Flip Flop Flying

I’ve been in London for the last few days, over here for one main reason: to see the San Diego Chargers v. New Orleans Saints game at Wembley Stadium. I got the Eurostar from Brussels, which is just a superb way to make the journey. As cheap as one of the low cost airlines, and way more convenient, taking you from the centre of Brussels to the centre of London. I know this won’t be a revelation to Londoners, Parisians, or Brusselsonianites, but it was to me. Super fast, super smooth. Yay.

I was sat next to a lass who was in her late teens, early twenties. We didn’t talk or anything, but she spent the whole journey sending SMSs on her cutesy-sticker-covered cell phone. The next day, I walked past her on Regent Street, arm in adoring arm with an equally handsome young fellow. Aaaaw nice.

My regular iPod Classic broke down last week, stranding me without any music. The music mainly exists on CDs that are currently in storage in Berlin. I rescued a few songs that I happened to have on a USB memory thingy, but really, twelve albums isn’t much. I’ve asked a couple of friends to donate a few albums, but if any of you have it in your hearts to make illegal copies of stuff you think I might like, and burn them onto a CD or DVD, that would be greatly appreciated.

To replace my deadPod, I bought myself an iPod Touch which, the more observant of you may have noticed has meant a bit of Twitter action in that column on the right. We’ll see how that goes, if anything interesting happens there.

Anyway, American football was back in the UK for the rather-absurdly-named-considering-it-was-just-one-game “International Series.” Even though last year’s Giants-Dolphins game didn’t turn me into a football fan, it was a fun day, and when my mate John asked if I wanted to go again, I was well up for it.

As with last year, there was a big pre-game “Tailgate” party. Not very tailgate (no cars with BBQ-ing people), and not particularly party, either, considering that they decided to put it outside in a car park on a rainy afternoon. Some New Orleans-y style music, some Coors Light, some long queues for food, long queues to buy NFL merchandise, and the opportunity to throw a ball through some holes. I had a pop at that, and can assure you that I’m not really gonna be a quarterback any time soon.

After my Summer o’ Dogs, I feel qualified to tell you that the hot dogs at Wembley suck ass. The sausage itself is okay, but the bun was way too cold and wide. Too much blandness around the sausage. Flip Flop Flying (kinda the Which? magazine of hot doggage, I’m sure you’ll agree) says a big fat NO to Wembley dogs.

That was the only food I had inside the stadium, but several people sat around us ate pies. The waft of pie stink was kinda nice, but the weirdest thing was the waft of heat that came off of something as small as a pie about the same diameter as a CD. Gosh knows what that heat was doing to the insides of the consumers of said pies, but it felt to me, a few seats away, like someone with a flaming torch was sat nearby, like walking past a fancy shop on a winter’s day when the doors slide open. Something that amused me throughout the game was how the Chargers cap that this guy is wearing looks like a man with a blonde moustache. (Let’s just ignore the fellow with cheese on his head, shall we? Paying attention only encourages such behaviour.)

The game itself was pretty good, a few touchdowns, that kinda thing. Plenty of cheerleadery goodness to keep the spirits up, too. Oh, the Saints won 37-32 by the way.

Afterwards, after the crowded walk out of the stadium, and after a pizza in a local restaurant, waiting for the area to be a bit less crowded, John and I got a cab back to his place. For the last couple of weeks I’ve had fairly tight knotty muscles in my shoulders. It’s not particularly enjoyable, but nothing severe enough to warrant a trip to the doctors. Anyway, as we travelled home, I drew a really crappy comedy penis in the condensation of the window. I tapped John’s thigh and we had a little chuckle. A few seconds later, John tapped me, and he’d done a great big comedy spunky cock on his window, and I lost it. Could not stop laugh. Wave after wave of chuckles, and just when it seemed to be over, it’d come back again. By the time we got home, the aches in my shoulders had completely disappeared. Seems all I needed was a good laugh…