Unlucky...or just unlucky in London???

London is not for the faint of heart. Or for the faint of hand.

I know that being naturally me, things generally just don’t go smoothly. And I won’t even bore you with my “detainment at the border” story. Apparently having a work visa here is really important and the border police don’t like being told “they will have a scanned copy in their inbox first thing Monday morning…” Also take note that despite wearing an oversized Bucky Badger sweatshirt and looking like you are MANY Fridays away from the age of 30, they will still look at you as if you’re personally wired up and ready to detonate in one of their British trash cans. But this blog is not about my arrival in London.

It is about how either God is trying to tell me to have some respect for U.S public drinking ordinances or to personally give me affirmation that I may be one of the unluckiest people in the world. I hope I conclude it is the former…

The group realizing that Shane was not a person they wanted to meet...

This blog is about my past Sunday. Because apparently in London, a Sunday is no different than a Friday at happy hour or a Saturday at 2AM. The British drink everyday, everywhere and at every hour. So this past Sunday I was trying to acclimate into my new British way of life and go to a pub in the afternoon, when really all I wanted to do was curl up on some sort of couch, order pizza and watch “Jon and Kate Plus 8.” But no, to a pub it was. It was that day I learned that despite a culture that brews alcoholism; the British are actually quite active. You see, they drink at the pub, but then will bring sporting equipment with them and go to a nearby park (which are all over) and proceed to play a half way decent organized game of football (the Euro kind people!!), rounders (baseball) or some other game that requires a ball. After I got over my amazement that the pub resembled more of an intramural locker room, I then noticed the intrepidness of my fellow pub goers. I saw them heading out the door, to the park, balls in hands, WITH their GLASS pint glasses. But you can’t do that…right?

Wrong. After I was given the quick 101 that it was OK to drink in public spaces AND bring the glasses from the pub.., I was quickly on board and swaggering a bit as I crossed the street to the park with a legitimate smirk on my face, feeling like I was playing hooky and talking smack (yes I did say that) about our “conservative” American drinking laws. Well that lasted for about 5 minutes.

Because all of a sudden an American football (the irony is not lost on me) flew threw the air and came down on both the pint glasses I was holding and smashed them to bits, slicing up my hand in the process. The action-hero-turned-leap-through-a-glass-window--unscathed is not something I buy into anymore. My hand bled at a scary rate. SO it was back to the pub, blood all over while my friend Liz had the unfortunate job of trying to calm me while I was pretty sure I was staring at a projectile of glass coming up from my hand. Once I was back, I heard the short order cook yell (that’s because I WAS in the kitchen with my bloodied hand) “Hey, has anyone seen that first aid kit that was supposed to be by the stove?” Dear, dear God.

Long story short, they wanted to call me an ambulance, but out of embarrassment and a desire to get away from the raw boar’s meat as quickly as humanly possible, I opted for Shane-the other cook- to assemble a bandage from an unmarked tin box and recommend the tried-and-true-method of Krazy Gluing my deep wounds together. Hmm….

My hand is much better-thank you very much-and I have no doubt I will venture out into open spaces again with a CAN of beer.

Stay tuned next week to hear about how I choked on a bacon cheeseburger as a bald eagle crapped on my head…Is London rejecting me?

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