Our typical spring day in London.
The one thing I hate about spring break is spring breakers. In fact, I would rather work in a dark cubicle and/or a large sewage receptacle for the rest of my life than spend even one day with inebriated obnoxious sporty types. I felt the same way when I was actually in college myself, and the sentiment has only ripened over time. I would also rather die than be condemned to even one night in an all-inclusive, mega-mansion, suburbia-on-steroids resort. If this sounds like you only more bitter, you might still enjoy this article.
When I go on a spring vacation, I want the best of both worlds. When I say, “both worlds,” I mean to describe the ideal vacation as something that encompasses:
World 1: The world where there are no tankini-topped girls puking up warm Natty Light while wearing oversized black sunglasses, multiple rhinestone encrusted accessories, and flip-flops curiously attached to small rubber high heels.
World 2: The world where there are no pasty white guys ambitiously covering their incandescent bodies with tanning oil, their #5 buzzed hair with Sun-In, and somewhat proudly displaying flabby masculine boobs which are bigger than any woman’s.
You may think that if you don’t go to Mexico or the Florida Keys, you will avoid these two Worlds. You are wrong.
One of the worst spring vacations I have ever had took place on an art trip to London. Let me preface this by saying it was not technically a “vacation”---it was more of a school trip my senior year which coincided with time off during spring break, if memory serves. Highlights of the bad experience included cold, gloomy weather and a diet of hardened bricks of bran masquerading as breakfast cereal, rehydrated scrambled eggs, $8 potato grease pockets with mayonnaise, $12 French fries with mayonnaise, and of course, $14 skunky beer. That exchange rate will get you.
“What’s so bad about that?” you say. “We want to hear about inebriated obnoxious sporty types.” I know, I know. Don’t worry, it’s England. There are plenty. Sorry, English people, but I have to say that your men are just as repulsive as the archetypal American college boy. And, the girls are just as skinny and sparkly and loud as the ones we have here.
London guys at the pub. This photo was located by a search called “London Guys.” It was the first result, I think quite accurately. I discovered in subsequent shots that their t-shirts say: Hobo the Prat, Bobo the Twat, and Bob the Taco.
So, on a regular old rainy London night after a tiring day of walking through almost every museum in the city, my class----a group of 15 American girls and three female teachers---headed to the pubs. First, I found that I had to pay about $2.50 to pee at a McDonald’s where I was NOT eating, but where the only bathroom within miles was to be found. Some chipper British fellows eating their Big Macs referred to me as a “sodden bird” and gave me some change, which was quite nice, so that I could make it through the loo turnstile.
After this, I went to locate a pay phone in the square and call a friend who lived in the area. I put in something like $3 and it started ringing, when two frantic looking chaps raced up to the booth panting to be let in on an emergency. I quickly jumped out of the way, only to see that they were the aforementioned inebriated obnoxious types. The emergency consisted of adding another prostitute’s poster to the already plastered wall: school girls, Asian beauties, Swedish teachers, trans-sexuals, etc. were all aptly featured.
By this time, my shoes were soaked, I was freezing, starving, and---maybe obviously---broke. I made my way back to my group, still waiting in line outside a pub. One of our professors impatiently smoked a large number of cigarettes, after which the three teachers soon gave up on a beer or meal and left for the hotel. We remaining girls were repeatedly shouted at and referred to as “birds” while waiting miserably in line. Often, men in sporty jackets would push one another into us and laugh at their wit in enticing us women as they went by.
Inside at last, it felt like we had stepped into the worst kind of American Fraternity haunt. Drunk girls in very small clothes and heavy eyeshadow were draped over stools, tables, and less than attractive men. It smelled faintly like puke, and strongly like fried food and stale beer. The floor was sticky. The air was smoky. Again, we were freezing, wet, and miserable and decided against better judgement to ignore all these things and order some $12 fries and $14 beers.
Attempting to make the best of things, we danced to some bad music while waiting for our horrendous food to arrive. In virtually no time at all, we were surrounded by really tall really drunk men in sporty jackets. They attempted to do things like gyrate against our legs, falling over one another and chuckling jovially at their own antics.
One of my very short friends had a sudden panic of claustrophobia and attempted to nudge her way out of the mayhem. At that moment, one of the tallest drunk fellows executed a particularly intricate dance gesture and managed to punch her square in the lip. She put her hand to her face, took it away to find it covered with blood, and looked at him in shock. He began to shout, “You little vixen, you little slut, you want me to buy you a beer now, doncha.’ That’s all she wants, boys, this little slut, is a free bloody beer. Heheheh come over here, you little vixen.” Yes. You can only imagine his success.
The rest of the trip was punctuated with other such incidents, made all the worse by dreary weather and the exchange rate of the almighty pound. I may list some more examples for you, or perhaps next article I’ll move on to happier topics like where I have actually had a really amazing spring break with not-a-one spring breaker or British sporty chap in sight.
In the meantime, here is a video of "blokes" in a regular food pub, before even tackling dancing.