Excuse me while I make a pretty stark generalisation. Americans don’t really get football (or soccer, as they erroneously call it). The TV and radio coverage of the World Cup has been quite amusing over here; it’s all stories about the US team having a slight chance at winning it (if only they’d picked Landon Donovan) or it’s European footballers giving their reactions in a garish virtual studio, sandwiched between adverts for prescription medicines and a cloth you soak in water and can then keep you cool all day.
To be fair, the English people who were in the bar watching England versus Italy this afternoon were the most irritating people we’ve been near all week. One of them, who we’ve named “clapping guy” for reasons which will become apparent, wouldn’t stop shouting banal things like “Come on Wayne” when Rooney was on the screen, with the ball or not, and “Shoot!” when Joe Hart passed it to a full back. He also clapped fairly constantly, regardless of what was happening in the match. He had a white headband on. Makes you proud to be British, doesn’t it?
He did stomp out of the bar with most adorable little sad face on when Italy scored their second though, so at least we got a laugh.
But we toughed it out, because this bar had a quite unbelievable happy hour. It lasted from 4PM until 9PM and, rather than make your drinks a bit cheaper, they just gave you two of whatever you ordered. We drank a lot of Blue Moon with oranges in it before moving on to margaritas with limes and salt. So many margaritas that the bartender eventually just brought a plate full of salt and left it on our table.
I had to retreat to the hotel halfway through the evening though, because I’d eaten the largest burger available, where I trotted out Terry Pratchett’s seminal “make me one with everything” gag. And fries. And fruit punch. And frozen yogurt. My breakfast was similarly huge too, it had Hawaiian sweetbread French toast and eggs and unlimited coffee. As you can see, I kind of spoiled myself on my last full day of American hospitality. I hope these toilets don’t drain straight to the ocean or there’s going to be some very unhappy dolphins this evening.
Tomorrow, we fly home. That means that we probably need to pack and prepare ourselves tonight but instead we drank even more tequila, smoked nice big cigars (well, I did) and watched American TV, catching an episode of the latest season of Veep, which is a bit like The Thick of It but set in the Vice President’s office.
Our flight isn’t until lunchtime though, so we’ve got plenty of time to do the sensible stuff in the morning, as long as we can fit in one last breakfast burrito and a quick trip to the frozen yogurt shop.
Blair just found a channel that’s showing constant Friends reruns (like E4 a couple of years ago) and it sounds like we’re going to be staying up to watch that. Or Adventure Time, which he and Tef already watched for about three hours this afternoon. No wonder everyone in America gets busy with recreational firearm use or nurturing a horrendous obesity problem (well, they always say “problem” but I like to think of it as more of a measurement of how awesome their breakfasts are. Skinny Americans are just really bad at breakfasting).
Oh well, I can sleep on the flight, I suppose. Well, I hope so because we’re travelling for something like 24 hours and I’m concerned that I might not be able to cope with other humans for that long without punching them in their smushy little faces. Sleeping will help me pass that time and greatly lessen the risk to other passengers.