(Or, Tequila and Trampolines Don't Mix)
I awoke the next day (Friday) to pigeons doing their best Keith Richards impressions outside my window and decided it was an opportune time to whiz. When I emerged from the loo, however, I discovered my five-year-old niece, Sadie BumBum, standing in the hallway. She seemed uncertain about confronting a disheveled stranger in her toilet who had not been there when she went to bed the night before. To her credit, though, she just stood there, staring.
Groggily, I said, "Good morning, Sadie. I'm your Auntie Anne. Do you remember me?"
Probably not, because she continued to stare mutely.
"I'm going to stay with you for a while, is that okay?"
She nodded and bolted for her room, so I returned to mine and tried to sleep off the jet lag and all the beer from the night before.
Friday was a quiet day of preparation for the century's grandest 40th birthday bash. Stoo was expecting half of the U.K. to show up, or he must have been, judging by the amount of booze he laid in for the occasion. Hard liquor included scotch, vodka (several flavours), rum (spiced and un), Jack Daniels, sherry, vermouth, gin, tequila, Southern Comfort, and some hideous cinnamon and sour shots. Blech. Softer drinks included white, red and rose wines, ciders (Magners and two kinds of Strongbow), and various beers. With the exception of Corona, none of them were shitty beers, either. And all of these were available in quantity. I can honestly say, I have never seen this much booze assembled outside of a professional establishment, before or since.
Shmee, my sister, took us into the town of Brentwood, where we had lunch at The Merchant. My smoked mackerel and salmon pate was fucking amazing. In fact, I will say this about eating in Britain; forget eveything you've ever heard about shitty British cuisine. It simply isn't true. We had the most delectable meals during our time in the U.K., whether it was good old fish and chips or curries or locally produced cheeses...it didn't matter. The food was fantastic, and at least where we were, there was enormous emphasis placed on growing and eating both locally and fresh.
It was also in Brentwood where I saw my first proper medieval building. The St. Thomas Becket Chapel was established in 1221, and constructed of dressed limestone and flint. It is mostly a ruin now, but I was enthralled. I touched it, sniffed it, admired it; I almost licked it. Still, it's been standing for 800 years and thought I might run he chance of contracting the Plague, so declined.
The next day, Shmee went off to have her hairs did, and in her absence, we decorated the house and yard. Or yards, rather, as the fence separating Stoo and Shmee's backyard from that of Stuart and Wendy Brooks was removed to make one big party palace. Again, Stoo went all out. There were so many Canadian flags in the garden, one could be forgiven for thinking it was Canada Day! Only, there was no Bryan fucking Adams or shitty beer, thank ghod.
People started arriving around 3:00 p.m. By that time, the bartenders had arrived and were busy pouring copious amounts of booze down the throats of partygoers. The caterer was working on getting the grills hot so that we could indulge ourselves in chicken, sausages, burgers, and lamb. The weather was gorgeous, probably the hottest day we had throughout our trip (in contrast, it snowed that day in Canada. That's right, it fucking snowed in fucking August).
Things were blasting along. There was food.
There was drink.
There was live entertainment.
There was dancing.
There was cake. A beautiful cake.
There were no obvious douchebags. It was glorious. The party was only missing one essential ingredient...
Yes. Stoo's final surprize was a mariachi band.
And the appearance of the mariachi band resulted in unbridled enthusiasm, which took the form of Shmee running from guest to guest saying, "There's a fucking mariachi band in my fucking garden for my fucking birthday!!!"
The band played many of the mariachi standards, including "La Cucaracha" and "La Bamba," and, inevitably, "Tequila". Now, I haven't been on speaking terms with tequila for many years, not since a house party where I got so loaded on shots that I publicly opined that if a certain ADHD stepson couldn't be medicated, educated or otherwise modified in his behaviour, I should be allowed to eat him. I meant it satirically, a la Jonathan Swift, but my satire was not appreciated, least of all by his mother. Tequila is a bad influence.
But when there is a fuckin' mariachi band in your sister's fuckin' garden on her fuckin' birthday playing fuckin' "Tequila", and you're in the U fuckin' K, you fuckin' do tequila shots with your fuckin' sister and her fuckin' awesome friends. Possibly it can be said I didn't need to do quite so many. However, it was absolutely worth it to see how impressed the bar staff were by the fact that I was still standing after the last one. And believe me, the Brits are a hard drinking race of people.
Certainly, I didn't need to then crawl onto the kids' trampoline and thrash about trying to grab their toes while they screamed. That wasn't my wisest decision. I don't know how long it lasted, but I do vaguely recall stopping before I spewed everywhere. And at some point, Wendy Brooks and I were reclining on the trampoline with a little boy of about four, looking up at the mild British night.
It was, as Stoo, would say, the nuts.
Next Episode: London and the British Museum
I awoke the next day (Friday) to pigeons doing their best Keith Richards impressions outside my window and decided it was an opportune time to whiz. When I emerged from the loo, however, I discovered my five-year-old niece, Sadie BumBum, standing in the hallway. She seemed uncertain about confronting a disheveled stranger in her toilet who had not been there when she went to bed the night before. To her credit, though, she just stood there, staring.
Groggily, I said, "Good morning, Sadie. I'm your Auntie Anne. Do you remember me?"
Probably not, because she continued to stare mutely.
"I'm going to stay with you for a while, is that okay?"
She nodded and bolted for her room, so I returned to mine and tried to sleep off the jet lag and all the beer from the night before.
Friday was a quiet day of preparation for the century's grandest 40th birthday bash. Stoo was expecting half of the U.K. to show up, or he must have been, judging by the amount of booze he laid in for the occasion. Hard liquor included scotch, vodka (several flavours), rum (spiced and un), Jack Daniels, sherry, vermouth, gin, tequila, Southern Comfort, and some hideous cinnamon and sour shots. Blech. Softer drinks included white, red and rose wines, ciders (Magners and two kinds of Strongbow), and various beers. With the exception of Corona, none of them were shitty beers, either. And all of these were available in quantity. I can honestly say, I have never seen this much booze assembled outside of a professional establishment, before or since.
Shmee, my sister, took us into the town of Brentwood, where we had lunch at The Merchant. My smoked mackerel and salmon pate was fucking amazing. In fact, I will say this about eating in Britain; forget eveything you've ever heard about shitty British cuisine. It simply isn't true. We had the most delectable meals during our time in the U.K., whether it was good old fish and chips or curries or locally produced cheeses...it didn't matter. The food was fantastic, and at least where we were, there was enormous emphasis placed on growing and eating both locally and fresh.
 |
| The Chapel of St. Thomas Becket |
The next day, Shmee went off to have her hairs did, and in her absence, we decorated the house and yard. Or yards, rather, as the fence separating Stoo and Shmee's backyard from that of Stuart and Wendy Brooks was removed to make one big party palace. Again, Stoo went all out. There were so many Canadian flags in the garden, one could be forgiven for thinking it was Canada Day! Only, there was no Bryan fucking Adams or shitty beer, thank ghod.
People started arriving around 3:00 p.m. By that time, the bartenders had arrived and were busy pouring copious amounts of booze down the throats of partygoers. The caterer was working on getting the grills hot so that we could indulge ourselves in chicken, sausages, burgers, and lamb. The weather was gorgeous, probably the hottest day we had throughout our trip (in contrast, it snowed that day in Canada. That's right, it fucking snowed in fucking August).
Things were blasting along. There was food.
 |
| Stoo orders the help about |
 |
| John Smith, I love you. |
 |
| Mr. Dan Evans, ladies and gents. |
 |
| Me and the gallant Mr. Stuart Brooks. I'd emigrate for this man. |
 |
| Canada represents, eh? |
 |
| Mariachi Fiesta! |
And the appearance of the mariachi band resulted in unbridled enthusiasm, which took the form of Shmee running from guest to guest saying, "There's a fucking mariachi band in my fucking garden for my fucking birthday!!!"
 |
| "There's a fucking mariachi band in my fucking garden for my fucking birthday!" |
But when there is a fuckin' mariachi band in your sister's fuckin' garden on her fuckin' birthday playing fuckin' "Tequila", and you're in the U fuckin' K, you fuckin' do tequila shots with your fuckin' sister and her fuckin' awesome friends. Possibly it can be said I didn't need to do quite so many. However, it was absolutely worth it to see how impressed the bar staff were by the fact that I was still standing after the last one. And believe me, the Brits are a hard drinking race of people.
Certainly, I didn't need to then crawl onto the kids' trampoline and thrash about trying to grab their toes while they screamed. That wasn't my wisest decision. I don't know how long it lasted, but I do vaguely recall stopping before I spewed everywhere. And at some point, Wendy Brooks and I were reclining on the trampoline with a little boy of about four, looking up at the mild British night.
It was, as Stoo, would say, the nuts.
Next Episode: London and the British Museum
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