Drunk Americans

Let it never be said that smoking a cigarette late at night lends itself towards boredom.

The place where we're staying is right next to this bar, Henry's, and every Wednesday night they have £1.50 Fosters in to-go cups, which I would have partaken of had I not had a paper due tomorrow. At any rate, some other rowdy Americans stumbled upon this little jewel tucked away in the bend of the River Cam and drank themselves silly, and then proceeded to jump all over the punts.

Let me clarify.

The punts are boats that pretty much resemble a flat log. Think of a very flat gondala, with a pretty substantial board on the tail end. They're about 8 feet wide, 15 feet long (I know, I know, it should be in meters. Or metres. But I am an American, and tend to think like one, so...) and are lined up all along the River Cam, where Cambridge is located. You hire a punt, and have the option of either pushing the punt yourself with this really long pole (just like a gondola) or hiring one of the really attractive punt boys to steer you down the river while you drink a bottle of wine. The punt boys (as I call them) were somewhat of a nuisance the first two weeks, as they gather right outside our house (which happens to be in one of the busiest sections of Cambridge) and generally haggle anybody who walks by.

"Excuse me, ladies, but are you going punting today?" (And they're always wearing these funny uniforms that consist of a straw hat and blue vest, and, like I said earlier, they're always really attractive. Honestly, the cream of the crop, these guys are.)

For two weeks it was "No, not today, thank you." Until Kate Kelly, as per her usual Kate Kelly self, walked up to one of the punters and said "Hey, you recognize me? Well we're (gesturing, here, to me) going to be here for 6 weeks. We'll go punting! I promise! Just not today, alright? We'll come to you when we want to go punting..." etc, etc.

So of course they bother us even more, for about two more days. And then they cool off, and I haven't really been haggled since.

The punts are actually pretty cool, as you can see parts of Cambridge (i.e. Kings College - where Harry Potter was filmed!) that tourists aren't normally allowed into. But, since I have a Cambridge I.D., that's not really an issue for me.

At any rate, these drunken Americans were going on about how they did the punt run (get really drunk and then run along the punts lined up on Quayside, the street that's lined up with the Cam, also, the street where Basing House is) and how they're ready for the big time - jumping from the punts, across the river, to the other side.

Now, the river's not that big, but it's pretty big. About...25 feet I'd say. Maybe less. But still, that's an impressive jump.

So the Americans get to talking.

Guy 1: Who's going first?
Guy 2: You're crazy. You'd have to be a long-jumper to jump that.
Guy 1: Muhammad Ali could do it.
Guy 3: Muhammad Ali's retarded.
Guy 1: Yeah, but he could do it.
Guy 4: ...And it made him retarded.
All: hahahahahahahahah
Guy 5: Alright, let's do this MOTHERFUCKER!
Guy 1: Yeah! Who's going first?
(Crickets)
Guy 6: We'll do it TOMORROW, MOTHERFUCKER!
Guy 5: Yeah, we'll do it tomorrow.
Guy 1: TOMORROW, MOTHERFUCKER!

So. Tomorrow it is, then.

Saw a matine of Harry Potter today (The Professor would never have done this with me) and thought it was pretty all right. It was like eye cotton candy. Fun to eat, but not very substantial. Us 5 Americans managed to fenagle our way into the very front of the line, something I found kinda funny considering we were in England, seeing Harry Potter. The movie theatre was pretty cool, too. The cinemas were up 3 flights of stairs and the theatre itself was lit by blue and green light bulbs.

I'm going to see North by Northwest there on Friday at 12:15 P.M. (Again, The Professor would never be down for this). Missing lunch, too. Oh well. I guess it's a boxed lunch at Sainsbury's! (Sainsbury's = Food Lion).

Then it's off to London, London (Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens - tickets cost me £44 but we got pretty kick ass seats. I had to. It's Peter FUCKING Pan MOTHERFUCKER), Edinburgh, Edinburgh, Cambridge, Dublin, Dublin, Dublin, Cambridge, Canterbury.

No Loch Ness, I'm afraid. I just couldn't swing the trip, not when I'm going to see Peter FUCKING Pan.

Jazz pants, lycras, et. al.,

P. I. Staker

P.S. To be more economical, I've started smoking rolled cigarettes. None of this £5.49 manufactured bullshit! Give me the £2.69 Drum tobacco! Billy and Negeen got on my case for this today, because (shocking) rolled cigarettes look like doobies. "Doobies". That was the word they used. Like the Doobie Brothers. They were honestly concerned that I would be stopped on the street by a cop because it looks like I'm smoking a "doobie".

Doobie? Really?

I can't even begin to address how crazy this is, on all levels, because a) a cop would smell the difference b) you'd have to be a crazy motherfucker to walk around the streets of Cambridge smoking a doobie and c) everyone. Smokes. Rolled. Cigarettes.

Seriously! Everyone smokes rolled cigarettes. The other day, I watched a woman on a bike stop at an intersection and roll a cigarette while she waited for the light to change. Ridiculous how good these people are at rolling cigarettes, it is.

I also have a great story about a street performer, but it's getting on toward 2 A.M. here, and I'm getting kinda tired.

Night, yall!