European Travels: The Sun Never Sets on the British Empire

I was sitting on my couch the other day with my Dad watching Arsenal play a match against Shakhtar Donetsk. My dad explained to me that this soccer stuff was basically ‘slow hockey’ and promptly fell asleep, from boredom one can only assume. Good match it ended up being, with Arsenal winning handily.

This made me think about my travels through Europe and some of the interesting cultural differences I’ve come across. More specifically, stereotypes I’ve encountered or shattered. I’ve been to Europe four times now and I’d like to tell you a story. 

When I travel I’m always looking for that true European experience whether it’s in England, France or wherever else. It’s not as easy as you would think. Undoubtedly it’s fun to see the historical and cultural sights but there’s nothing like coming back with some stories about locals you chummed it up with. Fortunately for my most recent trip o’er the pond, my friend Phil and I were able to find one of these experiences. 

England

Isolated on an island, the English are unaware of modern day guns.

Oh England, the English speaking paradise of Europe. This former patriarch of the land I call home is domicile to bad teeth, homely women, bad food, and soccer hooligans. At least that’s what popular belief here in the USA says. Well I am here to set the record straight. The teeth are really bad. 

I really enjoyed England. It’s like America except everyone talks funny and the streets are backwards. So when you’re drunk at four in the morning it’s very easy to get yourself killed stepping out into traffic. Speaking of getting drunk (which I have been known to enjoy), London had the most rules I’ve ever seen about getting drunk. Mind you this is in the area known as Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square. It’s a trendier/touristy area in the heart of London that reminded me a lot of being in New York City around Times Square. 

So the rules

If you want to get drunk and watch a soccer game (like we did one night) you must go to the sports bars. It seems no other bar in the heart of downtown shows the matches. Walk into a pub, no game. Walk into a sports bar, games everywhere. The problem lies in the fact that the lines to get into sports bars go half way around the block. By the time you’ve entered the bar, the game is at half. What’s the point?

Now if you want to get good old fashioned saucy for no reason the pub is a good choice. You would think that as I did, but once again London drinking rules are in effect. The pubs, though a good source of beer, close rather early: midnight or one in the morning depending on the night of the week. In one of these pubs we met the most attractive ladies we did in England. We started talking and it turns out they were from America. No surprise there, like I said before England is full of homely women. Also no surprise that they were ‘heading home’ at bar close and didn’t want to come out for some more drinks. They told us that if we wanted to keep drinking until the wee hours of the morning, the night clubs were the way to go.

If you’ve ever seen a picture of me, you would know that I don’t do night clubs. I have nightmares about nightclubs. Smooth-chested men in leather pants with gelled hair attack me in those dreams. Bass heavy techno sampling songs from dead artists I actually like make my ears bleed in those dreams. Women who want nothing more than free drinks and ecstasy from me make me broke in those dreams. I wasn’t about to make any of those terrible things reality. 

The loophole we found was the 24 hour casinos. A little bit of sanity in an insane part of the city. As long as we kept gambling, we could drink all night long. And for all that drunk gambling I did, I actually made money. So the moral of the story kids is drunk gambling will never lead to bad consequences. In fact we came across another group of attractive ladies while at the casino: they were Irish. 

Hooligans & Their Food

Okay so now that we have established that there are far too many homely women in London, let’s move on to my other preconceived notions: soccer hooligans and bad food. The food wasn’t bad. It was like the dinners your grandma made after she started to lose it. But you can’t complain to your grandmother for serving you tacos and green bean casserole because you know she loves you. It wasn’t bad, it just seemed the combinations were uninspired. The ‘Full English Breakfast’ consisted of eggs, a sausage, a tomato, a mushroom, and toast. They all tasted decent, but when you look at the plate you think ‘This is what you came up with?’  All I can say is that the food was good enough to give me a solid base for drinking. And as you will soon learn, that was important one night. The main reason my friend and I went to England was to see an Arsenal game, not the food. 

We made our way to North London for the match against Wolverhampton. Drank a few pints before the match in pubs packed like sardine tins. We then headed down the street to the Emirates. The neighborhood was really cool and reminded me somewhat of Wrigleyville in Chicago. It was a neighborhood consisting of flats and two-flats as far as the eye could see. Small, locally owned shops, pubs, and restaurants lined the main thoroughfares. It had that olden feeling, even for London. But then, out of nowhere rises the intimidating modern steel of the Emirates. 

Beautiful.

That's Phil, in all his glory

Packed house for the match.

The game was great. No score through 90 minutes despite the Gunners’ constant peppering of the Wolves’ goalie. Stoppage time came and in the 94^th minute Niklas Bendtner streaked into the box and headed a cross pass into the goal for the dramatic win. The Emirates erupted in relief as Arsenal put away a game that should not have been so close.  

   

Just to clarify a bit here: Arsenal FC players are called Gunners and their fans are called Gooners. I don’t understand the Gooners thing, so don’t ask. High on life my friend Phil and I made our way to a pub named Bailey’s Gooners. Obviously this bar was for Gooners exclusively. However if the name wasn’t clear enough, there was a sign placed in the window stating ‘No visiting fans welcome’. The bar was small, completely covered in wood and very dark.  It was daylight when we entered the bar and probably about two in the morning when we left. 

Gunner Niklas Bendtner

We chatted with a few groups of fans and as the time wore on and pints turned into more pints neither of us wanted to leave. Slowly the bar started to become less populated. There was one group of guys who remained. They were serious fans. They lead the bar in soccer chants the entire night. Unparalleled is the sense of unity in sport when an entire pub erupts into song together. You just don’t see this very much in American sports. At the end of a good Bears game this is what you’re bound to hear walking back to your car:

 Fuck yeah those fuckin’ Colts really fuckin’ sucked. And you see Cutler? Fuckin’ amazing tonight. 

HEY FUCK YOU JACKWAD, PACKERS SUCK!

Anyway we talked quite a bit with this group of guys. There were four of them that I remember. The first was really tall, probably about six foot five or so with a five o’clock shadow from yesterday. The second was a kid so bland I can’t really come up with a description for him. I do remember he really liked cocaine because he kept talking about it. In fact, all of them were talking about cocaine quite a bit. The third was a short, humorous, black guy dressed in purple. Last guy seemed to be a prick, honestly. He was very serious and despite the fact that the other three guys liked us, I’m not so sure he did. The night wore on with this crack group of guys discussing sports, America, and England. 

Sometime late, we all moved on to new bars. All I really remember from this part of the night was walking through the streets, singing soccer songs, and watching these guys knock over trash cans, construction signs, and basically anything not chained to the ground. Stop in a bar have a couple drinks, move on to the next. We got a good tour of North London. It was during this march that we found out these guys, although they did cocaine and were drinking at the bars without a problem, were 17, 18, and 19 years old. Maybe it was the beers that shaded our perception or maybe it was the fact that they wanted to keep drinking, but it never crossed either of our minds. Somewhere in the range three in the morning (mind you the spirits began somewhere around 1pm), Phil and I decided to head back to the hotel. We had a seven a.m. train to Amsterdam to catch. Somehow we made it back to the hotel and to the train on-time. In hindsight, a miracle.

That train ride to Amsterdam was probably God’s way of telling us that we were assholes. It was long and boy were we hurting really bad. But it was totally worth it. Nothing beats hanging out with the locals when abroad, even if they were five years younger than us. If you want to party, I'm game. That may just say something about my maturity level. However when all was said and done, it was truly an experience that will be hard to top. 

The Creature

For those of you who may be unaware, the Southside of Chicago is a peculiar place. There is a vibrant Irish stronghold that livens up the neighborhoods. Overall, the area consists of blue-collared, hardworking, Catholic Americans. If you drove around you would come across numerous Catholic grammar schools, about one every two square miles. St. Germaine, Saint Louis, Saint Bede, Most Holy Redeemer, Saint Linus, Saint Al’s, Christ the King, Saint Barnabas, Saint Christina are all within an eight minute drive of each other. I could name more but I don’t want to put any non-religious types off by brandishing my knowledge of Saints. And while you would think that this was too many, it’s not. The schools are all filled with students eager to learn how Jesus is shaking his head in disapproval and contemplating sending you to hell when you think about sex or God forbid touch yourself. 

The Southside Irish Parade marks the beginning of the New Year. Southsiders do not use the Gregorian Calendar.

One thing about Catholics is that they are aficionados of the drink. On the Southside, we’re not talking Merlot, wine coolers, Smirnoff Ice, Mike’s Hard Lemonade or other drinks that would cause someone to question your sexuality. We’re talking whiskey, beer, and vodka. Around these parts, the drink is less of a beverage option and more of a hobby. For some, it’s a way of life.     

So naturally one night last week I found myself and some friends contemplating the bar. It was a night like no other. Some would call it the perfect storm. As I would find out, it was more appropriately called sensory overload. On this particular night the Blackhawks were on television, the Bulls had their first game of the season, and the World Series was starting. Wanting to go somewhere where we could watch all of these wonderful contests of testosterone in relative peace, we chose a small bar near our homes that wouldn’t be playing Taylor Swift over the games. We’ll get back to this night later, but first we need to Tarantino this story. 

The Perfect Storm was also a Blockbuster thriller about eating Taco Bell & McDonald's in the same day. In this scene, two fishermen empty their bowels.

Murphy’s Law is the bar’s name and on a weekday I can only describe it as sadness mixed with regret and failed dreams. Now I can make such a daring statement because a friend of mine worked there for about a year. To keep her company some friends and I would visit her. During this time I came to know Murphy’s Law quite well, as well as its cast of characters.

The Patriot

A casual discussion about how amazing the Blackhawks logo is during a game last season turned into a McCarthy era witch-hunt one night when I was introduced to this wonderful patriot. A short, fat old man was he, who every time I saw him was wearing the same Green Bay Packers sweatshirt. Either there was a box of them that fell off a truck onto his lawn or he only owns one sweatshirt.  Someone had brought up the issue of teams being forced to change Indian logos for political correctness and this man was horrified. Truly horrified and confused. I was horrified because he had never heard of this. Apparently he hasn’t watched the news in the last decade or so. In hindsight this is not surprising, he is a patriot. What is the news good for when you already know the answers? Jesus, America, kill terrorists/communists/Nazis. Prosper while living the American dream. Simple.

Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! Jesus versus Osama Bin Laden in the CAGE OF DEATH!

During the course of the conversation I tried to be empathetic for the sake of carrying on talk. I had explained that although I don’t agree with the logos being changed, I can understand their point of view. We did kill all of their people, their marvelous buffalos, and then took all of their land. Even though we have forgotten, they might not have. This is when the patriot stared me down. A long and deep stare that burned my pupils and nearly caused me to fall off the stool. This was a stare I imagined coming from a drunken grandfather waiting for just the right moment to whack you across the head. After what seemed like ages he spoke.

Son, what are you? 

I was taken aback by this question. I thought well not a vampire if that is what you’re getting at. Why was he staring at me so much? What is he looking for? Fangs, bite marks, other visible marks that I am not human? What? So I responded with the best answer I could come up with for that random and odd question.

I’m Nick? A teacher?

I actually questioned my own identity as I said it. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. The patriot responded

The only right answer to that question is American. 

He went on and on about kids these days and some more clichés abut hoodlums being on his lawn, the American flag and what it represents. In his head surely he was skeptical that I might be working in conjunction with the Sioux to take back the land the whites had rightly taken from the Indians. It was during this rant I barely listened to that it hit me. Alright, you’re one of those people. Let’s close up this conversation quickly because I would much rather not talk to you anymore. There are darts over there, so I’m going to go over there.  

The Drunk/Alcoholic

Now lots of people are alcoholics. There are different definitions of alcoholism giving different amounts of drinks per week but it’s all the same. If you drink so much you’re an alcoholic, you are most likely alienating yourself from people and most likely your job. It becomes the top of your priority list. For those of you who may not drink or not have many experiences with these people, it isn’t as easy to pick out an alcoholic as you think. The guy who is peeing down the side of his leg in the bathroom is not an alcoholic. He’s a drunk. The lady who threw up outside, fell down and unknowingly exposed herself to passersby is not an alcoholic. She’s a drunk. During all the commotion the man you sit next to at the bar and are having a decent conversation with is the alcoholic. You just didn’t notice the bartender take the previous 18 bottles away.

A drunk drinks copious amounts of drink and wakes up in the morning with shades of regret and possibly syphilis. An alcoholic can’t understand why his wife would get mad at him after coming home from the bar and staying up to drink another thirty beers. That’s not normal sir, you are an alcoholic.

Moreover, alcoholics make you feel bad. Not on purpose but just because he or she is in that situation. However a drunk makes you laugh. A drunk makes you feel better about yourself because you’re not the one passed out hovering a foot above your own shit in a bathroom at the bar. Oh yeah, and the stall door is open. You should clean up that jungle you got going on down there.  

   

The Couple

There were two or three couples consistently in the bar. I wonder if they really imagined on their honeymoon night that they would spend their later days getting blitzed in a bar next to a Boston Market.  

The Prostitute

Now I don’t have proof of this claim. I never procured any favors personally. But whenever I saw that gross greasy blond hair and that heroin-thin body walking towards me I made some room. Believe me, I made room.

The Mutes  

Now for the most part at a bar like this there is not a lot of lively conversation. That’s not to say it is quiet but a lot of the patrons have the same routine. Come in. Order the beer. Drink the beer. Watch TV. Order more beer. I often what the point of coming out to the bar is if you don’t plan on socializing with anyone. Couldn’t you just stay at home, ignore your wife, and drink beer in front of your own television? Not that it matters that much to me but it might save you some money. 

Hoods are not Acceptable

The perfect storm is raging at full throttle. Hawks are winning, of course. Bulls are losing, of course. And Texas is taking it up the Chocolate Highway from San Francisco as the games move towards their final stretches. I’ve seen a lot of crazy drunks in this bar but this guy was by far the craziest. He had that look on his face that you see only when you know a person has absolutely no idea what is going on. This look makes you question that he can even see you standing in front of him. My friend was wearing a knit hat and a hood over it. 

Crazy Old Man: Hey son, are you wearing a hat and a hood?

Friend: Uhh, yeah.

Crazy Old Man: You look like a… You look like a…

Friend: I look like a what?

Crazy Old Man: You look like a…

Friend: You’re talking like a crazy person. 

Stop. Now obviously you don’t call a drunken crazy person crazy. You might be able to get away with it when he’s sober but surely not when he’s drunk. Might as well poke a bear. 

After a tirade by the old crazy man about how he was only half crazy, how my friend should watch himself and how the government is stealing his white blood cells, the man returned to his stool. He grumbled to a couple of the regulars about how kids have no respect. It is absolutely unacceptable to wear a hat and a hood in an establishment like this one. This, coming from the man elegantly adorned in a t-shirt covered in paint sitting next to the guy that always wears that same Packers sweatshirt. But this old crazy man couldn’t let this outrage go and kept discussing it with the guys at the bar until the Patriot told him to settle down. I know these kids; they’re good kids he explained. Shortly after this the drunken idiot left the bar.

Now that’s when I realized that I was a part of this group. The Patriot knew me. He knew my friends. We were good people. I am one of the young ones. That’s the worst one to be. I wonder which of these old guys used to be the young one. They probably think the same way about me as I do about them. He’s the one who only comes in when the young girl is bartending. He’s always playing darts and smoking and I’m pretty sure he’s a freedom hating hippie because he always has those tie-dye shirts on. Did you hear what he said about Indians once? He might be a Lakota. No one thinks like that. 

Now they can think whatever they want it makes no difference to me. It had been a long time since we had been in that bar, but once I realized that we were members of this elite group of people, I decided I will never go back there again.