry again'.

BRITISH BIT #1: The Milk Man

From my understanding, you can still get milk delivered to your door 1950's style in the States. I personally have never seen such services advertised, nor have I seen any deliveries around the neighborhood in the States, nor do I know any milkmen, save the dead kind (punk joke). I hear it's still done though so if you are interested, I'd start doing some web searches. Here in England, milk delivery is certainly not as popular as it was 50 years ago, but it's still going at a fair pace. We have some elderlies who live next door to us who get their milk delivered so every few days one of these pulls up outside:

This is called a 'milk float'. I don't know why. It's an electric powered vehicle (like a golf cart or Duffy boat) and I think the top speed is something like 20 mph. You see, if you are delivering milk at the ass crack of dawn, you need a quiet motor. It's also an open setup so the milkman can get the milk easily without a noisy door opening and closing all the time. This also means that if you are crafty enough, you can nick yourself a bottle.

I Do Not Condone the Nicking of Milk...I'm just saying, you know, in general.

Seriously though, I have never stolen milk. I stole a singing, jiggling, light up spider from Target once when I was 16, but never milk off a milk float.


BRITISH BIT #2: Informative AA signs

Before Beth asks (and I know she will after seeing the picture), the AA is the British Motoring Association. Basically, it's the UK version of AAA (Pronounced to the non-Yanks as 'triple-a'). There isn't a single person in the UK over the age of 25 (including those who do not drive) who do not have a waiting for the AA tow truck story to tell you. You could probably get that story from them two years before you get their first name so you know, it's something to start a conversation with anyhow.

Unlike the States, in the UK, it appears that the AA has full right to put up legal road signs directing one to attractions they think drivers might be interested in. For example:

I like to think of it as driving along the I-5 in LA to see proper road sign telling me that 'Stan's Medical Marijuana is 2 miles, next left'.


BRITISH BIT #3: You tell me what 24 hours means

Ah Tesco...open 24 hours except on the weekend when, you know, it might actually be useful.

BRITISH BIT #4: The after effects of rain can be pretty

I took this from our back patio (sorry, back garden)(there is no plants or grass in our garden, it's just concrete so I don't know why I have to call it a 'garden') after we've had a bit of rain (ha ha...it's always raining). I liked this picture a lot, so I modified it to have a fancy frame so you can tell me how awesome my photography is. It obviously didn't look as impressive without the frame. See if you can spot the magical fairies!

Just kidding, there are no magical fairies in this photo. It's still pretty though, right?


BRITISH BIT #5: Tequila

Even though the weather has said otherwise, it is technically summer. When it turns summer, an old girl's thoughts turn to margaritas. You thought I'd say strappy shoes and light salad dressing didn't you? You didn't? Oh, bless you, you are starting to know me. Finding a place that serves margaritas is, well, difficult. When you do find a place that sell them, they are overpriced and never taste quite like the ones back home. Not knowing how to make a margarita is, quite frankly, appalling. Next the barmen here will tell me they don't know how to make a Harvey Wallbanger or a Monkey Gland. However, the overpriced bit, well, I kind of understand.

Below are the prices for the smallest (50cl or 16 oz) bottles of tequila. Oh, who am I kidding? In 3 stores, this was ALL they had for tequila. If you went for the cheapest bottle there, you'd still be paying $16.50 for it. That bottle of Jager? $28 US dollars. Thank god I'm not 19 anymore or I'd be really bummed about that.

On the upside, if I was 19 I'd be happily enjoying these WKD, commonly known as 'alcopops'. My 19 year old self – holding a sad looking, heartburn inducing wine cooler in my hand – is jealous. My 38 year old self is appalled at the youth of today.

BRITISH BIT #6: Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah

If you are an anglophile you probably already know of HP Sauce. You probably have a bottle of it in your fridge right now, bought from the Cost Plus World Market saved for those rare times you pick up a couple of Cumberland sausages from the specialty butcher. Hey, I'm not making fun of you – I WAS you. You probably also love Guinness because there is a rare anglophile that doesn't. Well Anglophile, this is for you. Actually, it's not for you because you don't live here. Ha ha ha ha ha!!! Don't get too depressed, I'm sure you got to wear shorts sometime this year already.

BRITISH BIT #7: This is fucked up in any country

When I'm in Liverpool One wasting time with Henry, we always end up going to John Lewis at some point because they have, hands down, the best toilets. That is to say that they have a lot of toilets and many of them are big enough to fit myself and Henry's stroller in. I rarely buy anything at John Lewis – even though I really love their shit – because it's expensive. I once bought something there on sale for 4 pounds and twice I bought FUCKING HELL, HOW MUCH? pajamas for Henry because I couldn't find any other place that had footy pajamas with zippers (I know, right?) even though I fucking looked (I paid 18 pounds ($28) for a single pair of pajamas – and we used the SHIT out of them, I made sure of it). What I'm trying to say is, John Lewis is great if you are the type that has extra money that you're not really doing anything else with. If I was rich, I'd shop at John Lewis all the time. I would not, however, pay 225 pounds ($350) for a trash can.

Don't believe me? Here's the close up:

When I walked through and saw this, I stopped to examine the bin. Was it automatic? No. Did it self clean? No. Did it come with a butler service to empty it for you every day? Sadly no. It is a metal trash bin with a non-slip base. Apparently it has a 5 year guarantee. Whoop-fucking-dee. For that price it ought to be big enough to hide in in the event of a nuclear war.

So that's what I've got for you this week. Oh, apparently a 'somersault' is called a 'roly-poly' here.

*I still ended up complaining more about the weather. Go figure.

24 Hours in Belfast

So it's my birthday today. I didn't really do jack shit for my birthday except go shopping and make myself a birthday cake. I also listened to my 1 year old throw the mother of all tantrums in Mothercare because he wanted to take every single toy off the shelf in random toddler fashion and I wanted him to sit still in his stroller while he told me how pretty I am (it's my birthday after all). Lest you think I am the most pathetic birthday celebrator ever, my husband did give me a birthday trip to Belfast. A 24 hour trip to Belfast no less, which we arrived back from yesterday.

Belfast all came about as I, as always, wanted to go somewhere for my birthday. My first thought was Dublin. We needed somewhere that was both incredibly cheap and incredibly quick to get to from Liverpool and at 50 pounds round trip and a half hour long flight, Dublin fit the bill. It was looking at accommodations in Dublin that made me change my mind. Basically, if we didn't mind staying in a hostel with 4 other people in our room, we could have afforded to stay in Dublin. But since I'm neither 25 nor have a problem with noise when I try to sleep, Dublin was right out. Belfast hit our radar because it was still cheap to fly to, quick to get to, and neither Andy or I have ever been there. Not to mention, we have a couple friends from Belfast (who now currently live in CA) so it was easy to get suggestions on what to do and see when we were there.

Now, when you only have 24 hours in a place, you really have to prioritize what it is you all want to do. The most important thing, I feel, was seeing as many pubs as we could.

We went purely on recommendations when choosing our pubs. OK, there were some exceptions – like the hotel bar in the Premier Inn because I had an emergency toilet situation – and the rum bar because I liked the pirate on their sign - but otherwise, it was all places our friends told us to go. Some were good, some weren't, some were fantastic. I think hands down Kelly's Cellars was the favorite as noted that it was the first pub we went to and also the last. A note to Bernadette, the lovely young lady who was having her 2nd date with Stuart a whole year after having the first, hope it worked out for you – Stuart was pretty fit.

You'll like it here.

Worth going just for the architecture.

I may have stolen a Bushmills jug from here.  Maybe.

So many pubs, so little time.

In whiskey we trust.

That does bring up a thing about Belfast, the people there are super friendly. From the bus drivers to the bar patrons to the guy who sold me a bottle of water from Spur, everyone seemed really open to talking to strangers and get this, they even told us their names. Fuck, it was so nice to introduce myself, I think I seriously had forgotten how to do it at first.

Now, don't get me wrong, we did a few other things besides drink. We saw City Hall for example and we saw the Big Fish. I personally loved the Big Fish as it's becoming increasingly clear to me that I like seemingly pointless statues of over-sized animals...and poultry...and fish. Anyhow, I liked the Big Fish so much I gave it tongue.

City Hall

Yes, I know where that fish has been and I don't care.

The next morning was a bit brutal as far as the head situation went. Our flight was leaving at 2 PM so I wanted to cram some Belfast history in, if I could manage to open my burning eyeballs enough to do so. On yet another recommendation, we decided to do the Black Taxi Tour of Belfast. For 30 quid, a very knowledgeable taxi driver will take you around to the sights and give you a bit of history about The Troubles. While I thought the tour was fantastic and pretty neutral in regards to Catholic vs. Protestant, it was a lot to get your head around. Overwhelming, I believe is the word. Sad, is another. I'm posting some pictures from the tour very unbiasedly, as I do not support one side or another. I think what is amazing is the people of Belfast who live under these murals every day.

Andy and our tour guide.

So that was our 24 hours in Belfast. It went too quickly and there was so much more to see so I hope I can back one day. If nothing else, I really need to find out what happened with Bernadette and Stuart...and give more tongue to that lovely Big Fish.

 "Secret Lovers!  That's what we are!"

Everything else that wasn't cheese rolling

So now that its been over a week since the Jubilee Weekend and no one gives a shit about it anymore, I think I shall talk about it. Your welcome. Actually, I'm not going to say much about the Jubilee itself, there isn't much to say. Queen sits on throne for 60 years, the people of Great Britain go ape shit over wearing Union Jack garb and attending crowded parades, flotillas, concerts and street parties where they serve little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The End. What's really important is that we all got two days off of work (including me, since we dropped the kid off at his nan's those two days). That's cause for celebration right there.

Now, Andy and mine's original plan for our two wonderful days off was to head down to Stonehenge, then double back and go to Gloucester for the cheese rolling. Well, the original ORIGINAL plan was to take the entire week off and hit Cornwall and the Isle of Wight as well but our finances just didn't allow it. Obviously cheese rolling was a must and I've been wanting to see Stonehenge since we moved here so we cut it down to just that. However, on the day we left, neither of us had gotten much sleep (thanks Henry) and the drive down south was painful to say the least. I personally gave myself a panic attack by drinking caffeinated coffee to wake me up, then irritated the crap out of Andy by changing the radio stations every 10 seconds. In an effort to take my mind off of not freaking the fuck out, I started looking up the parking situation at Stonehenge on my smart phone. It was then that I ran into this very helpful article. After reading it and realizing that we had over 3 hours to go until we were able to look at some old rocks, I decided to change the plan. For clarification, I still do want to see Stonehenge one day, I just think that it's something to see if you happen to be passing through to somewhere else, that's all.

I may never see you...please open a pub near these particular stones and I may make the effort.

With the Stonehenge plans scrapped, we started looking at other places that we could go to before we went to Gloucester. And when I say 'we', but I really mean 'I'. It was when I was looking at the map that I decided that we would go to Cardiff. Being a big fan of 'Dr. Who', especially during the Eccleston/Tennant years, and consequentially 'Torchwood' to a lesser degree, I was really excited to see Cardiff.

I would be a damn liar if I told you I didn't squeal like a little girl the first time we drove past the main site in Cardiff.

Like all things television vs. reality, there was a bit of a disappointment seeing it all up close and NOT having the Doctor, Rose, Captain Jack and the like running around chasing aliens (or even impersonators, I would have accepted impersonators!) but that is sadly television vs. reality. It was still cool to see and we even found the entrance to Torchwood – both of them actually.

Television vs. Reality:

 TELEVISION

REALITY

 TELEVISION

 REALITY

 MORE REALITY

 TELEVISION

 REALITY (with Lady Boys)

What really was the highlight though was that we met Iggle Piggle. From here on end, we can torture our child and say that Andy is Iggle Piggle's best friend and here is the proof.

BFF's

After having a pint, a walk around, a chat with Iggle Piggle and lunch, we finally headed out to Gloucester. I would like to state for the record that unless you plan to go to the cheese rolling (which I have already stated that you most definitely should) or if you are a big Beatrix Potter buff (and I mean, a seriously addict for all things Peter Rabbit) there is no logical reason to ever vacation in Gloucester. After being there for two days, I honestly started to wonder why we didn't stay in Cardiff and just jot over to Gloucester for the cheese rolling. Poor planning on my part I think. Gloucester is nice, but it's no different from any other medium sized village in the rest of England. There isn't much to see there on the way of attractions (cheese rolling aside). I think for my Wisconsin peeps, it's the equivalent of deciding to stay in Waukesha for two days...just because.

Beatrix Potter Fans, I've just saved you a trip.

That said, we did happen to have the best pub food I've ever eaten in England thus far. I don't know if Gloucester in general has really great pub food or if we just got really fucking lucky, but the food was excellent. If you go to Gloucester (for the cheese rolling) make sure to stop at the Fountain Inn and Cafe Rene for food. Both are located down little cobblestone alleys but have plenty of signage out front so they aren't hard to find.

So what else did we do in Gloucester besides the cheese rolling? Why drink and make asses of ourselves of course.

 I believe that drink was called 'Sex on the Docks'

Help!  I'm stuck in a phone booth on Jubilee Weekend!

Or maybe you can go to Gloucester just to hang out here.

How I Got Twatted on Cooper's Hill

So I'm going to write about our Jubilee weekend break in full when I have more time. However, I really felt that this part needed to out there in the world as soon as humanly possible. (Please note that my laptop died this past week and I'm just in the process of rebuilding it - thus, I do not have Word installed yet to correct all my spelling mistakes - sorry!)

Before Andy and I decided to make the big jump across the pond, we had spent an evening trolling the internet for unusual festivals and events that go on in England. I have to give England credit where credit is due, they had more crazy things going on than one girl could hope to dream. The one event that had stuck out in our heads though was the Gloucester Cheese Rolling on Cooper's Hill. Once we finally moved here, it was always on our minds that we would someday go see it. Opportunity was at hand this year so we went.

The cheese rolling happens once a year in Gloucester on the late spring bank holiday. The whole premise is that they take a wheel of cheese and roll it down a very steep hill. People chase the cheese down the very steep hill and who ever gets to the bottom first (whether still on their feet or not) wins the cheese. It's typically not an "organized event", meaning that no one is paying for this to happen. People just order some wheels of cheese and show up on the hill on the day to chase it. If I had wanted to chase after the cheese, I could have. I didn't have to sign up or clear a waiver or go through training. I could have just plopped my ass on top of that hill and went for it. I had actually toyed with the idea of doing the actual cheese chasing but once I saw that hill up close and personal, no fucking way.

The hill in all it's glory.

The event started at 12 noon. If you ever decide to go, and I can't stress enough to you how much you NEED to go, head over there early. There are only 5 races and the whole thing is over in an hour. Parking is a pain (even if you go early) and you'll have to park on the side of the road and walk. Obviously since Cooper's Hill is in fact A HILL, you will have to pretend you didn't have those 3 double vodkas the night before as you hoof it up to the top. Also good to know is that since it's an unorganized event, there are no beer tents or more importantly, no toilets. It's a hill. That's it. Pee before you leave and don't drink a damn thing the entire time (unless you don't mind peeing in the woods, which to clarify, I don't, as long as I've drunk enough).

The start of the long walk up to the hill.

If you get there early (and you should), you can get a pretty good seat along the side. Mind, the hill is steep and there are brambles. Basically, it's not going to be comfortable but if you compare sitting your ass on a bramble compared to falling ass over tit down the hill after some cheese, you've actually got it made. Maybe.

Here we are 25 minutes before the start of the cheese rolling:



But come on, what you really want to see is yours truly getting twatted by a wayward cheese roller - which is exactly what happened:



Well, I think that's what happened because all I really know is that I was happily filming the very first race of the day ... and then I wasn't. What makes this event so cool is that when I finally stopped rolling down the very muddy slope of the hill (I took Andy down with me by the way) is that the cheese roller that ran into the spectators actually stopped and took the time to ask if I was alright. Once I finally got to my feet again, I happily showed the above video to everyone around me and we all had a good laugh. It was that sort of event.

There will be at least one "Ooof!" person in each of these photos.

Usually there is more than one "ooof!"

I don't know why this particular "ooof!" makes me laugh so hard, but it does.

We watched one more race from that location - in which I kept a very stern eye out for cheese rollers coming my way - then went to the bottom of the hill to access our injuries (I won!) and to stop Andy's legs from cramping. I have a pouty face in this picture but it was one of those happy war wounds - a bit like the ones I used to get playing hurling.

It seriously hurts worse than it looks, I promise.

So yes, cheese rolling. One of those things that really should be on everyone's bucket list.

More Liverpool fashion for Beth...

 

I wish my camera could have caught how *shiny* both these outfits were.    I suppose at the end of the day though, if I had the figure these girls had I wouldn't give a toss what I threw on top of it either.

Mush

So after suffering through the wet and cold weather of April and May, it has finally turned nice again. Like, I can wear shorts and hang said shorts on the wash line outside after I’ve spent the day sweating through them. I would have washed the shorts in that scenario for clarification sake. So yes! The weather has been fantastic and knowing this is England and good weather never sticks around for long in England, I’ve been trying my best to take advantage of it. It isn’t quite the weekend yet so I’m pretty much left to my own devices in regards to what I want to do (read: what I think Henry will enjoy and\or will tolerate) and in the fact that I have to use my own legs and public transport to get around.

Like many people who have lain dormant for the better part of 7 months under wooly sweaters and electric blankets (just saying ‘wooly sweaters’ is making my forehead perspire, it’s that warm right now), the minute the sun starts shining my bare “Oh my god, has she been using Colgate White Strips on her legs?” gams come out and my brain turns to mush. I don’t have much more to say about my legs save the fact that polar bears see them and think its still winter. It’s the brain thing that matters. When you are transporting around a small child to an unknown place, it’s best to know as much as you can about the place you are going to as well as how the fuck to get there. While I am fully aware of that fact, my brain is full of sunshine and looking up train schedules and bus lines and bathroom facilities at certain destinations doesn’t seem to fit in anywhere.

Yesterday I got it in my head to take Henry to a farm. There are a few urban farms in the Liverpool area but after doing some research on navigating my way to them, they seemed a bit far…like walking far, not distance to my house far. Basically, if Google tells me I’m going to be walking for more than 20 minutes in that single direction, I know that it will actually be 35 minutes (I walk slow and I have a kid who’s nose always needs wiping) not to mention that it’s hot and Henry will get crabby sitting in his stroller for that long, blah blah blah. I didn’t bother. I did however find some internet listing for this small farm down in Halewood which would only include a 9 minute (read: 15 minute) walk from where the train would drop us off. Yay.

To make a long story still a bit long, I walked all the way to our local train station only to find out that the train wouldn’t be leaving for another 45 minutes. So I decided to take the bus whose stop was on the other side of my town from where I was. I get to the bus stop, see a bus, and yell at it to stop for me only to finally realize it’s the wrong fucking bus. Being a brave sort, I go with it, as it’s heading in kind of general direction I want to go.

Once in Halewood, we start hoofing our way to the farm (which is now a 25 minute walk away (actual)). This is when the kid decides to shit his pants. “No problem,” I say, “there is a lovely pub right there that states it serves food which means its family friendly which means that they will have a big ass toilet to clean my son’s ass off in.”

Fucking pub was boarded shut. “We don’t take to no family friendly pubs down here in Halewood, boy howdy.” There was nothing else but a newsagent and a hairdresser, so we keep going.

When we did make it to the farm, it was certainly not the type of farm I had going in my mind. It was quite clearly a small working farm (fine) that decided to open itself up to visitors by having a small produce shop that also sold fancy jams. When I asked the owner lady (who I must admit was very nice and accommodating) where the toilets were and were there any animals there to see, she first gave me a bit of a pity look and apologized.

“Well, the toilet is over there under that shanty roof – you have to pull the cord at the top for the light. Um, we have a couple donkeys and goats but I think they are in the shade because it’s hot. The same with the chickens, they are probably in their house because of the heat. Sorry, we are thinking about adding on a little café sometime in the future.”

I bought some jam and the world’s most phallic cucumber because I felt bad.

*************************************

This next bit is for Beth as it’s just another little quirky thing about England that she might find funny.

While I don’t want to get into how lost I’ve made myself in the last few days trying to navigate around a city I’m still trying to get to know, the one thing that has made my life just a little more difficult are the street signs in this country.

Most of us are familiar with what American road signs look like:

I so wish that said "Hardon" instead.

We sometimes even illuminate our signs!  What a concept!

The signs are either directly above the road at a major intersection or tacked on a pole on the corner so you almost always know where to look when you want to find out where the fuck you are.

In England….OK, listen. England is old. They have things that are still standing from the barely A.D. age. Many (and I mean MANY) of their street signs are old and quaint (read: impossible to see or locate). If the street has one of these older signs, the sign will be on a small plaque – usually located on the second story of a building AT LEAST 40 feet from the corner of said street. Now wait. If the street sign has since been replaced, the sign will almost always be located ON THE GROUND, usually around the corner so you don’t know the street name until you passed it. If you see it at all. With the combination of little plaques high up on the second story of building and normal sized signs that only are as high as my waist; you tend to look like a bobble head doll trying to sort out what street you might actually be on*. I seriously believe that’s why England invaded India. They all got lost on their way to the new pub on New Quay Road and just ended up there.

Old timey signs

A newer sign.  Tell me, can YOU see the corner anywhere near this sign?

*I’m going to have to exclude London when I say this as London is full of foreigners (like me) who get lost easily so they do their signage pretty consistently. Fucking London.

Happy Sadness

Our friends back in California posted this on Facebook earlier today:

Andy's first comment was, "who drank half my beer?!"  

My first thought was, "There is no way both our fat asses would fit in that single chair."

Thanks for still thinking of us you guys.  You seriously made our day.

The Terrible Tour Guide

So my dad and my step mom came to visit us for ten days and it was awesome. Not only because of the free baby sitting they did (which was really awesome) but more of just having that little piece of home right here in the heart of Liverpool. Over the ten days I did determine that I am a really shit tour guide but thankfully they both like to drink so that made it somewhat easier.

Here is the run down of what I would apparently show you if you came to visit me. I will assume that you like drinking because there are precious few people that I associate with that don’t. Also, this list would be somewhat longer if you enjoyed museums – which my parents didn’t – and would therefore give me some more opportunities to say, “Well, here it is. I haven’t really been in here but it always looked pretty nice from the outside.”

Moe is a Shit Tour Guide for Liverpool, Item 1: Tesco’s.

This will always be the first stop because my guests will require booze. I will not know what booze they prefer so they can pick that shit out for themselves. Actually, I always have a 6 pack of something in the fridge but we all know that won’t last. Also, I get no greater thrill than cruising around a grocery store in a foreign country. I assume that everyone is the same.

Moe is a Shit Tour Guide for Liverpool, Item 2: Southport

Southport is ironically north of Liverpool. There are some shops there and a long pier with a penny arcade at the end of it. I will assume that you are as thrilled with the penny arcade as I am, and leave you to your own devices while I rack up gigantic pennies playing a 1920’s slot machine. You’re welcome. There is also a café\bar place at the start of the pier that always has some sort of karaoke\Elvis impersonator going on. We will have a drink there and you will marvel at all the English folks who will happily sit outside in shorts and a t-shirt when it is barely 50 degrees with a freezing wind from the sea blowing in.

 He's still in disbelief.

Moe is a Shit Tour Guide for Liverpool, Item 3: Albert Dock and assorted Beatles shit

A walk to Penny Lane, check. A stop at John Lennon’s old school(s): check. A pee break at the Cavern Club: check. Quick stop at the Beatles section at the Liverpool Museum (for even non-museum types): check. HERE’S THE ALBERT DOCK! Yes, it’s pretty. Yep, full of museums. Here’s a souvenir shop – buy something! Here’s the Beatles Experience but we won’t go in because they rape you at 15 pounds per person. Want a drink? Me too! There’s the Baltic Fleet!

Let us not forget the Superlambananas!

Moe is a Shit Tour Guide for Liverpool, Item 4: Chester

How many times do I have to tell you? They have a WALL.

 My dad is looking up to see if it's still raining...as he got a massive raindrop in his eye.  Ah, England.

Moe is a Shit Tour Guide for Liverpool, Item 5: The Cathedrals, Cain’s Brewery, Chinatown and the Philharmonic Pub.

Parental Feedback: The Cathedrals – “No, yeah, that’s really pretty. The other one though, is Paddy’s Wigwam the actual name?”

Parental Feedback: Cain’s Brewery – “The raisin beer is awful. Also, the men’s toilet was broken so when I took a shit it wouldn’t flush. I had to take off the lid and fix it myself.”

It's never too early to get some training in.

Parental Feedback: Chinatown – “This is really Europe’s biggest Chinatown? This is just a street. That arch thing is nice though.”

I actually love this picture.

Parental Feedback: Philharmonic Pub - *Silence in the way of happiness via an awesome pub with great beers* Also, we got in a conversation with a couple of local Liverpudlians with thick Scouse accents. My dad has a hearing problem in general and never does well with even the slightest accent. I enjoyed watching him nod and smile inappropriately while he pulled me aside and said, “You actually understand that?”

 Notice that my body is already turning towards the pub.

Moe is a Shit Tour Guide for Liverpool, Item 6: Asda

You know, because it’s like Wal-Mart, but different.

Moe is a Shit Tour Guide for Liverpool, Item 7: The Lake District

I honestly don’t know if I’d take most visitors here but my parents enjoy nature shit and they enjoy long walks so this was kind of Their Thing. My dad enjoyed asking a myriad of questions all week but its height was in the Lake District.

“How old are those stone walls?”
“What do the markings on those sheep mean?”
“How often to sheep get sheared?”
“What’s the difference in the wool in English sheep verses, let’s say Australian sheep?”
“What’s this lake called?”
“Can I use my Kindle’s wi-fi in the car and have it still connect to your computer connection at home?”
“Why do you never see English wool advertised in England?”
“Am I the only one who wants to add an ‘I’ in all those ‘To Let’ signs?”**

You know the best thing about this picture?  I didn't take it.  I was 2 miles away having a lovely cocktail with my husband.

 Best deal in town - a jug of Pimm's for 14 quid.

Even with my bad tour guiding skills, it really was a great visit and I miss them already. My step mom made chicken enchiladas one night (I made the enchilada sauce myself to help) and there were plenty of leftovers. I actually had the last one tonight. There are piles of Goldfish crackers in my cupboard, a horde of string cheese in the fridge and all the Q-tips a girl would ever need (for the next 4 months anyhow). I’m sure my Wisconsin accent is in full swing again being around them for 10 days as well. I was actually a bit jealous of them when they left as I suddenly had these beautiful thoughts of big highways and toilets that have lots of water in the bowl. Yeah, it was honestly those two things that I thought of first.

Come back soon please.

**Because we had to look most of this up, I’ll share: 1400’s to 1700’s, type of branding, once a year, we still don’t know, Windemere, we don’t have wi-fi in the car, because it would just be ‘wool’, and finally – no, if I had a Sharpie marker on me, most would be vandalized.