Read This if You Dare, or Have a Lot of Time to Kill

(Timbaland)
It's been a long time
We shouldn't have left you
Without a dope blog to step to
Step to, step to, step to
Step to, step to
Freaky-freaky

We interrupt your irregularly scheduled Rome posts for a rather poor attempt to catch up on the last couple weeks. For all ya’ll that think balancing class, work from 9am-6pm and then incessant intoxication, electronica/trip hop and clubbing/pubbing from 9pm-4am while maintaining a blog is possible – well, you’re wrong, because it’s not possible, so I haven’t been doing it… the blog part I mean. What you will find below is a flee-frowing (yes that was a typo, but I thought I could pull it off as being witty, so I’m leaving it in) regurgitation of the memories that first flutter to mind. For the faint of heart, I suggest you read this in steps (designate a chunk, read it, come back for seconds later when your brain isn’t as frazzled). For the bold, I challenge you to read the entire post in one sitting (without breaks for food, toilets or self-gratification). That said, I’ll trust you will find today’s blog slightly brief, totally longwinded and completely contradictory.

I also need to apologize for lack of artwork; since I’m taking some time off while at work to write this I will be unable –for the time being– to post any pictures. But on with the storie(z).

Let’s see… how far back can I remember… hmm… not a good sign. Well, let’s begin with the arrival of Andrew Mastey (BU Bio-Office Employee and esteemed Gardner St. Domestic) and his colleague, Steven Kovalck (the Thunder from Down Under, descendant of Her Majesty, Grandma K, and direct heir to the throne of the Bucket).

Right then. Early morning Tuesday, 4th of July, the streets of Kensington were flooded with clamour and the cries of ‘The Americans are coming, the Americans are coming.’ That’s not true. However, what could be faintly heard on that fateful morning, were the distant and sweet, majestic melodies of the mystical word of the Keebler Elves. Ernest J could have performed no better under the sticky circumstances of a sweaty, early morning arrival to London, with no form of communication nor access to shelter, money or food.

Using the calling card of the mystical Keebler Knights, Steve and Mastey were able to attract the attention of a nearby commoner and flatmate, Michael Thell. It went something like this:

::Stuck outside The Crofton with no way to contact Dan/Julian/me for we were on our way to work:: ‘Keeb. Keeb?’ – Steve & Mastey / ‘Hey. You guys must be Nick’s friends’ – Mike.

This story continues, but we haven’t time for that. What is important, is that that night was spent in revelry and protestation and pronunciation of our independence from the British – most notably displayed by my refusal to make tea at work and, instead, dumping all the tea in the middle of the studio and pouring water all over it. That’s not true, I threw it in the toilets.

After spending a delightful sunset through dusk in Hyde Park, we returned to prepare and chaperone an American dinner for 20 some-odd people from our flat (plus outsiders). Cheeseburgers w. all the trimmings/ beans/ tuna & macaroni salad/ French fries/ onion rings/ guacamole and chips - real chips, not fuckin’ French fries for Pete’s sake.. speaking of Pete Hynes (big up son, holler at your boy) the entire mess was seeped with a slapdash squeezing of Heinz Ketchup. America, fuck… yea…

Moving on, of course we went to the most generic, touristy American Bar in London: Sports Café. It was great. Whilst there we bumped into (literally) some of Dan’s coworkers… English blokes who (literally) left work and went to any American-ized bar in London that provided the possibility of meeting the man who puts the ‘Mac’ in ‘Macintosh,’ Dan Agar. Creepy? Boarding on stalkerish and slightly queer? Perhaps. I bought them all pints. I felt justified when I learned that the following morning the employees of the London branch of Dow Jones FSI came into the work to find a manager and three other coworkers in the same clothes, asleep at their desks.

One-pound-pints led us into further demonstration of good ol’ fashioned American values and determination to drink beer then pointlessly try to find T Anthony’s, which is closed because it’s way too late to be open, not to mention the fact we’re not even in Boston. We all had a great time, need I say anymore? Well, I mean I’m not going to, so deal with it.

If memory serves me correct we spent a night in Shoreditch – an area I’ve been dying to go to and, with a lot of convincing and luck, where I will return (with the company of others and not by myself). Shoreditch is an awesome place – Google or Wikipedia it (ahem, viral sponsorship). It’s a land full of hip hop/electronica/trip hop/indie/punk music and loads of weird people with angular haircuts. I love it. I have to say I had a lotta fun that night, but all I can remember is waking up in Tabitha’s kitchen wherest she nursed me back to full strength with two lovely sandwhiches. Thank you Tabitha.

The next most important overnight drunk that we went on was our trip to Ireland. But first, let me give a shout-out to B’lowfish, my b’lowjob, where I spend my days working with really fun, creative, all around excellent people. I’m really experiencing and learning so much – and having a great time in the process. Friday was.. Friday, so naturally we went out for lunch and a pint. We went to Borough Market where – stop the presses – they have GOOD food. I kid you not. It’s only open Thursday/Friday/Saturdays and it’s a market full of fresh fruit, vegetables, cheeses, breads, cakes, wines, fish, MEATS, etc.

We went by one of the huge butcher stands, where we met a real stock, mean looking soccer hooligan/butcher by day. Turns out Jason, my Account Director is friends with him. The bull-dog butcher had just returned from Germany (after England’s recent defeat in the Worldcup). The man turned out to be both a scholar and a gentlemen. After telling a chef to give us all free burgers (huge hunks of meat with onions and cheese, on freshly baked bread) we went over to the pub and talked about soccer.

After soccer I stuck around with Jason and Ben and we watched some magician do some street magic. Then Ben left, but Jason and I were persistent. 6 more pints later we decided to go back to the office. Then I headed back for Dublin.

Ok. Dublin. Dublin down the pints. Nick go bragh. Simply the best. Better… than all the rest. Ireland is quite possibly the best place in the world (it’s up there with Italy, Greece and New Jersey).

Dubliners. The Irish immediately embraced us with kindness, generosity and constant swearing (I fit right in). From the moment I tried (for the millionth time in my life) to be cool, this time by using my Irish citizenship to pass through customs unquestioned, up to the meeting of many characters and leprechauns in the street, everyone was hospitable, outgoing, happy and (at night) quite drunk.

The first night we had an awesome time in Temple Bar. We met up with Steve, Mastey, and an English guy who happened to be staying in their hostel with them. The English guy’s name was Richard – and he was awesome, a paragon of dry British wit/humour. We went to some pretty pubs and some crazy club. At the club Julian discovered a goodie bag that found itself orphaned by one of the fifty bachelorette parties taking place over the weekend (seriously, we know because they all wear ridiculous matching outfits).

After leaving the seven-floor club and open roof-top terrace, we made our way out to the cobblestone street, where we met and hung out with two crazy irish hooligans. They were soo funny, and rank among the top 3 most memorable parts of the trip.

We ended the night with some of the worst Chinese food I’ve ever had the misfortune to eat and a long walk back to our beautiful, fully furnished, 4 start hotel (which cost even less than a hostel, boo-yea!).

The next day we went sight-seeing. Well, only if you consider ‘sight-seeing’ spending all day in the Guinness Storehouse; however, the historical attraction does boast a ‘Gravity Bar’ which is a bar surrounded by glass walls. The circular glass perimeter allows the drinker to look out and take in the breathtaking normality of the rather undeveloped city.

The food was also pretty impressive. Instead of eating in the hotel, we walked to a sweet little organic food market for breakfast (pre-Guinness). I had a huge sausage, a big potato pancake, a scone, and some freshly brewed apple cider (to which the vendor added a complimentary shot of Whiskey). For dinner we had some traditional Irish food. I know… this could have gone very wrong. It didn’t. I loved it and all I want to do is go back to eat more. I had the nicest brown bread with the best butter (yea, I can definitely believe that was butter) along with fish & clam chowder, followed by a heaping bowl of Irish stew. Oh man… oh man, it was really good. Like it was really fuckin’ good. The desserts looked equally as stunning but we had to put our silverware down. We needed to save what little room we had left to drink our dessert.

After a brief stint in Temple Bar, where we caught most of the Germany v. Portugal game, we decided to walk over the Liffey [River] and see what we could find. After passing the Dublin Spire and James Joyce (his statue), we came to a quiet little dive – very traditional pub, not crowded, and exactly what we were searching for. That’s also where we met… Branden.

Now.. this is a three-page story in itself. All I’m gonna say is we met Branden, a 75 year old man, who we got to talkin’ to. After switching it up from an already great night of Heineken drinking, I shared with the other guys and Branden five rounds of Guinness (which was actually quite good and we have all acquired not only a taste for, but a strong liking of Guinness) until we were closed out of the pub. We then decided it would be a really fun idea to go back to Branden’s house for some more beers.

So there we found ourselves, 3-4 miles outside of Dublin without a clue of where the heck we were, drinking beers in 75 year old man’s house and listening to Dean Martin. This is a really great story but, again, haven’t got the time for it.

On the way back (I am told) I thought it a brilliant idea to suddenly tell the driver to stop the car and jump out by myself and wander off into the night. Sources tell me the exchange went as such:

‘Nick, please don’t go off by yourself’ – Mastey
‘…Yeah, I think I’m gonna go see what’s going on, maybe get something to eat.’ – Me
‘Let him go. It’s his destiny, everyone has to find themselves.’ – Steve
‘…Nick, I would really like you to come back to the hotel with us.’ – Mastey
‘Thank you.’ – Me ::jumps out of cab and walks away swiftly::
‘..Your friend is pretty drunk, haha!’ – Cab driver

I wound up meeting strange people, eating way too much because (as I like to rationalize at that time of night) I had to try as much of the local cuisine before I leave – this meant schwarma, chips (French fries), kebabs and Pepsi MAX, which are not traditionally Irish at all but it was what the Irish were all eating.

Next day we got up, had some awesome crepes – Dan and I both had Irish Breakfast Crepes which were tastetastic. Then we had to race to the airpot, as the cab ducked in and out of traffic narrowly avoiding the extermination of many Gaelic Football fans, who were all out and drunk since the crack of dawn in celebration of a huge match – ‘Gaelic.. you know.. a game played with the hands and the feet?’ – Cab driver.

Back in London I hadn’t much time before Dan/Leanne/Matt and I could go get some delicious Thai food and then head to the Queen’s Arms to catch the world cup. It was awesome, and, thanks to the drunk old Italian man who was going around handing out £20 notes to anyone rooting for Italy and buying bottle upon bottle of wine for the girls from our floor, all while standing on a table and taking his shirt off/spinning it around his head like a helicopter, it was a very sloppy night. I should also mention that his equally old girlfriend rather fancied me, dubbing me the ‘alpha male’ and giving me her number so she could set me up with her grand daughter who is sixteen (sweet).

After Italy won and Zidane took a stand for bald men everywhere (‘Fuckin’ French wanker, fuck.’ – Phil, the creative director at work/awesome), I went back to The Crofton and stayed up way too late with Pam, Megan, Kim, Yuli, Riddikah and Bryan for no logical reason at all. Needless to say everyone was destroyed the next morning, Pam even missed class. I was fine because I have class at 2pm (haha).

Monday brought a ton of surprises in itself. After Shakespeare class with my awesome professor, who is a cross between Hagrid, game and groundskeeper at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, and Peter Jackson, the director of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, I bolted over to the Waterstone’s in Piccadilly. It was at this bookstore that I went to a talk and met Jasper Fforde, author of perhaps my favourite book, The Eyre Affair, and the entire Thursday Next series, and Nursery Crime series. He was there for the publication of his new book The Fourth Bear, which was released in London that very same day. It was so much fun – he is an extremely funny, witty and knowledgeable dude.

On my way back from the talk, I got a call from an unknown number. It turned out to be my childhood friend Adrian, who has been travelling for a year, and just got wind that I was in London. We decided it only right to meet up before he left for Amsterdam. So Bryan accompanied me for another late night adventure. After having an awesome time drinking and catching up, we parted ways with Adrian and his new girlfriend (who is Brazillian and whom he met in Thailand five months ago… the kid never ceases to amaze me; he is an aspiration for us all).

As we were leaving, since the pub had closed, we bumped into two women who were hell-bent on taking us for more drinks. Ok, so it’s been about two months since this first happened so I knew what I was was prepared with an arsenal of get-out-of-jail-free tactics. We walked about a block to the sketchiest looking shithole I’ve been privy to. The inside resembled something out of Dirty Dancing, Havana Nights (which I’ve never seen, but I’m sure this is what it would look like; if my association is incorrect, try to imagine Yoda’s hut from Star Wars). The shittiness came complete with juiced-induced bouncers on the outside, who wanted to give us a hard time and charge Bryan and me £10 each to get in. No problem since… I didn’t want to go in, in fact, all I’d wanted since we split up with Adrian was to go back to The Crofton and get to bed. But I like adventures, and was curious to see how the night would unfold.

So the girls put up the money (why??) and we went in. Then I went to the restroom, and when I came back they had gotten us weird looking drinks (…why??). Anyway, that puts them up to about 35 quid to get us there, and if you’re not aware of exchange rates… that is mad cash money. This isn’t really a long or important story, but the kicker is great. We were ushered upstairs to the ‘dance floor’ which was really just a barren room with no furniture or wall decoration, a boombox on the floor and some type of animal that resembled a donkey in a small, adjacent room (not true, there was no boombox). The sketch-o-meter, at this point, burst and (despite my laughing at the pure bizarreness) I said: ‘right then, Bryan, do exactly as I do.’ Seizing the moment in which the two ladies hovered over a mobile phone reading a text message, Bryan and I put our untouched drinks on the floor and tip-toed backwards to the wall. Pressed up against the wall, we then inched slowly and deftly towards the exit. We rounded the corner, ran down the steps, flew past the bouncers and made our way to the bus stop. Then we somehow wound up in South Kensington where we stole liters of fresh milk - it being so late that the milkman had just finished his early morning rounds, leaving doorsteps ripe with milk for the picking.

Tuesday night I forced myself to take it easy and get some sleep, for once. I indulged in a 4 person serving (1 American) of lasagne and a pot of tortellini, followed by a viewing of Wedding Crashers with Dan/Leanne/Mike and vanilla/chunky munky ice cream.

The entire week since then has been spent enjoying/working at B’lowfish and continuing the trend of eating good food while in London. The guys here are really cool, and they’ve let me take a stab in preparing creative briefs and (as it eventually leads to) handling some accounts. On Wednesday I went out with them after work to ‘help entertain clients.’ That means going down to a microbrewery, drinking gallons of beer brewed on-site for free and basically talking/getting pissed with the client. This is the conceptual foundation that bolsters my love for advertising.

I had a great time just talking to people from Lloyd’s Bank (the specific client we were with at the time) and an online agency called Modem (…clever guys, stick to networking and site construction, just kidding). But I really had fun with Jason (Account Director), Chris (Acc Dir), Phil (Creative Dir) and Ben (Acc Manager, just graduated University a little over a year ago and is the man). The later it got the more the group diminished, one by one. Eventually it was me, Ben and a bunch of bankers. We decided to bounce. We hit up the Globe, the pub dubbed after Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and eventually said peace out/parted.

I got home that night quite content, but I figured I would continue the trend of actually eating the way I would in the states. So I had a tray of Moussaka and another pot of tortellini.

Well, there you have it. I know you’re all probably cursing me (if you’ve actually made it this far) for putting down so much but, honestly, this is just the tip (just for a second… just to see how it feels). Well, it’s Friday about 13:30 so I need to get back to work… ;)

Brief update - after I finished this post ( about 3 hours ago, I went down to the market where i had amazing burgers - one lamb, one venison. I also had a conversation with a cider-master, who told me everything i never wanted to know about apples, and then gave me a couple pints of cider he said clock in at around 10.5% abv... thank you God for allowing me to be introduced to Borough Market.