An Idiot Abroad....For The First Time

Ciao!

Guess what? I have just returned from my first ever trip abroad and I have to say, it was truly incredible! The selected location was Milan as ever since my admiration for the Romans developed, I have craved a visit to Italy and it certainly didn't disappoint.

I'll get the shallow attractions out of the way first: as a woman insanely attracted to muscular men with dark hair, dark eyes and stubble, Italy was awash with lust-evoking, Roman-nosed, musically-accented gods . I shall never gaze at a British policeman again for the two Italian policemen I saw were worth not just a gaze, but a full-on, mouth-open gawp. Another of my favourites was the soldier who searched by bag going in to the Cathedral (picture attached, ladies: feast your eyes)



So, apart from the men, what else did I love? The architecture is insane. Ornate detailing (the breath taking Cathedral has over 3500 statues), rooftop gardens, shutters and balconies: yes, yes, yes! Okay, the less central areas had a mild concrete obsession and graffiti problem, but you still got the odd gem of canary yellow gorgeousness. The food was second to none and the fact that every drink came with free food made this a strong feature of the mini break. Okay, so a bottle of Budweiser was 8 euros and a can of coke 4, but when you got continental bread, salted popcorn, crisps or an unlimited buffet COMPLETELY FREE, it was more than worth it. Stereotypically, I had a pizza the first day and it was so light, so perfect and FIVE EUROS. In Britain we pay £17 for a stodgy, heavy Dominos but in Milan, I paid £4 for the dreamiest Romana (obviously) pizza ever to be consumed. Life=Made.

As my first time abroad, it was also my first time on a plane. I was nervous to say the least but I actually loved it, take-off more than landing it must be said. Flying over cloud formations and the Alps was so exciting for me, although my sister (a jet setting pro) quickly became bored by my childish begging for her to "look! look!" Unfortunately, we flew Ryan Air which I will try to avoid in the future, (the seats were too close, the plane a little tired and the crew garishly dressed)  but for £25 each way, you can't really complain. It had a window and for my first time on a plane, that was more than enough for me. Luigi loved it too.

Now I'm back in dear old Blighty and I well and truly have the travel bug. Arriving home at 2AM, by 2:30AM I had noted all the locations you can fly to from London Stansted airport. As for my next blog, I hope to write it from a cosy bistro in Copenhagen but for now, buonanotte.

ITPTSO

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The Shit Goes On

Hello!

Tonight I blog from the retreat of a freshly made bed following a truly hideous evening. Truly hideous! It started off relatively promising (Burger King chips will always be better than McDonald's!) but then I stupidly decided to watch a film, namely 'Skinwalkers'.

For those of you who have been fortunate enough not to have watched this film, it is a Paranormal Activity-esque abomination. The camerawork is positively vomit-inducing, the story line dire and as for the level of acting, this falls far short of even Hollyoaks: it was not a pleasant viewing experience. Basically, 5 (maybe 6 or 7, there's no definition to the characters) idiots decide to investigate a very credible  looking (huh!) tape of a boy disappearing in front of his parent's eyes. They move in to a house, they film the paranormal, the paranormal finishes them off- as with all films of this type, it's painfully predictable. When they start flicking from camera to camera your pulse races knowing you're about to be scared out of your wits by a sudden, often loud, movement. The first jump is the best, after that you just become annoyed with yourself for playing along with this ridiculous ghost hunt. You begin to hope the scratchy deterioration of the footage is actually your blu-ray player telling you that even it can't be bothered to play this shit, but unfortunately, the shit goes on.

The death of many of the characters was a relief. It was a signal that having killed 3 of the 5 (or 6...or 7...) ghost hunters, the amateur documentary-style footage must soon cease. The death of Cameron, however, was disappointing. He is the only character whose name I remember and he had the potential to be a hero had he
a) shagged the girl and
b) solved the mystery.
Sadly he does neither. He dies and with him goes any hope of 'Skinwalkers' redeeming itself.

Despite my brutal criticism I would be interested to know if anyone has seen the film and if anyone has a plausible (okay, interesting) theory on what the end was supposed to mean. (If, at this point, you think this film went for an edgy Inception type ending and are thus considering watching it, I feel compelled to warn you that you will be bitterly disappointed.)

Perhaps I won't rant next blog, but it seems to be my thing.

ITPTSO

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"A person who never made a mistake never tried anything new"- Albert Einstein

Welcome all,

I hope I haven't given you the impression that the title quote of this post bears any relation to impending deep and meaningful discussion. The logic is that I'm new to blogging and it's likely to be a mistake, that's as deep as it runs, I'm afraid. Now that's out the way: hello.

I'll begin with a bit about myself. I love trains but not buses, coffee but not tea and rugby but not football. Captain Morgan is my favourite spirit, Stella Artois my favourite lager and Casseliro Diablo my favourite wine. I hate almost everything else, owls excluded.

Now on with the topic of the day: Queuing- British?

This topic came about when my sister was ranting about airport queues earlier and, having never been on a plane before, I listened attentively to the horrors that await me upon my first visit to an airport to actually fly rather than consume an overpriced McDonald's. As the story was told my mum laughed and informed my sister of her "britishness." I have never understood this obsession with British people and queues...is it even a thing? Are we particularly concerned with the order in which we waste our lunch breaks in an understaffed post office? Do we care whether we await the self-scan machines in our local supermarket forming an orderly snake or a straight line? Is this really a bone of contention for British people?

Until recently, I was of the opinion that queuing incorrectly (or not at all) was the gripe of the senior citizen. The same citizen who won't admit they're a casual racist and is shocked by people eating in the street (eating in the street, I say!!!) That was, until, I was in an establishment  where the humble queue is forgotten, but is still very, very British: the pub. I will never understand why queues don't form in bars, clubs and pubs. We have to queue to get in, so why not to be served? Instead you rest your weary elbow on the sticky bar and tut disapprovingly as the suave businessmen or busty lady saunters up and is served before you. Why, as British people, do we not have a system for drinking when it is something we do so well?

When the barman  finally took my order I facetiously asked for 8 vodka and oranges. I expected a quizzical raising of the eyebrows or a tongue-in-cheek joke but instead he asked "ice and slice with all of those?" Deeply upset by the lack of opportunity to moan about the fact I had been waiting at the bar so long my hair had greyed , I began ferrying the drinks back to my friend C. She did raise a quizzical eyebrow and make a tongue-in-cheek joke and I promptly sat down and moaned about the fact I had been waiting at the bar so long my hair had greyed. It was then, sat in a pub binge drinking and moaning about queues whilst it rained outside that I appreciated my own Britishness.
And I loved it.

ITPTSO

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