There’s no doubt that I had a fair amount of European business travel during the eighties. I went to Paris a few times, and on one memorable trip to Paris I decided to take a week’s vacation and fly across to London. I had been to Paris and Strasbourg quite a few times and had seen a lot of France. Not only had I seen Paris, but I had also seen a lot of the outskirts. On this particular trip, we had gone to dinner at the European promotion manager’s house and met his wife. Then, he took us on a tour of the French countryside. We drove around to all these little villages, stopped in bars and tiny little restaurants and tried different wines and beers (normally I’m not a beer drinker). I was trashed by the end of the night. Originally, Miss Headcase and her mother wanted to meet me in Paris, but I had always wanted to see the UK. I’d had enough of Paris. I won.

Deep inside, I knew I shouldn’t have left the London hotel reservations to Miss Headcase. I don’t know what I’d been thinking. When the taxi pulled up in front of what she’d chosen, I just looked at her. “What the fuck is this?” Her mother chimed in by asking if she was out of her mind. We went inside. There wasn’t even a private bathroom in this place. It was shared and it was filthy. I told Miss Headcase that there wasn’t a chance in hell we were staying there for even one night. We ended up staying in a little place in Earl’s Court, a funky section of London with a lot of little Indian and Italian restaurants, and a ton of Australian tourists. It was fun. Better still, the food in the area was good. In fact, aside from eating at the pubs, I’d recommend you not eat at British restaurants. These people simply cannot cook.

Prior to leaving Paris, I got some sage advice from my European counterpart, Dieter. He said in his German accent, “Whatever you do, don’t order beef. It’s like eating shoe leather by the time they’re done with it.” I took his advice.

After settling in, the first thing I wanted to do was visit the original Hard Rock Cafe in London. The Hard Rock may be no big deal now, but back then it was huge. We waited nearly 45 minutes to get in during a cold October rain. The great thing about the Hard Rock in London is that they actually have umbrellas chained to the fence so that you don’t get wet while you’re waiting to get in. I’ve been to the Hard Rock in Paris, but it pales in comparison to the UK location. It’s like a musical museum. When I was young, I was really into the British music scene, mostly because of my obsession with The Beatles. Don’t get crazy…not Gerry & The Pacemakers or the Dave Clark Five. It was The Stones, The Who, The Kinks and Cream…that collection of British rockers.

Admittedly, I was leery about the food inside, but I worried for nothing. It was basically pub food, and pub food is the one thing you can count on in the UK. The best thing about it was the stuff they had from The Beatles.  It was totally impressive. This is where I got my black leather Hard Rock jacket, courtesy of Miss Headcase’s mother. In spite of my issues with Miss Headcase, I always got along with her mom. She bought it for me as an early birthday present.  The leather jackets at the Hard Rock today are all motorcycle style. Not my favorite. Mine is the old bomber style. Love it. I still wear it, worn though it is.

The royal whatnot

The next day, the weather cleared. That almost never happens in London in October. In fact, the rest of the week was clear and the temp hung around the high sixties. We decided to go to Buckingham Palace. Now, I’m not big on British royalty. Why are they royal? Because they’re rich? Some of these people have been the biggest assholes in history. But I have to tell you that Buckingham Palace is amazing, and the changing of the guard is something to see (if for nothing else to see how damned constipated these guards truly are).

You’ve got to work real hard at it but, if you make a big enough fool of yourself, you can actually get these guys to laugh. I did, but I had to put myself in the idiot zone to accomplish this feat. People who know me absolutely know I’m not afraid to go to the idiot zone for a laugh. I figured I’d never see these people again in my freakin’ life, so why not make a fool of myself.

After Buckingham Palace came Piccadilly Circus, which is almost like Times Square (only a hell of a lot better, frankly). It brings together five of the busiest streets in London and is dominated by neon signs, an amazing thing to see at night if you like that Vegas feel. (Personally, I’m not a Vegas fan. Been there on business, but that’s a different post for a different day.) If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m a big music fan. The first Virgin Record store I ever went to was in Piccadilly and it was absolutely huge. I got lost in that place for hours.

Funny thing about the statue in the middle of Piccadilly. It seemed to me a wierd place to put a statue of Cupid. That’s what I thought it was. So, I decided to research it a bit while I was there. Apparently, the statue is often identified as Eros because it looks like Cupid (known as the God of Sensual Love). What I found out  is that it was intended to be his twin, Anteros, the God of Selfless Love. It was created as a tribute to the philanthropic efforts of the 7th Earl of Shaftsbury. I love figuring out this stuff and I thought this story was pretty wild.

Next stop, Carnaby Street

Being as enamored of the whole ‘Sixties’ thing as I am, I had to pay a visit to Carnaby Street in the Soho district. This was the place to be in the Sixties, the fashion and music center. Not only did designers like Mary Quant hang out there, but so did The Beatles, The Small Faces, The Who and The Stones. They played at the Marquee Club, then just hung out and socialized or went shopping on Carnaby.

I’m not that big into fashion and never really have been. I guess the U.S. equivalent of Carnaby would be Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, which had a feel I like much better. It wasn’t so glitzy and trendy. It was more counterculture…less “mod” and more “hippie.” Still, Carnaby was interesting to see and, as it turns out, although completely unplanned I visited during their sixties celebration.

Greenwich Mean Time and British food

One of the more mundane trips we made (and I can’t even remember actually where this is kept) was to see the clock by which all others are set in the world. You know, it’s the whole Greenwich Mean Time thing. There wasn’t much to see there, with the possible exception of the observatory. However, eating in this little slice of heaven provided the best example of why you should never eat anything prepared by the British.

They had these little mini apple pies at one restaurant we went to. It is rare that I eat apple pie (or any kind of pie for that matter), but it just so happens that this pie was supposed to be the restaurant’s calling card. I decided to try it. They put it down in front of me piping hot and it smelled great. Really. Then, just as I was about to dig in, the waiter leaned over me and poured this disgusting hot vanilla pudding over the top of the pie. So much for that idea. Never, my friends, eat British cooking. I don’t care how desperate you are.

Coming home

Generally speaking, there’s always some kind of excitement around me and airports. At the time we took this trip, there had been some kind of terrorist attack against a U.S. property somewhere in the Middle East. I can’t remember exactly where it was or what it was. That meant that flying was tricky.

Miss Headcase’s mom was a real estate agent. She was really good at it. I’ve always said she could probably sell shit to a fly for a profit. She had a great personality, which is one of the reasons she and I remained friends until her untimely death. On this trip, she had decided to buy silver bars. Somehow, she left one in one of the carry on bags I was holding. When we got to the scanner, it immediately registered on the screen and the bonehead observing the inside of the bag assumed it was a bomb. Need I say more?

WTF?