A Few Final Bits, Silly Dept.
The passing of Queen Elizabeth II provided some very compelling memories during this journey. But of course we still had lots of fun and plenty of laughs too. And I don’t want to end the Bit of England blog series on a somber note, so here are some lighter bits from along the way.
Let’s start with the different way Brits have of saying certain things versus Americans. For example, consider some of the road and public signs we encountered.
We eventually figured out what this actually refers to. But who doesn’t think for a moment about a baby zebra crossing the road?
Why say something boring like, “No fishing” when you can say, “Do not steal fish” instead? But if you’re not allowed to steal the fish, wouldn’t fishing for food amount to the same thing? I mean, what else would you do with the fish? Also, do people really dial the police and report fish theft? Inquiring minds want to know.
I guess adding “THANK YOU” to a NO PARKING sign makes it polite. And how very British of these people to let us know it’s a polite sign by explicitly labeling it as such. “We’re British, our signs are polite, just like us. In case you didn’t know.”
We saw signs like this in several towns, and in almost every single case the driveway looked like this one. Dear England: please define “constant use” for the rest of us. Thanks so much. Love, Blogativity.
This was my favorite. This sign was plastered on public garbage cans all over the city of Bristol. I love how the British turned the word “bin” into a verb. Bin your butt, dammit!
Any comment I might make here about a “max load” would amount to nothing more than childish potty humor. Not that you can blame me. You’re thinking the same thing.
This seems like an appropriate place to put a picture of a bus that toots. I know. Childish. Don’t hate me for who I am.
A pop-up sign composed entirely of rubbish. Rubbish that someone evidently forgot to bin (along with their butt). Methinks this momentary burst of creativity might have been brought to you by alcohol (and/or other recreational chemicals). But still, it makes a point!
Moving on from signs to food, it’s time for one last fish and chips pic. This one is London style. Okay, okay, so the various different city “styles” of fish and chips I have shown you are all basically the same damn plate of food. Well, of course they are. It’s fish and chips! In a bloody pub! What were you expecting, caviar?
Another thing that’s consistent in British pubs (and Irish ones too) are the tiny servings of bread. And by tiny, I mean gargantuan. Look at that massive mound! It’s bigger than the bloody bowl of soup it’s accompanying!
I’m sorry, but a food called “Love Corn” offers way too many opportunities for childish humor. None of which make me, uh, want to eat it.
Especially not the “chocolate” flavor. Of something called Love Corn. Are you kidding me?
In a similar vein, who wants to eat chocolate from a place called Montezuma’s?
Even worse, one of Montezuma’s flavors is called…Splotch? I’m sorry, I know I’m being immature. But I am not eating this stuff.
And now a few final, very final, very silly bits, from our very silly department of very final silly bits.
How is it a secret garden if every single freaking person who walks by can find it? (Okay, so it turns out there’s a perfectly good explanation for the “secret” name that involves the 10th Duke of Marlborough and Blenheim Palace. But it’s not silly at all, so I refuse to discuss it.)
On the other hand, this scene on the bank of the River Thames in London looks very silly to me.
As does this. (Also on the Thames, but in Oxford.)
And somehow, this. The Pump Room is a restaurant in Bath that is housed in an 18th-century building whose original purpose was to pump water into the Roman baths. I get that it’s an historic place, but still, it’s a restaurant. Called the Pump Room. With a guy out front who looks like he’s guarding the entrance to a nightclub. “You don’t have a reservation at the Pump Room? No Love Corn for you!”
Too soon for t-shirts? This was before the funeral.
Aww, Barbra Streisand couldn’t make it in London? Oh, wait. I see now that it says Barber Streisand. Oh, that’s bad. They deserved to go out of business just for that awful, terrible pun. (And by terrible, I mean awesome.)
Sometimes you just gotta pick up the pieces of your life. And then bin them, along with your butt. (I know. Childish. But childish is also a variety of silly. So there.)
Gah! They even tried to serve us this stuff on the flight home! My last memory of a fantastic journey is freaking salt and vinegar flavored Love Corn. Oh well. It probably tastes pretty good. Maybe I’ll save it for the next trip.