The T-Bomb. Wish me luck

So, here I am (not there, down a bit, South, yes that’s it, sarf USA) all merrily enjoying my blissful time on the American continent. It’s a bit warm (it’s what I would call ‘what’s that yellow thing in the sky, oh sunshine how I’ve missed you’ weather and what my aunt would call ‘find that bloody fan & hit oscillate’ weather), I aint seen an April shower in, well April, and I am happily enjoying myself, safe in the smugness that London is probably cold and grey…. as usual.

Safe in smugness until today that is, but if you’ll allow me to dear reader, let us backtrack somewhat.

Being a Brit, I like to think I’m prepared for all weathers. By which I mean I usually have both sun lotion AND umbrella in my handbag permanently throughout the summer (after all, you never know what you’re going to get.) And also being British, I have an unhealthy obsession with the state of play up there above me head. However, despite this preoccupation with (lets face it Britain) mainly precipitation, I think it’s fair to say we Brits don’t know how good we’ve got it. I know, I know, its habitually dank and grey, and summer is restricted to a weekend in May (always around exam time as I remember from my long distant yoof) and 5 days in early September which we call an Indian summer (pah!), but the realization of how good we have it came to the fore today when chatting to Lell.

A British tornado

Lell is a chum of my aunt, with whom I am staying with in SC. She’s lovely (Lell that is, my aunt aint too bad either) and makes some damn fine pecan pie, a pre-requisite for Southern US living I’m sure. So here Lell was, beaming in all her loveliness over skype to said aunt earlier today, and then she dropped the T-Bomb. It’s not a word we hear very often in the UK, and if it is, it’s usually somewhere near Milton Keynes so it doesn’t really matter that much, but it turns out Tornadoes are a pretty big deal over here. And understandably so, I do not wish to make light of them. But coming from somewhere that always moans about the weather, but rarely actually has any of note (Somerset flooding being the exception that proves the rule, though that actually looked pretty fun, as Ratty once said “there is nothing - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats”), a tornado is an unknown but terrifying quantity. So when Lell mentioned some might be on their way, more than a little fear was struck into me. I might go so far as to say that my face donned an expression not too dissimilar to that of a redneck who has just found out Piers Morgan has had his CNN run extended... Needless to say, not pretty.

An American tornado

I immediately started thinking of emergency exits (before realizing that’s probably the last thing you want to be doing with ole Mr Twister swooping about ominously above), packing my ‘essential items’ (passport & clean knickers since you’re asking) in a handy grab bag and hunkering down. An overreaction one might think, but these things are scary, even more so when one is not used to them, and I, British gal about town, am certainly not!

So where does that leave me now? Well dear readers, please do forgive the odd typo in this posting, for I am currently typing in a feverish frenzy, huddled in a cupboard, nestled cozily between a mega pack of loo roll and a gallon pack of water, resplendent (ahem) by the unforgiving glare of a mac book pro. The trusty umbrella is by my side (I figured I wouldn’t need the sun cream), I have a bag on my head (not sure why, it just seemed appropriate) with my red shoes by my side (just in case I do end up in the Emerald City). So wish me luck, hopefully I won’t need it. But on the very long shot I do actually end up in the land of the Tin Man et al., take good care of Toto, between my brolly and the loo roll, there simply wasn’t enough room for him in the cupboard.

Sorry Toto.

Just Rita and Bob and Sky Mall too.

An 'enchanting' Venetian singing pool gondolier.
Where do I get me one of those?
Oh yeah.... Sky Mall.

The plane taxis….  Seatbelts are fastened…. The engines rev…. A voice comes over the tannoy “I’m afraid we’re going to have to go back to the gate people, a light has come on we can’t identify and we’re going to have to get the mechanics out to look at the plane”. And thus my penance begins….

Handy kitchen roll charging points
for all Rita's girly friends when they
come to lunch in Rita's spacious,
iPhone friendly kitchen

I count myself fortunate for always having had Good Flying Karma. From days as a small person flying transatlantic, bugging air stewardesses to feed me more peanuts throughout the night (I bet they just loved me!), to sleeping most of the way from Sydney to London where everyone around me had a wide eyed glaze about them, I’ve always had good luck with planes. Until now….

Bob's best friend loves the smell of his
scented fire hydrant, why insist on walkies when
you can just pee in the corner of the room?
Ew.  

The first plane to Atlanta was late, my connection rushed, my book thoroughly read, when I jumped onto what was meant to be a 35 minute flight to Charlotte to see my aunt. However the aforementioned 'mystery light' scuppered my plan for a nice easy fly. Now, due to said book having been thoroughly devoured and all other entertainment sources stashed in the hold, what was I left with? An in-flight magazine featuring the words of wisdom from none other than the Kate Mosse loving, perma beard growing, Necker Island retreatist Richard Branson? No ta. Ever since I got wildly shafted by Virgin Media Customer Services some years ago, I have taken agin him. So what else was available to amuse me on what turned out to be an unholy wait for mechanics to investigate lights & give us the ok? The OK, which incidentally, was duly announced 2 hours later with the pilot assuring us no one knew what the light was for, but ‘rest assured, it’s not the engine!’ I was not assured….

Ahhh, so *that's* how Bob stays
in shape. Looking sharp Bob,
just keep your trousers on hey?

Rita rims.... Lucky Bob. Hope she
washes her mouth out. But she probably has
a Sky Mall toothbrush attachment for that

But where was I? Ah yes, bored and with nothing to read … A dreaded situation for any traveller, but one that was shortly to be reconciled as I delved into the seat back and chanced upon the bible of airline shopping....

the Sky Mall catalogue.

Bob Jr in the garden, reminiscing over
last year's magnificent holiday to
Easter Island.

You see the thing about Sky Mall stuff is that you are sure it is designed to fill a need. It must be, after all, why else would it be created? But the question is WHOSE need? No one I’ve ever met, nor I am sure, would I ever want to.  These people (and they must be people as these offerings are neither restricted by age nor by gender) have some rather peculiar taste, and judging by the amount of money Sky Mall must have to spend, the US is full of em. I can see the marketing meeting now…. Besuited bonzos in pin striped suits (these were the days before dress up Fridays, deck shoes and hipster beards were de rigueur in trendy marketing agencies), reeking of Brut and desperation, sweat beading on their brows as they brainstorm their way to oblivion, profiling their ideal customer. But who are they?

En route to his next sales conference, Bob
catches 40 winks on his oh so stylish inflatable
head cushion while all the other business class
passengers seethe with jealousy. 

Lets call them Rita and Bob (for reasons which will become clear). They are the owners of 2.4 children at least, Sue (she's gotta be called Sue) & Bob Jr too. Bob's best buddy is a dog with a penchant for scented fire hydrants who gets along spectacularly with their indoor cat, both of whom are ably catered for by all the pet paraphernalia Sky Mall has to offer. 

Sue lounges with her friend in the
living room,choosing one of 5
(yes FIVE) comfy sitting positions.
One of which appears to
just be lying down.

Yet more delectable garden 'artwork', either
that or Bob Jr has been struck down
by that Game of Thrones stoneyvitis disease.
Next stop the Iron throne.

Rita and Bob are not environmentally friendly, they thrive on plastic, and have a wide network of friends to whom to gift tat to (or tut as Lord Sugar would call it), they travel often (not always in style) and enjoy spending time in their garden (as long as they don’t have to do any actual work, for they are also inherently lazy, all that sitting about in 5 different positions does that to you).

Bob suffers from low self confidence, so what
better to build it with than a box which shouts
out regular acclaim, personalised of course....

Rita and Bob also have peculiar definitions of 'art' judging by their array of garden ornaments, from Easter Island heads to zombies (no one can accuse them of not having eclectic tastes!) and enjoy having friends over, whether for dinner (even though Rita’s taste buds are a little off kilter from all that cocktail glass 'decorating') or just to charge their phone on a handy kitchen roll device. But most importantly for Sky Mall, they have Money To Spend, and a pocket through which it is burning like St Elmo's fire.

Rita, fresh from some rimming, models
the latest in secure scarf wear.
Weighed down by all the
contents of her scarf pockets
her next Sky Mall purchase is a new neck.

Now I have never met a Rita or a Bob, but I like to think if I did, I could pick them out in a crowd within moments. And now you can too, just look for the bulging scarves, an inflatable head pillow & funny walks caused by all that ab toning underwear. They do no one any harm, and in fact single handedly manage to keep an entire company in business, but please, never befriend them. Not unless you want a house full of scented fire hydrants, odd statues and charm necklaces detailing the names of your nearest and dearest (perfect for those amnesiac friends of yours). And am sure none of you, dear reader, would want that… none of you except Rita and Bob that is.

Correct Sky Mall! it is indeed what it is,
cheap tut with a $19.95 price tag.

Why keep your soiled cat litter on
display in a regular open to the elements tray
when you can hide it under your towels?
Bet that really gives the towels a pleasant odour. 

Excuse me, but it's FOOTBALL

Now, being from the place referred to 'over here' as Europe (you know, the big homogenous spot where the yanks like to come visit and check out 'proper' history - TONGUE IN CHEEK I PROMISE.... ok, only a bit), on the whole we tend to have this idea of Americans. Loud shorts, loud voices, no sense of irony or sarcasm, and a propensity for mispronouncing place names (Leicester Square anyone? Edinburgh? I know, its mean to jape at this, after all, we were the ones who invented a deliberately trippy uppy language). On the whole, from over there across the big Atlantic pond that divides, they tend to strike us as a bit crass, a bit brash you know? Maybe its our own fault, us Brits especially. With all our stiff upper lip, using 'sorry' or 'excuse me' interspersedly and 100 million times a day without ever really meaning it. But you know what? From both the time I've spent in this land before, and currently, on the whole, I've found Americans to be really polite. And nothing exemplifies this more than the other day....

So there I was, wandering the fair streets of Philadelphia (where I have been reassured by US telly watching chums it's 'always sunny'.... I didn't get it, had to wikipedia it. Apparently it all goes downhill in series 2 just so you know) when my cidey sense kicks in. You know... cidey sense? Its like Spiderman's spidey sense, except there's a lot less danger, and a lot more apples (that said, Spiderman may have indulged on certain appley escapades I was hitherto unaware of. I might have to look that up. My mate @goybo will be able to tell me am sure). Anyways, so there I was with my cidey sense going at full blast as I find myself outside a pub. Paying close attention to said cidey sense, as one always must when one has time on one's hands, in I went to collect my Strongbow (but only served in small glasses? The cheek!). Now where there are pubs, there are often men, and where there are often men, esp in pubs, there was sport. Fortunately for me, this was not a sport of an American ilk. I tend to be a bit sniffy about those American sports. After all, what is American football but jumped up rugby, with more padding and facepaints (and I dare not even engage in the discussion of the facts apart from to say IT'S NOT SODDING FOOTBALL! They THROW it for heavens sake. Pfft. Thats throwball. With padding *tsks*) and hello? Baseball? Have they not heard of rounders??? *double tsks* Ice hockey they can keep, though I credit that more to the Canadians..... with beards.... So where was I? Oh yes. In the pub. With men and The Sports.

So there I was, cider in hand, and what stumbles across the ole telly box? Only football. Like, proper football. With feet and everything. And British football too. Well, Champions League, so half British. It was Man U vs Bayern, and though I usually detest the Man U, I stayed to watch, after all, I was a wee bit homesick and I had a cider in hand. Around me and the TV a small crowd gathers, all Man U fans to a man. I was the only dissenter and I kept that dead quiet. But here's the thing, all the Man U fans were American (which that surprises me not, after all, I never associate Man U fans with actually being from Manchester) and they were all so damn polite! Obviously, in the UK, one is used to hearing insults and utterances spewing unencumbered from a football fan's mouth, but not in Philly town, no siree. There was no 'so n so takes it up the....', I heard one solo voice mumble 'you scumbag' followed by a furtive glance around the room and a slight hang of his head, in shame that he had broken the code perhaps but certainly no 'the referee's a wanker' or anything halfway so grumpy. In fact the only reference to a referee (referencee perhaps?) was 'awww referee!'. Now, to me, that sounds like said fan was mildly peeved with said referee. Worst still, was that was the reaction when a Man U player got a yellow card. And not just the reaction, but the ONLY reaction. If that was the UK, people would be kicking OFF! Abusing the ref, abusing the other team, but the reaction was so muted, and well, so polite. It was most refreshing and kinda charming. And don't even get me started on when the ball accidentally hit Man U manager David Moyes, bless the Americans for being concerned that he was ok, most Brits I know, United supporters or not, woulda cheered that a manager just got twatted with a ball, much less be concerned for his welfare.

Also a characteristic of watching the footie over here was the discussion of tactics, changes, 'what would you do's? Less tribal grunting, much more discussion. Less proving oneself through shouting and aggression, more through cerebral examination of The Game. Though whether those tactics were correct I couldn't tell you, I was too busy watching the men, and my Strongbow. And the enthusiasm! Oh what enthusiasm! 'You got goal! You got goal!' was a repeated chant. Unfortunately for the supporters, 'twas in vain. I mean, they got A goal, but no where as many as Bayern. But eitherways, was all more articulate than the 'get in there's, 'go on my son's or 'just f*cking boot it' that I've heard as refrains from the viewing floor of my usual football hosting haunts.

And if one can take football (yes football, not soccer peeps) as a microcosm of society I am wondering why is it we have this perception of yanks as rude. And I will take that microcosm thing cos after all, football is often where one sees the worst of society..... Football is mostly machismoed up blokes in the heat of tribalism, so I wonder what that says about Americans as a whole. Are they more polite than us long suffering, long mumbling, much apologising Brits? Well, the footie probably tells us as little as watching British men caught up in the heat of a game tells you about British society. Ie perhaps it says nothing at all. Perhaps all it says is that you shouldn't judge a country on its stereotypes, or indeed it's tourists, and furthermore, if you want a nice quiet game of football with a cider in a very small glass, head to Philadelphia.

Here I am, and there you are....

Well hello you, how are you all today? Jolly good. Me too. So here you are, and here I am... No, not there, here... Almost, up a bit, left a bit, yep, there you go, HERE.

So where was I? Here. Yes, ok. So here I am, and finding myself with an uncommon amount of time on my hands, and not being who indulges in much time to myself, I find myself self-indulging in a bit o the ole words malarkey. I've always wanted to write a blog so here I am (yes, that's it, a bit to the left, there we go), having a go. Hope you're liking it so far.  I say you, but I dout there is anyone out there reading this mindless unravelling of nonsense.

Now, I've kept diaries (mostly full of teenage angst and pretty crap drawings), tried my hand at poetry (it was a mistake... again, too much angst, I even had a note pad of black paper.... Proper angst. Shoulda had a T-shirt made. It would be vintage now. Still, at least there were less drawings with the poetry, I had Moved On by then. But poetry is so passé, well its not really, its just what you say when you don't do something anymore innit? And let it be a blessing for humanity that I don't do poetry anymore. So, where was I? Ahh blogging..... so yeah, after a writing gap of many years and the discarded opening scenes for an awful play, here I find myself. With a blog. Let no one say, I haven't kept up with the times, if the times are 1998, and I like to think they are, cos that was A. Good. Year.

So yes, more time on my hands than previously, that I do have. And where do I choose to spend those times? At least initially? New Jersey. Its where all the cool kidz go you know. Them and Kevin Smith (see? late 90s references!) And by the way, the very fact I've used a Z, (& yes its a zeD people, not a zeE, what the fuck is that about? *tsks*) proves that I am both cool and a kid that can't spell proper like. Actually, I had errant zeds (yes zeD) but more on that another day. Here I am in New Jersey witha bit o time on me fair hands. And since I have time, I may as well write again.  So look, this is me. Writing.

So who is me? Gah, its time for True Confessions already. They're a bit like True Blood but with less biteyness and unfortunately a great deal less Alexander Skarsgard (*waaaahs* am much woe about this). So yes, truthfulness.... am not really a kid. Am an early 30s English lass who was late to this particular bandwagon. As for being cool as claimed above, please let me disabuse you of that notion right away, otherwise I'm gonna have to give you your money back, pretttttty soon. What else? Ah yes, as I said, am temporary New Jersey based which is verrrrry different to my home town of London. From the astounded faces when I announce I can't drive ("whaaaaaaat? you can't drayyve?  What do they teach you kids over there in that there Engerland?") and am over here for a spot of time. Think Sting. But less Englishman in New York, more English Gal in New Jersey, it doesn't scan quite as well but its the bare assed truth. 

As for the point of this? This blogging. Well, not sure yet, not really. Just blathering. There will be blathering (anyone who knows me, will also verify how well and truly I'm usually struck by regular attacks of the verbals), and observations on Stuff. I mean, am not gonna claim I have the answer to Life, The Universe and Everything (for that is, as we all know, 42)  but I guess this is my space to mutter on about stuff and nonsense, point out life's (and New Jersey's) absurdities and nonsensicals, rant mightily (I do like a mighty rant) and generally keep myself amused for a while. What with? Dunno yet, guess that's for us all (by 'all' I mean me, and maybe friends and family who might use this blog to check in on my antics) to discover. But its fun for now, and thats the main thing. 

So until I discover me raison d'etre, or at least mumble incoherently for a while until I stumble across it, so long for now, for a bit, and see you soon. Oh, and as promised, here's a weird thing I spotted (America has them in bucketsful).  Jesus pork scratchings, an oddity indeed. Wonder if anyone has pointed out to the manufacturers Jesus was Jewish thus unlikely to indulge in a porky snack... Unlikely, but still, raised a chortle at Sophington Towers. 

More anon. TTFN