In case you hadn’t noticed, J McFabulous has been J McAbsent the past few weeks. Rest easy ‘pickle peeps,’ as I was travelling for pleasure/business in the UK and the home of comedy, Deutschland. Most of my indirect family still resides in the UK. My dad moved me/us here when we were kids, but that’s a different blog for a different day. It’s actually a screenplay I started 12 years ago that I am halfway done with. I move quickly.
I began my Detroit-Atlanta-Manchester journey the same day Thunderstorm M*therf*cker hit town. Fortunately, Delta 5766 from DTW to ATL beat Mr. MFer before it brought pain to the D. I touched down in Hotlanta, turned on my phone, and had this sphincter-puckering photo from Kitty on my phone:
“Holy sh-t! Neighbors tree. Our house is OK except we are operating on candle power. What do I do?”
These are my favorite Kitty texts. “You’re not here, what do I do?” I instructed the Kit-ster to go pick up my parents generator to keep the essentials going, like the TV and the PS3. She had a mission, I knew she would execute it, or just say “to hell with it, I’m going to stay at my brother’s house.”
Flight 6164 left the ATL that evening, bound for the city that brought you the Smiths and the lousiest football supporters ever. I had a nice aisle seat next to a Ukrainian/Polish/Latvian lady with wide child-bearing hips.
“You are to be lucky you are small man on tiny fly machine chairs.”
I think Svetty may have had a UTI or something since she kept waking me from my wine induced slumber to go to the stinky airplane potty with the sticky floor. At one point, she tried to climb over me. I awoke as she was mounting me, thinking I had entered a cheap, Ukrainian whorehouse.
“What are you doing?”
“I must to pee. Surrry. I am not try to make baby for you."
We landed in Manchester, Svet-honey and I, with a tempered relationship and agreed to disagree. I felt refreshed, having 32 consecutive 5 minute naps interrupted only by shoulder taps and the occasional “Who’s your Gulag Master” mounts. I proceeded to get my luggage and caught the bus for the Car Rental Park. “Your Opel Corsa is waiting for you in the car park, Mr. McFinley…cheers.” Not quite sure why Mancs insist on saying cheers after everything. Maybe living in Manchester makes them want to drink more.
I threw my luggage in the back of my G-ride and prepared myself to drive on the opposite side of the road. This is always unnerving, even more so as I knew I had the M56, M6 and M62 motorways in my near future. I opened the car, sat down, and then wondered why there was no steering wheel in front of me. After realizing my error, I got out of the car, looked to see if anyone saw me, and got in the wrong/right side of the vehicle. The seat belt is also not over your left shoulder in the UK. I checked most every time I entered the car, just to be sure.
I think exiting MAN airport is a test of wills. There are 42 roundabouts, some of them only 1 meter in diameter. I believe they know switching sides of the road is a daunting task for any foreign traveler and they must prepare you with the “Roundabout Gauntlet” to quell any fears of the highway/motorway.
Roundabout...5 spurs…M56 spur! Another roundabout…4 spurs…M56! Tiny roundabout…airport utility vehicles! Wait…where am I? U-turn, roundabout…6 spurs…funny street name, funny street name, airport utility vehicles again (they must need a lot), M56! This was it now, the final of 42…no turning back (legally)…I had reached the motorway and was starting to wet myself, just a little. It may have been fear, or maybe Svet-sexy gave me her UTI in the regrettable “Who is Mommy of you?” mounting incident.
70 mph may as well be 130 mph when you are in an Opel Corsa with sleep deprivation and completely disoriented. So I chose to just drive 60 mph in case I suddenly had the urge to cross the motorway and drive on the other side. I was passed by, at my count, 173 vehicles on my auto-journey. Everyone gave me inquisitive looks as they drove by.
“Why’s that middle-aged bloke goin’ so slow, pet?”
“Don’t know…as he got learners on’t car?”
“No. Looks a bit daft, though. Bet he's a Yank in’t rental car.”
“Yeah. Probably American. Cheers.”
After creeping from the M56 to M6 to M62, I exited to another series of roundabouts, but felt much more adept this time. I was maneuvering around them quite well, considering I had a young F1 driver in a tricked-out Fiat behind me who insisted on taking every one in 4th gear. I wet myself a little, again. I think this UTI was getting worse.
Alas, I arrived in the Penketh to my cousin’s house, and was greeted with a warm hug, my parents (who had travelled weeks before me), and a request for “a cuppa tea?” Tea kettles in England heat up faster than the sun, since they are powered by nuclear fusion. I got my cuppa, sat down, relaxed and prepared for a few short days of liver damage.
My cousin looked at me curiously, then asked...
“Did you wee your pants?”
Stay tuned for the KP Euro Vacation part II…pints, pints, more pints and whiskey. Cheers and cheers.
Tara,
JMcFrazzled
