Travel, 50+, England

In England, cigarettes start with an F, working class aesthetics start with a C, a single individual can commonly present themselves in plural and fish never comes with crisps. Probably. Most tourists tend to begin, if not end with London and so ... I did not. My choices and sanity have been questioned for going to Manchester instead.

After hearing my reasons, the general population begrudgingly accepted the choice. I had been invited to see how blue the City can get with a fan of the team. As luck would have it, the queen croaked only some days before the game. I guess she was not a fan. And then, there I was without a program to follow. The travel stripped out of a plan sent me into a devastating spiral. At first, I found myself in York. The thought of it! The thought of it!

Drowning my blues with sky and the BBC, everything seemed even more grim. Almost like they were using black and white filters a lot of the time. Running old tapes and whatnot. A grand national tragedy, no less. But then... The streets did not comply. In fact, it seemed like the lot were indifferent at best and celebrating at worst. Everyone seemed to be far more interested in the cannons being fired to commemorate than the late queen (and this was peak royal house respect since then). The party atmosphere of the subordinates sent me south, looking for sunnier days and mayhap for that treasure at the end of the rainbow.

As I arrived to Brighton, it did not take too long to conclude it was the gayest town I had ever visited. None of the hundreds of others come even close. Probably because of the geographical distance. No treasure, though. I ended up in a hotel room with a Mike Tyson theme, quite possibly to suggest it was okay to do some whacking there. Even the boxing gloves were kindly provided. Outside, the town was somehow fuzzy like the facial hair of a local lady cashiering the days away, and warm. All despite the seaside and the wind from (English shivers) France or something.

Notwithstanding finding where the rainbow ends up and eating some of the infamous English cuisine all the way since the beginning of the trip, I felt somehow empty. It was a mystery, like a text saying "Cuccu" on the wall. When one is disturbed, one must sort it out. To find out some answers, I had to do some Reading. And then I went to see a football match where the home team got beaten into pulp (that is to say, they all looked like Jarvis afterwards, somehow) by Sunderland. They are always much harder up North, are they not? Even with the fancy celebration year and all, Reading allowed Sunderland to score several times in 90 minutes. While the Reading boyz went home crying, I felt relieved. I had passed on the bad luck. This was it! I could head to Gatwick feeling much lighter.

In other adventures... Everyone has been barking "Punk is dead!" for quite a while, now. I disagree. However, based on my Rebellion Festival experience, it is going to be. I seriously expected to be one of the older partakers out there, alas no. I was one of the juniors. Some were very much the opposite of heroin chic (I know, I know, the fashion came much later), a lot of them had lost as much hair as they had gained experience and wisdom... But the spirit of punk was still very much there. As virile and youthful as ever. So maybe there is hope. Quickly, buy some hairspray and safety pins!

I also have to give a shout-out to Liverpool. Ever since the first visit, it became one of my favorite cities in the world. It just felt right. The only anomaly was a full-blooded Asian looking chap speaking like John Lennon. Unfortunately the images from this trip are still missing, but I have yet to find a couple of my memory cards. So, instead, enjoy more of the Reading-Man-adventure.

The Judgment:
I don't know what I expected precisely, but I did expect England to be somehow more trashy. Quite likely due to experiencing the scorched pink tourist doing pint wars, balcony jumping championships and porking all over the place (I know it's the "holiday mode"). At least the levels of politeness and dry "politeness" were met with a good effort. Some places were like straight out of Inbetweeners and some were straight out of Fresh Meat (thanks for that Manchester) and I almost got Spaced, but found myself in Scotland for that so it's not a part of this episode...

Despite it's issues, England is a worthwhile visit. For the lot of you, it's probably zero language barrier as well (you think, and then you arrive and try to talk to someone like Wayne Rooney or the West Country geezer in Hot Fuzz leading you to question whether they even taught English at school / speak English in the US). Going around is easy and, especially in trains, you will have an opportunity to learn you pronounced half the small towns horribly wrong (even if you're English yourself, you know these places I'm sure). While we, the world, jokingly defecate on English cuisine, the food is surprisingly good in most places. The prices are tolerable and around upper average in Europe. What else? There's something for everyone. Sun may vary, except for The Sun, which is solid rubbish. Heaps of history available, yours and theirs. Don't swim in the post-Brexit brown water by the coast. I guess that's it for now.

Would I go again? Yes.