Friday, November 19, 2004

Take Me Out To The Ball Game 

Friday, October 8, 2004

It may be the cut of their jeans or perhaps something in their genes, but all women in Boston have magnificent arses. Or asses, as they might say. Mmmmmm.
I gave this matter some considerable thought as we walked along the worthy and slightly dull Freedom Trail, because - I don’t know - I just couldn’t help myself.

The Freedom Trail has a red line running along it’s length, sometimes painted, sometimes red bricked into the paving. It passes lots of historic sites as you’d expect, and takes you to places you probably wouldn’t have seen otherwise, but it did become a bit of a slog.
We soldiered on to the bitter end because we’re kind of obsessive like that.
Along the way I took some pictures of skyscrapers.
I saw this and thought of Petite Anglaise, while this made me think of Spike the security guard.

In the North End - the Italian restaurant quarter - we unearthed Boston’s only snotty twat of a waiter. Girlfriend asked him what some item or other was, neither of us being fluent in Italian Menu and with a self satisfied smile on his little twatty face, he answered “I see you don’t get out very much then.” He then proceeded to be a twat for the rest of the meal.
Perhaps he was taking part in one of those “How Quickly Can I Get Myself Sacked?” reality TV shows.
As we left, I kicked him in the nads and we legged it without paying the bill.
As we left, I thanked him for a delicious meal and tipped at the normal rate, ever the polite uncomplaining Englishman.
One of the previous two sentences is true.

In the evening we broke an 86 year old curse, a notable achievement by anybody’s standards, and one which we hope will be recognised and rewarded in due course.
We stood outside Fenway Park for a bit, while the Boston Red Sox were playing the Anaheim Angels - and what do you know - the Sox went on to win the World Series. Coincidence or what?
I hereby claim our free tickets to visit Boston whenever we like. It’s the least the city authorities could do for us.
We made our way back through the blurry city streets and watched the game in our room, knowing somehow that Momentous Events In History were unfolding before our very eyes.
Then we watched one of those “How Quickly Can I Get Myself Sacked?” reality TV shows.

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