10th: Today was the day that we were going to make the hour long drive down to Virginia Beach, and spend the afternoon taking in the sun...
So after breakfast, we set off on our ventures; sitting in the car with the radio on as our only form of entertainment... Our adopted station is 93.7 Bob FM (creative name, huh?...), because the moment we got the car (when we left Washington), we did what any normal person does with the radio in a new car - go through EVERY predefined channel over and over and over again, until something listenable comes on, marking that station as the car's default channel, no matter HOW bad EVERY other song they play for the rest of eternity is... Bob FM was exactly this channel for us... And their slogan of "Turn your knob... To Bob..." is a thing that even the great Dr Seuss himself, would be proud to call his own...
Now I'm fine with Bob, but my dad?... Not so much... Bob tends to play mostly 80s pop, or if not; Bono, or that annoying husky voiced loser who sings on that DFS advert, where his music video is essentially "You know what'd be good?... Let's make a video in a HUGE swimming pool - I mean like the BIGGEST pool you could possibly imagine; we'll chuck Shamu outta Seaworld and freaking use his crib or summat... Well anyway; we go to this pool, and we bring over all of Hugh Hefner's jailbait; chuck them all in there; booze 'em up, and then use it as a distraction to our crappy, anti-lyrical sludge troff of a song... Then use it on as many TV ads as possible... Genius!..." Now despite him quite liking U2, my dad for whatever reason hates 80s music; so pretty much all I ever hear in the car is "oh come on, Bob!", or "Bob, that's awful!", whilst I tremble in enraged horror, at the paternal blasphemy which I am forced to witness...
So the usual journey took place (80s song, moan, 80s song, moan, loser bloke, moan, Bono, satisfied silence), all the way up to VA beach; where we parked up for the princely sum of $10 for 3 hours (any longer, and they threatened to tow us, although it's not like they're gonna be able to sell this little pecker of an overly-AVIS-sticker-branded-spunkmobile...), walked onto the beach, and sat down on the sand...
At first it was quite pleasant; laying down, enjoying that rarest of things to a native Englishman - sun. Looking around, I could see that the local sport was Volleyball; considering there were about 5 billion nets up - it looked like the beach at Normandy... if only the Nazis were lead by a camp sports enthusiast, rather than a fascist nutcase... The problems came at about 1o'clock, when the sun was at it's spiteful peak (about 102F on this particular day), and the surfer dudes decided to invade our area of the beach, despite there being a surfer-exclusive area down the other end... So we sat, essentially slow-cooking ourselves (as by this time, my feet and shoulders were the colour of a ripe raspberry...), with our only amount of solace being the viewing of some big-headed little loser falling on his face every ten minutes or so... I suppose that's what pulled me through it...
We left at about 4, as we'd realised that our sunburn was at the point of impending cancer; and made our way home... Now I've gotta say that I was a little disappointed, as while we glided down Atlantic Avenue, I was on the look out for a big guy in a navy outfit (and although that may seem like the gayest thing I've ever said; it's really not meant to be - a friend of mine; Fredd; who has just come back from a stint of working in the US Navy, has a house out there. Now despite not living there at the moment, I thought he might fly back to Virginia Beach for a special appearance, but nope - nutin... Friggin lazy Murricans...), but could find only premium rate ghost rides among the streets... Still... We drove about there for a while, so the chances I saw his house are pretty high... I am therefore the world's greatest stalker - sorry Morgan... My cross-Atlantic manhunt cannot be outdone...
So in an attempt to make up for my disappointment, I decided to stuff my face with Wendy's (again; let me point out here that filacio was at no point a part of my holiday... Wendy's is a food chain... Not a cheap, local prostitute... I mean what the hell kinda prossy'd be called Wendy?!? By LAW it has to be summat outrageously slutty, like Krystal, or Onyx, or some other form of second-rate gemstone...) - a half pound baconator to be precise (and you KNOW something's gonna be good when it's got "ator" at the end...); which was quintessentially less healthy than eating a solid block of pure lard... So considering that I have football training the Saturday I get back; probably not my wisest decision... But my GOD... it was beautiful... Like a genuine edible orgasm... Wonderful...
The lesson I learned from it all?... That whenever you're upset by something in life, it's always comforting to increase your chance of stroke and heart disease by 4.2%, in one big ol' heap of pig in a bun... Now if THAT'S not what America is all about, I don't wanna know what is...
Thanks,
Kempo.
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