No Fucking Clash References Included

Went to meet Rob in London for the long weekend to check out the Bike Film Festival and the bike polo championship, which was truly bloody lovely & glorious gorgeous. Seriously, I felt like this guy from that Hobbit shite, when Merlin shrunk his beard and all. Bookstores where the poetry section outperforms the cookbook section in terms of area, GOOD food at nearly any time of the day or night, people involved in their community – not just their job. Seriously thought of giving up my high-profile career as a receptionist at Gattaca and learning how to shave kebabs or something.

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The BFF was dilettantish entertaining, but one of those actions that makes me think, “hey, this is a great action, but why am I not outside riding my bike instead of sitting inside watching people ride their bikes on a screen?” Fundamental flaw, fellas, back to the screening room. The shorts section was a ton of fun, despite the fact that the organizer sat behind me and talked the whole time at his unmistakably American volume. After the guy blew up at one of the managers of the Barbican for warning him not to bring open bottles into the theater, I was already about to denounce him for douchebaggery, but this took the pegged jean. We realize you’ve seen the films before, beefcake, now shut the fuck up so the poor plebes who paid 10 quid to get into your screening can enjoy them too. In between bouts of  retarded caterwauling, I managed to see a cool short about Ciocc, some nice alleycatting through New York and a truly “American Movie”  effort film about Scraper Bikes in LA. Listening to the founder of scraper bikes talking about how he wanted to get straight with his financials and take it to the next level and live in comfort, I got that weird feeling most closely associated with Canadian Irony and was nearly sick.

The weekend of bike porn continued the next day with the Bike Polo championships. Now, It has been my dream for many moons to travel the silk route. No, not BSNYC’s Bohemian Beer Garden (run by a Russian who claims to be from Kladno) to Coney Island stretch, but the actual historical hipster silk road, which spans from Highgate Wood to Brixton via Borough Market. The polo tournament, in this sense, was a dream come true. I stumbled from the tube stop clutching my Oyster card and iPhone, blinking away the bright sunshine just in time to spot a London hipster cruise by on his fixie, polo mallet strapped to the top tube with a couple of shoelaces. A second later, I was wondering what might have fallen into my Kebab the night before, as another IDENTICAL hipster cruised by on an identical bike, carrying an identical mallet. No need for the Google Map, I suppose, just follow the playaz.

All hipsterism aside, the teams were super cool people. There was some healthy heckling, some phenomenal playing and some hard fought victories. A beautiful, sunny day helped things along, as did a few hundred cans of Grolsch – London’s equivalent of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The skillz were mad and the heat was on. We loved “Polo Fiasco”, “Netto”, “Zombie United”, “The Oxford Guys Wearing the Green Shirts”, “Sparkle Motion”, “Cosmic” and Manchester. These guys and gals were pros and moves were made all day long.

The thing finally wrapped up around 9pm, when a few local spastics (chavs, they call them there, I think) tried to steal someone’s bike. Now honestly, how stupid can you be to try and steal a bike from the middle of a crowd of 200+ bikers? If there’s a meter, Sparky done broke it. When Rob and I left, the reckless youth was still in a shouting match with a massive guy from Manchester, who looked like he’d “rather be bow hunting”, as the saying goes. The clock was running on his shouting for sure.

After the polo, Rob and I rolled up to the local mosque (London is ENTIRELY Islamic now, so you American haters can suck my wife’s burqa) and popped off a few rounds. It was all good. Can’t wait to get back over there. Look. Three hundred words or so about London and not a single Clash reference to be found. Go ahead and find one, I dare you.

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Bringing the love back to Honza

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In Kentucky, this is how the squirrels get theirs

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~ by themicah on October 1, 2009.

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