Yes, England.

As you may have noticed, I haven't been around much in the last week or so. Against my better judgment, I traveled to the jolly old Motherland with The Fool From Liverpool.

The plan was for him to visit Mum and them for a couple of days, and then for he and I to bop over to Wales for the Ryder Cup.

As some of you know, The Fool is one unhinged bastard. I should have known everything would get all buggered up.

He talked me into it by telling me he knew a chap that had some extra Ryder Cup tickets, and that he knew a few birds we could hang out with.

He didn't deliver on the birds(no surprise there), but he did know a chap with some extra tickets.

Problem was, this chap never promised them to The Fool.

In his demented thinking, The Fool couldn't comprehend that this chap might give the tickets to someone else. The mad beggar never told the guy he was coming for sure. The Fool raged that the daft old sot should have damn well known that he was coming. The Fool said he told the bleeding idiot in July that we might pop over.


In Fool-ese that means he's in. I know that, our crew knows that, but how is some chap from England that last saw The Fool 15 years ago, when they were both running around in Angus Young outfits, supposed to know that?

So here we were in England, stuck at his Mum's.

Old Mum was a good ole sort. His brothers were good normal lads also. His father passed last year. I can only think that ole Dad must have been a character. How else to explain the mutant genes swimming through The Fool's DNA?

The weather, as schizo as The Fool, was shite. Which meant I wasn't totally pissed about not making it to the Cup. Looks like we would have been stuck in Wales watching it rain. We would have missed the last day anyway. Plus, watching The Fool prance around after the Euro win would have sucked. (He's European when they win, American when we win.)

I ate some strange shit that when I ordered it, I didn't even know what it was. I can now say I know what Bangers, Bubbles and Squeak is. Also Toad in the Hole and Spotted Dick.

Soccer is beyond my comprehension, but I would have like to have seen a match, but that didn't work out either. Neither did seeing a rugby test.

England is the world champion in Butter Faces. I saw some of the most spectaculars bodies imaginable. To bad they had heads on top of the bodies. I asked The Fool about this. He said they called them Jackies.

They were so called, The Fool explained, because he and his mates would wrap the bird's heads in the Union Jack and do it for God and Queen.

I saw a few that would do, but we are blessed here in the women department.

They are in the stone age compared to us in food, weather, and women.

But I'll give the Limeys credit. They beat the hell out of us in the drinking life.

I don't mean quantity. Or necessarily, quality.

But in style. It is a happening, a ritual, and a glorious experience.

A true, local, and family owned English Pub is now one of my top 5 favorite things in the world.

My next project is to recreate a smaller version of a couple of these places and add it onto the Lonesome.

I know I can't recreate the atmosphere and charm, but I gotta have a room like a pub.

I sucked ass at darts, but it was still fun as hell, with the whole pub crowded around cheering everyone on. Somebody broke out a guitar, and led the pub in sing alongs. I even agreed to play a song and lead the crowd. I missed quite a few licks and chord changes, but nobody gave a shit. And not just because they were drunk, but because it was all part of the good time.

These folks didn't know me from Adam, and very few knew The Fool. It wasn't like a bar here where The Fool and I would have been in a corner scoping out the girls. They draw you in right away.

I could have been in my den at the Lonesome with the crew, and couldn't have felt more comfortable and at home as I was there.

The Fool was instantly forgiven for buggering up the whole trip. Every night in the pubs was worth the whole ordeal.

Now I'm home, jet lagged like hell, but glad I went.

I never would have thought I would go to England, not get laid, but yet come back home carrying something called Spotted Dick that I got from some Fool's Mum.

Queer thing, that, huh mate?