I can exclusively reveal a brand new fact: I went to America last week!
Okay, so it was the worst kept secret in the world. But I was excited! I didn’t want to mention it that much originally, in case something went disastrously wrong and I looked like a twat. But when I got to Manchester airport I was already wet with excitement. By the time I got to the Hollywood Hills I was giddy as a goose! I had to brag a bit. So now it’s all over and I’m sane again; I apologize for that.
Talking of things going wrong, the day I left there was a Tsunami in Japan, a bomb scare at Heathrow (in the exact same hour I was there for) and a radiation scare in LA (where I was landing). Luckily none of these things affected me, although I do have an extra eye where my left nipple used to be.
The morning I went was a calm, quiet one. I left my house at six in the morning and my mother drove me to Manchester as the sun was rising. It was a beautiful, calm farewell to England. I would even call it romantic.
But that’s not what you want to read about: what you’re reading this for is to find out how I head butted a woman on the way to London.
I was checking my seat number under the luggage carrier and I ducked to read it. As I ducked, I hit a short Indian woman in the head. It wouldn’t have been so bad if a cockney geezer hadn’t shouted out; “you trying to kill her, son?”
I transferred at Heathrow airport, where the security alarm bleeped as I stepped under it. Tell me why, when I stepped under the one in Manchester, it didn’t bleep, but in Heathrow, it did? I have two theories. A) the metal detectors in London are better than the ones in Manchester, or B) everyone from the south of England, even inanimate objects, hate me. And that’s why it bleeped, out of hatred towards me.
The american bitches on the plane couldn’t understand a word I said, and they kept skipping me when they gave out food and drink. But they’re all dead now, so it’s okay.
I spent half my holiday in an all-male student dorm. I was surprised by the lack of privacy American dorms had compared to English University Halls. They actually SHARE rooms. Where would you go to wank!? I was surprised by how un-predator-like I was in an all-male dormitory. Maybe I’m growing up? Although I did spend the entire night in a gay club speaking in a posh, nervous Hugh-Grant accent, so that the American gays would fall to my feet, so maybe I haven’t grown up at all.
Talking of the night I spent in a gay club - I was kicked out, for drinking underage, and whilst waiting for my friend to come out, I was stood on a street corner and mistaken for a rent boy! Funny now, scary at the time.
We went to San Diego, the gay capital of California, and I saw so many beautiful men. I was jealous of their beautiful bodies, gorgeous smiles and perfect hair. But they’re all dead now, so it’s okay.
We moved from San Marcos to LA, where we stayed in a four star hotel. It was grand. It wasn’t just grand, it was the writz. (Well, it wasn’t, but it was close.) We even had a free car, and were able to be taken anywhere around Hollywood for FREE. Needless to say; I quoted sex and the city 2. Lots.
At Universal studios we went to Wysteria Lane, visited the same motel Norman Baites killed that chick in Psycho, went to a fake New York city and got caught up in a fight between King Kong and three V-rexes. Then we went to see the houses of Simon Cowell, David Letterman, Michael Jackson (I even saw the window of the room he died in - the sun was shining right above the roof, it was beautiful) and Whoopi Goldberg. (She had the best one, by far.) Seeing all these houses made me more determined to make it big so I could live there.
I even got to do some swimming! Had to wait until the pool was empty though. All those six packs put me to shame. (They’re as common as mouthy northern women are in Preston, seriously, abs EVERYWHERE. After a while you kind of forget they’re even there.)
I nearly ended up sleeping at the airport on the last night but luckily I found a hotel nearby. Whilst waiting for my coach from the hotel to the airport on the last day, I gave my luggage to a Mexican man in Uniform and asked him to put it in the backroom. “I will look after bag for you, here” he said.
So I left.
I came back expecting him to be there - but both he and the suitcase were gone. I went to another Mexican man in the same uniform and asked where the other Mexican man and my suitcase were. “Did he give you ticket?” he asked. Shit, no, he didn’t. “Then your suitcase stolen.”
And he said it with such casualness as well! “I check in back room, but if it not there, then it not there.”
SHIT. SHIT. SHIT.
He opened the door and there was my bag. Thank god. He scared the living day lights out of me. But he’s dead now, so it’s okay.
On the way home I made friends with a group of Americans who were on their way to London for a school trip. Three hours of them swooning over my English Accent. Ahh, this is the last time I’ll be able to enjoy doing this for a while, I thought.
Home now. I can’t brag about going to America anymore, I can’t brag about being in America anymore, but I can sure as hell brag about having been to America. (But I’m sane now, so it won’t be as arrogant-sounding.)
P.S, if you’re wondering about what happened to the lady I head butted, she gave me an evil glare throughout ALL of the flight. Whenever I walked past her to go to the loo, she sat there, looking up at me, planning my death.
But she’s dead now, so it’s okay.