After successfully becoming a Virgin (UK cellular customer), I returned to the Hilton with everyone else. They wanted to take another nap and freshen up before dinner (I am reasonably sure that their idea of “freshening up” included sampling some of Amsterdam’s finest, conveniently smuggled out of Denmark by one of the crew in a VERY personal place. Thanks anyway, guys.)
Abi called as soon as I returned to my room. He had been visiting family in London all week, and was ready to go for dinner. He had just arrived to the Hilton from the train station, and said he was starving. We decided not to wait for the rest to ‘freshen up’, and left.
I had enjoyed a good dinner at an Italian place, oddly named ‘Ask’ the night before. We decided to go there, because I knew it was both a good place to eat and more importantly, it would be open. The sun was setting as we walked up the hill and I snapped this picture:
Beautiful! We watched the sky change from pink to orange to red, then start to turn purplish-blue.. We arrived at Ask as the stars and moon were starting to come out.
The waitress from the night before came over and said hello, which impressed Abi, until I told him it was probably the fact that I gave her a ten pound tip on a thirty pound bill. He laughed about that.
Abi told me a story about driving in London. It seems he was driving his cousin’s car when they passed a speed trap. The police motioned him over to the side. Abi and his cousin were informed that there were 1300 pounds in unpaid fines on the car. The police run every license plate that goes by to catch offenders like this. His cousin was furious, because the fines were all racked up by her boyfriend, unbeknownst to her. She had to pay the fine immediately, or the police would impound the car. While the cop was going to get the credit card machine (that’s right, they have a credit card machine at the speed traps. Convenient, isn’t it?) another police officer asked to see Abi’s license. He showed his Massachusetts driver’s license, which is worthless in the UK. The cop informed Abi that the fine for not having a license was going to be an additional 200 pounds! This little trip was getting pretty heavy, up to 1500 pounds already!!
The second cop disappeared while the credit card was run, and was gone a while. Finally Abi was told that it was “too complicated“ to give him a ticket, so he would be let off with a warning, “since they both looked like decent people and all.“
We finished our dinner, then went back to the good old F&P for yet another Guinness (yes, it is a pattern…. I know, but I like Guinness, what can I say?) The pub was so smoke–filled that it was unbearable. There was a sign outside the pub that said “Smoking Allowed Throughout“, which actually made me laugh. I have seen many No Smoking signs, but never a Smoking is OK sign. We decided to go to Cavendish Pub instead.
The dreaded black clad bouncers were outside. These morons are the reason that I hate England. Seriously. These idiot’s sole purpose in life is to reject people from going inside their overpriced bars and buying beer. For real, that’s what they do. We were stopped at the door and told the bar was “couples only” I told the guy we were a couple… a couple of guys that wanted a beer.
The cretin didn’t even laugh, just shook his enormous, rock filled head and pointed down the road.
We made our way down to a place called Yates, which was fortunately bouncer-free. We had a few Guinness, talked about our still-forming riding plans for next season and beyond, and had some good laughs. After our second Guinness, one of the cretins came in and looked around. I guess every bar hires these idiots to keep paying customers out or something. This bouncer had showed up and found us, but since we were safely inside and paying customers, they couldn’t just throw us out. The creep walked around and when he got to our table, he menacingly clicked a hand-held counter at us. When we finished up and left, he said, “Goodnight now, fellahs” which clearly meant we wouldn‘t be welcome back in.
Angered and fueled by a few Guinness, we made it a mission to get past one of these morons. We slowed at the next bouncer we saw, and tried to casually walk past him. He held up his enormous meat hook and shook his head. Abi, getting a little angry demanded “Why not?” The bouncer looked us up and down for, tiny wheels turning in his tiny brain for a good minute or two. Finally he pointed at my feet and grunted, “No dress shoes.”
Disgusted, we walked back towards the hotel, loudly complaining about how much England sucks.Suddenly it came back to me. I had been to Sheffield before, about five years prior. The same thing happened to us back then. A group of five or six Americans were denied entry into every pub and club we tried to get into. Back then I was a bigger smart-ass than I am now, and after being rejected a third time, I yelled at the bouncer, “If it wasn’t for Americans, you all would be speaking GERMAN right now!!!”
Needless to say, that didn’t go over so well. Fortunately I could run much faster back then too…
Abi and I found an Irish pub across from the Hilton that had no bouncers. Inside was a gaggle of elderly people, waiting for the night’s musical entertainment to start. We decided to stick around and see what the band was like.
When the guy picked up his electric-red accordion, I knew it was time to cut our losses and call it a night.
Tomorrow, work, at last.
Day two was much like day one in Sheffield, with one nice surprise. I found out that we weren’t expected to go to the arena to work at all. Two complete days off in a foreign country! Sounds great to me!
My hotel room phone rang at 10 AM. The rest of the crew had arrived from Manchester. After a nap, they wanted to go exploring. I made plans to meet them back at the hotel in a few hours.
Grabbing my digital camera, I walked the perimeter of the town, along a canal filled with thin and old-looking gondolas. These boats were mostly for hire to tour Sheffield’s many canals. At one end of the canal was a lock which seemed like it might be interesting to see, but tour prices were very expensive, so I passed on the idea. Walking along the canal, I soon came to a bridge which led to town. I crossed over the canal and made my way toward an imposing looking church.
I wanted to go inside the church to look around, but the doors were locked. I sat and imagined this church as it must have been centuries ago, probably looking much the same as it did now. Walking along the path through the church grounds towards town, I noticed some writing on the slabs making up the sidewalk. I wasn’t on a sidewalk, I was walking on a graveyard! The headstones were laid out horizontally, and right next to one another, making a strange path. Most of the people buried under my feet had been there for a hundred or more years, so I don’t think I disturbed them too much, at least I hope not!
I made my way through a neighborhood, and received a few strange looks. I suppose not many tourists walk through this part of town. Someone was receiving a new dishwasher, and they were having trouble getting the device through the tiny door. Two men were grunting and swearing as they twisted and turned the box, without much luck. I didn’t stick around to see if they tried a window, or broke out a saw to make the dishwasher fit.
I walked back into the main part of town, shops and pubs lining the streets. Realizing it was lunchtime, I decided to stop into Nando’s restaurant. I’d heard the chicken was incredible, and was eager to try it. The layout of the restaurant was a little strange, you wait to be seated by a hostess, then once seated you go up to a counter and place your order. After a while someone brings your meal out, then you have to go to a different table to get silverware and napkins. I couldn’t understand why they didn’t take orders at the table like most places do. The chicken was small, more like a pigeon or something. It wasn’t nearly as good as it had been made out to be.
After the disappointing lunch, I returned to the hotel. I met up with a few other crew members, all eager to get to a proper English pub. I recommended we go to the Frog and Parrot. A few of the guys had UK phone numbers on their cell phones, and were looking to top their pre paid cellular service up. I asked how they managed to get a UK number, and they told me they had their phones “unlocked” from their primary service provider, allowing any SIM card to work.
My new phone was certainly locked, as I couldn’t get any service at all. I set out on a mission to unlock my phone. My first stop was the Car Phone Warehouse. When I asked if I could have my phone unlocked, the lady behind the desk made a face as if I had asked her for some heroin. “No, sir, we CERTAINLY don’t unlock phones here.”
I asked where I could get unlocked, and she pointed to an alley. “Fifty meters down that way. But I didn’t tell you that.”
I walked into this little alley, and found the store. A huge sign over the door said “PHONE UNLOCKING HERE”. I couldn’t understand what the big deal was. I walked in, showed my phone, and was told “twenty pounds to unlock, mate, and I am not sure it will work.” Thirty five dollars to possibly fry my phone seemed ridiculous, so I left. “Forget it, lets go to the Frog and Parrot!”
We had a few pints at the Frog and Parrot, heard all about a trip a few of the crew had made to Amsterdam, then returned to the hotel.
On the way back, I saw another store advertising “PHONE UNLOCKING – FIVE POUNDS!” I went in. Ten minutes and ten pounds later, my phone was unlocked, and I had a Virgin SIM card with my very own UK phone number. It was so easy, it was almost funny. I can purchase minutes at over 85,000 retailers all across the UK, and I can call the US simply by dialing 001. Twenty minutes cost 5 pounds, which is about $8.50. The Cingular international rate is $2.49 a minute, plus fees. Virgin is a MUCH better deal.
Ahh! It’s good to be a Virgin (mobile phone customer that is…)
Yeah, its been a while…. Survived Sheffield, came home to… ANOTHER HARD DRIVE CRASH! This time the laptop decided to give up the ghost. I’m pretty sure the computers decided to sabotage me one after the other just to give me something useless to do on my few days off.
I wrote a mini-journal of Sheffield and will try to post it today if I can figure out how to include the pictures on this blog…Something useless to do during work!
Welcome to Sheffield. WWE is here to bring our extremely American form of entertainment to the crooked-toothed masses of the United Kingdom. To say I dislike England is an understatement of the greatest proportion.
Why do I dislike the land that shuns dentistry so much? Is it because their signs are so retardedly polite? For example, here in Great Britain, road construction closures aren’t called “Detours” they are called “Diversions” Quaint, isn’t it?
However, that’s not it….
Is it the soggy and flobby meal they call breakfast that always consists of ham, runny eggs, baked beans and a fried tomato? Not really, though it wouldn’t hurt to learn how to make pancakes, people… No, the reason that England sucks is prejudice, plain and simple.
Prejudice? But English people, with their funny little accents and silly little sayings seem so tolerant! Maybe the general population is, but the bouncers sure as hell aren’t. Try getting into any bar anywhere in the country if you are an American male after 7 PM. All I can say is two words.… Ain’t Happenin’!
This is my sixth trip to this crappy island, and after 7 PM I haven’t been able to get into a bar yet. Once in London, I walked into a bar at 5 PM, and was told “Sorry, mate, but we’re closed.” Meanwhile, five snaggletoothed Manchester United fans walked up to the bar and ordered Stella Artois without a problem. HUH?? IT’S ONLY FIVE PM!!! The prejudice shouldn’t start until SEVEN, you idiots!
That night we were told to go down the street to the St. James bar, maybe they were still open. When we got there, the body-odor scented bouncers told us they were also closed, and to go back to the bar we came from, because maybe they would be open. Needless to say, the bar was full of happy football fans quaffing a few pints.
A single event? Not hardly. This evening, in Sheffield, the same thing happened. A friend and I tried to walk into Chesters Bar at 7:20 PM. The large, stupid, bald-headed bouncer informed us that “only couples were allowed inside.”
Great. What kind of bar only allows couples inside? Do British couples say to each other, “Hey guvnor, I have an idea, let’s pop on down to couples only night at that shitty place called Cavindishes hesters, Won’t that be a hootenanny?” I doubt it.
Walking down the street, we saw equally bald and stupid bouncers outside almost every bar. Finding one where the bouncers hadn’t perched yet, we ducked in for a cold Guinness. Soon after a black, bald headed goon walked through the bar. When he noticed us intruders inside, he clicked his counter menacingly at us. When we left, he made it clear that we wouldn’t be allowed back in.
Angered and fueled by a few Guinness, we made a mission out of getting into another bar.
I have to say that not only is England a stupid place, it is an EXPENSIVELY stupid place. Each pound (which is what they call their money) is worth $1.70 in real money. Therefore, each Guinness I am buying costs me $7.00, which is money that THE BAR ISN’T MAKING by NOT LETTING ME IN!!! ASSHOLES!
The next bar we stopped in wasn’t any better. We presented ourselves to the bouncer, whose parents were clearly first cousins, only to be told simply, “Nope.” When asked why, King Retard-o looked us over for a full three minutes, the tiny wheels in his tiny brain churning furiously to find a reason… any reason at all to not let these Americans in to have a beer… then finally he pointed at my feet and said, “Those aren’t dress shoes.”
Dress shoes!?!?! FUCK YOU! You HAVE to be kidding me!! I can understand a no hat rule, but DRESS SHOES??? C’mon…. All I want is a BEER for crying out loud… I don’t 
even know who Manchester United IS!!!
Finally we found an Irish bar that had no Cro-Magnon bouncers attached to the door yet. We went in and paid the exorbitant price for Guinness. No harm, no foul. Satisfied, we left for the relative sanity of the Hilton, an AMERICAN HOTEL I might add.
I tried to like it here, but I can’t STAND prejudice, especially when it is directed at me.
Congratulations, English bouncers, you’ve earned your country the coveted Frenchy’s Rant GFY award!
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We finished our dinner, then went back to the good old F&P for yet another Guinness (yes, it is a pattern…. I know, but I like Guinness, what can I say?) The pub was so smoke–filled that it was unbearable. There was a sign outside the pub that said “Smoking Allowed Throughout“, which actually made me laugh. I have seen many No Smoking signs, but never a Smoking is OK sign. We decided to go to Cavendish Pub instead.
I wanted to go inside the church to look around, but the doors were locked. I sat and imagined this church as it must have been centuries ago, probably looking much the same as it did now. Walking along the path through the church grounds towards town, I noticed some writing on the slabs making up the sidewalk. I wasn’t on a sidewalk, I was walking on a graveyard! The headstones were laid out horizontally, and right next to one another, making a strange path. Most of the people buried under my feet had been there for a hundred or more years, so I don’t think I disturbed them too much, at least I hope not!
even know who Manchester United IS!!!