Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.
I wasn’t sure it was gonna happen. Really, I wasn’t. I wanted it to happen, and I thought it was gonna happen, but then it was a little iffy, and then it got complicated, and then I forgot about it for a while, and then… um, and then, and then I think I went to bed, and then I took a shower, and had some cereal, and then there was some other stuff, and I watched some TV, and nothing much really happened. But then, out of the blue, it all came together and all of a sudden, it happened.
(And no, ya dildos, I’m not talking about losing my virginity here. Or sex of any kind, actually. If it were anything that interesting, I’d have gotten to the damned point by now. Hell, I’d have put up billboards. Trust me on this one.)
Anyway, it happened, and there’s no going back now. Decisions have been made, schedules have been set, and reservations have been… um, reserved. So it’s official: This blogger is going to London.
That’s right — in just a couple of short little months, the lady of the manor and I are going to spend six rainy, dreary, humid days and six dark, damp, stormy nights in the heart of the British Empire.
(Personally, I pushed to spend a couple of days in the ‘liver of the British Empire’, as well, but we decided we didn’t have time to make it to Dublin and the Guinness brewery. Maybe next intercontinental trip, eh?)
Anyway, I’m stoked to finally get to go to London — I’ve been wanting to see England for years, and I’m pumped way up. I’m ‘all jazz hands and hard-on’, as they say.
(Okay, ‘they’ don’t really say that. I’m pretty sure nobody says that, in fact. Other than me, of course. My hands and hard-on have always marched to a different beat, you know.
Now how’s that for a mental image you really didn’t need? Don’t say I never haunted you with anything, folks. Just walk it off now. You’ll be all right.)
Soon, we’ll have to pick up a guidebook or something, so we can set an itenerary. But I already know a few places I want to see — Big Ben, of course, and Trafalgar Square, and Buckingham Palace. But any old tourist can see that stuff. I want the real London experience. So I’m gonna get down with the places a lot of visitors miss. Like the Ministry of Silly Walks, for instance. See, the tour buses don’t go through there. And then there’s the bunker underground where ‘Q’ works all his technomagic. And 221B Baker Street, where Sherlock Holmes lives. Ooh, and Austin Powers’ apartment — I gotta see that. I hope that Shagwell girl is there; now there’s a cheeky bird, mates.
In any case, it’s all set up, and it’s going down in July. If you want me to bring you something back from the ‘old country’ — Euros, maybe, or English muffins, crown jewels, that sort of thing — get your requests in now. It’s first come, first serve, and my suitcase will only hold so many of those big fuzzy black hats the guards wear, you know. So you’d better hurry your ass up. Yo, it’s elementary, Holmes. Word.Permalink | 5 Comments