Friday, October 20, 2017

Passport to Bloody Good Times

Right!

What better way to start one's trip to Merry London than to not pack something? Something... essential? Sure, I packed my shaver, my knee brace, my baby kangaroo food, but did I pack a particular document? Read the following dialogue to find out!

Seven miles from the airport, Mom mentioned that she was glad she remembered to pack everything she needed. Like, say, her passport.

I nearly drove off the highway.

EAAAGGHHHHH!

Holy fuck me. I forgot the ONE THING I needed. I let out an expletive for the ages (now enshrined in Westminster Abbey beside Lady Genevieve III).

"What's wrong?"

"I just did the stupidestest thing ever. ARRGH!"

Screeching tires like a tough guy, I U-ied and fought through traffic to get back to my apartment. I knew exactly where my passport was--next to all my other travel stuff, which I had packed as if to taunt myself. An hour later, we were back to seven miles outside the airport. Then I realized we had forgot Grandpa. Oh well. He can play with the kids.

While I had lustily cursed during the entire unnecessary round-trip, Mom stayed silent. She seemed scared of my volcanic anger.

"Greg," she said in a small voice. "Do you need a woman?"

"Maybe I'll find a bird in London, Mom."

"No, a woman!"

Right! We got to the airport, and because of the lost hour we were close to missing our flight. The ticket agent noticed that Mom was struggling and suggested a wheelchair. I said no, knowing what Mom would think of that idea, but then the agent said we'd get through security in a special line.

"Mom? We've got a wheelchair for you!"

A small Ethiopian lady pushed Mom with celerity through the airport as I rushed alongside. Mom was then extensively patted down by a lesbian while, inexplicably, I was allowed to walk through without having to go through the chamber of crotch inspection. Then the wheelchair needed a pat down. By now, Mom was getting annoyed and impatient. Our trip to London was hanging in the balance because of safety! A gruff TSA agent wanded the chair, the seat cushion, the spokes, the tires...

"What is he doing? Do they think I have a MACHINE GUN in there?!?"

Mr Gruff machine-gunned Mom a look.

"They prefer if you mention bombs instead, Mom."

We were somehow allowed to get on our flight, and a day later we arrived with... the Arizona Cardinals!

Mom and I in the background, about to get bull rushed

Right!

For our first excursion we went to Westminster Abbey, where I saw my expletive and the tomb of EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON. I was a bit surprised and excited. Then it occurred to me that I was probably the only one in thousands of visitors to pass by with indifference the tombs of Elizabeth I and Bishop Lord Falsey Tittenton only to emit a whoop of gay delight on seeing BULWER-LYTTON.

The next day Mom and I went to Harrod's to have high tea (in conjunction with the Men's Rejuvenation Clinic). At one point it seemed like a corking idea to take a few pictures of me next to the bears (twinks available on request).

Mom took my crappy little Vodaphone and proceeded to get all Ansel Adams an' shit. The results were more on the an' shit side:

"Mom? No, just point up with the phone... Mom? Turn toward me a little..." 

"Okay, a little higher. Yes, just... What? No, just point toward me." 

"Okay, closer now. Those people are waiting..." 

"Mr Officer Bear? Will you take me away from here. Please?"

NEXT WEEK: More adventures down under! I mean, up over! I mean... aw, I'm knackered.

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