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Sunday, May 03, 2009


Yer Bunche in the airplane lavoratory, at roughly 18,000 feet up.

Hey, folks-

so I'm sitting here in Hove, right next to Jewish Warrior Princess, after having finished an enormous and excellent breakfast, and I could not be more content.

The flight over to the UK was rather uneventful in comparison to the last time I made my way here, a trip made memorable by a very drunk and mean old Irish dude from the Bronx who refused to put on his seatbelt. When the flight attendants politely tried get him to buckle up so we could pull into the terminal, the stroppy old fuck screamed, "Maggots and meat! Maggots and meat! That's what you motherfuckers eat! Maggots and meat!!!" (Needless to say, his ass was hauled away in handcuffs by security.)

This time around, as I waited in the flight lounge before boarding, I noticed a tall and very beautiful German brunette clad in a tight-fitting blouse, a skirt and riding boots, sporting a face not unlike a young Brigette Bardot. Various scenarios involving sweaty bedroom arabesques played through my imagination as I checked her out while she walked around in search of a chair, but, this being reality, I soon decided to concentrate my thoughts on the book I was reading (THE INVINCIBLE IRON MAN: THE FIVE NIGHTMARES collected edition), deciding my chances of finding myself fighting Ezekiel Stane in high-tech battle armor were more likely than ever getting my paws on that Teutonic temptress, let alone ever seeing her again.

When I finally took my seat on the plane, I put my carry-on luggae into the overhead storage area and made my way to the restroom for a pre-flight pee, and when I returned, imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered the person who took the seat next to me during the voiding of my bladder was none other than the hot Krautette (who had picked up my book and was thumbing through it). She smiled at me with eyes and pearly whites that stunned me (two features that only barely diverted my gaze from her magnificent breasts as she breathed|), but my elation was soon extinguished when, upon taking my seat, my keen sense of smell detected the incredibly strong and undeniable stench of onionlike B.O. Richard Pryor called "o-dair." I sniffed about in every direction except near the lady, but I had no choice but to accept that the rank, goatish pit-stank emanated from the Germanic Galatea and that I would be stuck sitting next to her for a seven-hour trans-Atlantic flight. Oh, joy.

The flight itself was perhaps the smoothest I've ever experienced, what with a decent meal and a minimum of crying children, and I had the good sense to spend the majority of the journey out-cold asleep (as the German chick's heady miasma permeated the air) since the in-flight movies were mostly a load of shit that I wouldn't have sat through in the first place (the exception being MILK, which I'd prefer to see on a screen larger than a paperback book that had been set on its side). When we landed, some thirty minutes ahead of schedule thanks to some advantageous tailwinds, the landing was so smooth and effortless that several of the passengers broke into impromptu applause upon touchdown.

Shortly thereafter, I made my way through immigration check, picked up my luggage and met Jewish Warrior Princess (hereafter referred to as JWP), but my first official act upon setting foot in England was locate the nearest food stand that sold my single favorite food on the planet, the venerable British sausage roll (for those who don't know, basically a larger, tarted-up version of what we Yanks know as a "pig in a blanket").

The might and majesty that is the sausage roll. I devoured four of these things during the course of my first day in the UK.

Once I had a hot example of that culinary gem slid down my eager gullet, I was ready to rock and roll.

It took a half hour to get to Hove from Gatwick airport, and when we arrived it was just shy of seven AM, meaning my internal clock was registering midnight, so JWP and I had to keep me going for the day in order to avoid jet lag and keep me functioning in conjunction with UK time.

The irony of life: the Jewish Warrior Princess now resides at Princes Court.

After dropping off my stuff, JWP decided to nap for a bit since she'd gotten up quite early to meet me at the airport, so while she slept I borrowed her keys and explored her neighborhood (while in search of more sausage rolls).

The view from the guest room in JWP's flat (which is the only thing flat about her).

Hove is a quiet area on the Southern part of England, located right next to the sea, so the air is a constantly-refreshing and clean sea air that my Brooklyn/Manhattan accustomed lungs simply devoured. While getting my bearings I was taken in by the charm of the place, and snapped some shots for fun, such as this one of a local barber shop with a terrific name,

and this discarded bottle of beer with what may or may not be the funniest name I've yet seen for such a libation:

When I made it back to the apartment after about forty-five minutes of exploring and sausage roll foraging, I took a brief and much-needed nap before JWP and I ventured into nearby Brighton to see X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE (see the previous post). The theater where we saw it was overrun by tweener British girls who were there to see the HANNA MONTANA movie, so imaging my surprise when I went to use the restroom and found a condom machine mounted to the wall.

Seriously, exactly what kind of action goes on in Brighton that makes it necessary to have a prophylactics vending machine ready to rock on a theater level that was running HANNA MONTANA, WOLVERINE and the Jonas Brothers concert movie?

Following that, we wandered around the streets of Brighton and I marveled at the myriad colorful shops and such, and I have every intention of returning to check it all out in detail, but here are some items of note:

The come-on sign outside Choccy Woccy Doodah, a sweets store I would not have been surprised to see in Manhattan's West Village.

Inside Choccy Wocky Doodah was this incredible mermaid cake. I don't know about you, but I would cry if I had to damage this masterpiece in any way, to say nothing of ruining it by actually eating it!

The other side of the Choccy Woccy Doodah sign.

At one point, JWP led me down this block, a stunning example of graffiti art that could teach some of NYC's street Rembrandts a thing or two.

If only they had this shirt in my size. Imagine my hideous head on Lisa Simpson's body ...
(And no jerkin' off while thinking about it!)

Once our Brighton excursion was over, JWP and I ate a fantastic dinner at a local Indian restaurant and called it a day. Now it's Sunday and I find myself with nothing scheduled, so I'll play it by ear. But one thing's for sure, and that's my desire for more sausage rolls! Oh, yeah! (I fully accept the weight I'm going to gain while here, which will be my excuse to get my act together when the Summer begins.)

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