If You're Happy and You Know It . . .

I drove into London today. No big deal. I've pirated a car journey to the centre of town dozen times or so, but every time it is its own adventure. I can guarantee you that I will get lost every time. If I have a SatNav, I will manage to make the SatNav get lost. I aggravate the other drivers on the road, scare the bejesus out of my passengers, and inevitably take a few years off my own life.

Other people only gain confidence in me when I utter such popular phrases as "This feels right" or "This just doesn't feel right" in the exact same tone that a blind man would say it if he were in a bisexual strip club. I don't know any street names in central London which is fine because it's near impossible to find where the streets are labeled when in a car. No matter. I don't need them. I feel my way around London like Jodi Foster in the end of Silence of the Lambs.

So, needless to say, today I was a little lost. I was also driving rampant enough to aggravate the Ferrari behind me. This Ferrari seemed to have a hard time finding second gear and his engine revved so loudly that it drown out the ABBA on my stereo, so I think my crazy driving was justified - like a Justin Timberlake album. Anyway, this Houdini managed to squeeze his £100,000 lifestyle around my £10,000 Vauxhall, and upon passing I realized that the man I was pissing off was Muhammad Al Fayed. This is the man who owns Herrods. For my US readers this is the man whose son was porking Princess Di before they both took a fatal drive through The City of Lights.

And as if this brush with (take your pick) fame/richness/don't-give-a-shit wasn't exciting enough, more excitement came when I drove past Hyde Park and was suddenly stuck in the middle of a street protest. According to their posters, these people were protesting Israel, but according to their chant, they were protesting - like all Europeans - Grorge W. Bush. Their chant was to the tune of "If You're Happy and You Know It" but the words were: "If you hate George Bush, clap your hands" and the slightly more disturbing second verse "Burn in hell Mr. Bush, clap your hands."

The moral of my story? Nothing makes me feel more at home than people who hate G.W.

If it wasn't called "Snowdonia" more people would probably go there.

Hello friends, and yet again forgive my absence.  I assure you that I will get around to writing about all my misadventures, pointing out the ironic intracricies of both the English and my family from the week I spent back home - and yes it includes both photos of poo in the toilet and wild lizards - but I can't tonight.  Tonight I have to get ready to go to Snowdonia.

Now for most of us Snowdonia is that place that the ugly little kids from the Narnia movies go to eat Turkish Delight, but for the British it is an actual place.  Apparently there is a mountain in Wales called Mt. Snowdon and I'm going to climb it.  I'm not exactly sure what I'll need, but I'd imagine it includes all the arrows that my quiver can hold.  I leave at 6:00am tomorrow by a trusty mini-bus which I call Shadowfax, and shant return for 4 whole days.

In the meantime, perhaps you can research the question that has bewildered many a fine American: What the hell is Wales when not referring to a giant sea mammal?