what i love about the container ship story down off the coast of england is how everyone is dressed in exactly the same trackies/trainer combo. it is like a council house cliche has exploded onto the shores of england.

chav-core!


wacky wacky weekend.

went for dinner and drinks with my soccer team. was fun being greeted with a table full of incredulous faces as i crutched up. minus one person for our team. lame. in true european sport style, the food was forgotten and the drinks came in excess. soon a decision was made to head down to newport. of course i'd prefer not to, but sans bike and car (not to mention a pair of working legs) i go where the gasoline takes me - in this case to an overly successful newport sports bar/grill who's name i can't remember right now. full of newport types - thads, chads, brads and candis. each equally douchey in their own lovable (and make-fun-able) ways. i probably was too loudly rude to these people i don't know and judge from a distance (ala SCP drinking game) but i'm sure they do the same to me and my non-newport ways.

eventually boned outta there over to the queue at the crowded mediocre irishish malarkys. waited for a good 35 minutes to get in (so marcus could catch fellow ex-pat douchey dave). was dissapointed by the bouncer who accepted cash at the door to get in. now this practice as a whole does not bother me, but when a dude passes you a tenner and then ASKS, 'is this gonna be enough to get in?', you're just not doing your job. eventually we got in, i quickly decided that my crutch-bound state was less than ideal for bar hopping (by less than ideal i mean, near-impossible) so i hobbled my ass to the corner, sat down and people watched. marcus went to the bar to get me a beer and returned with 3 (!) and a shot of jager (!!). jeez. i forgot what it is like to drink with a real drinker. of course i hate jager and corona is disgusting, but i wouldn't/couldn't fight my way up to the bar without violent crutch swinging, so i didn't complain, downed the jag, sipped the corona and (accidentally - i swear it) picked up three girls. this made me hated by both my party and a good proportion of the dudes in my vicinity. suckas.

marcus and i scuttled our way out before last call to avoid the post 2am exodus from newport. quickly got a minivan cab and was greeted by two big 'ole black dudes (driver + helper? - driver + boyfriend? - driver + buddy?) and a portable dvd player resting between the two of them. who was gracing the screen than none other than our favorite pre-national enquirer, post-thriller michael jackson. awesome. but not as awesome as when the driver pulls out a silver trumpet and starts playing along with the MJ. so surreal. marcus and i shared a 'what the fuck' glance to eachother. i still wonder if someone dropped some acid in my drink or something. too wierd for one night. it was even weirder because homeboy was good.

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did the UCI bball thing. i hate being a fan of this team. we were winning, then fullerton decided to start playing, then uci realized 'oh shit, we're losing', slowly came back to tie it with 30 remaining. with fullerton (bobby brown?) shooting a 3 with one second remaining they destroyed the entire uci squads chances of post-autograph night flirting/number getting.

sad.

also, as per a luis sanchez request this blog will be available via email, i just need to figure out how to make that a reality.