A cross-dressing nun called Transister

Kanye West, here’s an update for you. The word ‘invisible’ does not rhyme with the word ‘invincible.’ (Another update? You are neither.)

I love to see a grown man walking down Oxford Street eating a Belgian waffle with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I love even more to see that same grown man’s chin, nose, and cheeks covered in ice cream as if he were a 3-year-old with no inhibitions about shovelling dessert into his face. Wear that ice cream proud, sir.

Walking down the busiest street in the world filled with flocks of tourists is usually a painful experience for me. But studying (i.e. laughing at) human beings’ behavior in their natural habitat (i.e. within proximity to schlock-y stores and Chinese takeaway stands) more than makes up for it. Like when that one girl bumped shoulders with that other woman and she kept walking but quite obviously mumbled ‘bitch’ under her breath.

Lisa to Apple employee Pearce: “Is there any way to add songs to a current playlist on an iPod?”
Pearce: “Can you move to the iPod station over here? I’m not allowed to move from this spot.”
Lisa: “Okaaaaaay.” (Moves 1 foot to the right)
Pearce: “So, what can I do for you?”
Lisa: “I want to know if it’s possible to add an artist to a current playlist on an iPod.”
Pearce: “If you click the center button, it will play the selected artist.”
Lisa: (Realizing I need to put this in his terms so that maybe he’ll start answering the questions I’m asking) “Okay, say I’m listening to COLDPLAY but I want to also listen to THE BEATLES. How would I do that?”
Pearce: “Ah, okay. Well, say you’re listening to X&Y…that’s an album by Coldplay…if you click Play, it will play all the songs from that album. If you click on The Beatles, it will play Beatles songs.”
Lisa: (Thinking “Oh my God, my mother knows more about iPods than this man”) “Is there any way to create a playlist that crosses artists though?”
Pearce: “Sure, on iTunes you can create playlists. If you want to create a playlist for a party, you can choose the songs you want to hear and set them as your ‘Party Playlist’.”
Lisa: (About to shove the iPod up his British nose) “Right. I know about creating playlists on iTunes. But can I do that on an actual iPod?”
Pearce: “Oh on an iPod? No. You can’t do that.”

This weekend was the Glastonbury music festival. It’s about as big here as Woodstock was in America, except it happens every year. I suppose you could compare it to Bonnaroo these days, but with more people, normally more rain and mud, and more skinny jeans. Saturday afternoon I caught Amy Winehouse’s performance on BBC2. Okay. Here’s the thing. I used to feel sorry for this chick. She has genuine talent and put out a couple good albums, but the media won’t let up on her for a second just because of a few mere things like crack pipes, anorexia, domestic violence, and an incarcerated husband. But I really thought she was undeservedly being crapped on. Until I watched this show. Holy moly that girl has issues! I’m sure you heard about the highlight of her performance when she repeatedly punched a fan (in her defense, they are claiming he grabbed one of her knockers). But what you may not have heard about is Amy:
- Calling Kanye West a cunt
- Fiddling non-stop (and non-soberly) with the hem of her dress
- Shoving her boobs back into her strapless dress after each song
- Asking the audience to let her know if one of her “tits pops out”
- Holding up her beehive hairdo so that it wouldn’t fall over
- Running at pretty high speeds across the stage in heels that were not made for a 95-pound drunk girl
- Flubbing her entrance on “Rehab,” stopping the band, and starting over again
- Confessing that Blake used to beat her with a cricket bat

All in all, it was a pretty decent set.

Ridiculously unlikely suspects (A guest blog)

Technically I don't have permission (yet) to re-print this email sent to me by Chris Wyman, but I have promised him a new container of lo mein if he has an issue with it. Actually, I'll probably end up buying him some Chinese noodles even if he doesn't have an issue with it. In any case, here's a fun story written by a man with self-proclaimed delicate and ladylike toes.

When I got home on Friday, I noticed that something in my kitchen smelled kind of funky. My roommate Tom has been off visiting relatives for a few weeks, and when left to my own devices I try to minimize the presence of perishable items in the apartment... so I was a little confused. I'd eaten Chinese take-out a few nights earlier, though, so maybe some decomposing lo mein was stuck to the bottom of one of the cartons and stinking up the garbage? I figured taking out the trash would get rid of the odor, and promptly did so.

The next morning, I meandered into the kitchen to discover that the smell was not only still present, but noticeably worse. A quick visual search of the fridge, cupboards, microwave, and stove revealed no suspects -- everything in sight was clean, non-perishable, or sealed in an airtight container, and no lingering remnants appeared to be stuck in the nooks and crannies. Naturally, I switched to following my nose, and carefully sniffed everything present, moving from likely suspects (like the drain in the kitchen sink and a pair of running shoes I'd left next to the radiator to dry) to ridiculously unlikely suspects that I felt the need to check "just in case" (like the paper-towel dispenser and a box of Cheerios).

Eventually, my nose reached the toaster -- or, more specifically, Tom's toaster. I do not own a toaster, nor had I ever used Tom's toaster. I'm not sure if I even know how to make toast. Like most normal people (or so I assume), if I want toast, I go to a restaurant. Moreover, this was a fairly new appliance -- Tom had received it as a christmas present, if memory serves. (I'm not sure how this fact entered into my reasoning over why the toaster couldn't possibly be the source of the bad smell... I guess I assumed that young toasters are less likely to "go bad," or that enough time hadn't passed for the toaster to have something rot-worthy entered into it?)

Well, in any event, I was wrong, because after one investigative sniff of the air around the toaster, I nearly fell over. Good LORD. There's only one thing in the universe that produces the ripe, charnel-tinted vapors that I had just inhaled, and that is our good, old-fashioned friend DEATH. Although no visual evidence could be produced to support my theory, it was clear to me that someone or something had crawled into Tom's toaster to die, and had done a pretty good job of it.

Since Tom is, like I said, on holiday, I decided to give his toaster a fair trial before executing it. Taking it apart to fish out the source of the odor was clearly out of the question, since this would involve occupying the same physical space as the toaster (and thus also its intolerable) smell for several minutes. Instead, I put a plastic bag over my hand, picked up the toaster, and ran outside, depositing the appliance under a lilac bush. Upon returning to the kitchen, the overall smell was worse, as if I had disturbed it, and it had become enraged -- but I was not deterred. The trial would continue.

The next morning, I confidently entered the kitchen and inhaled deeply. It smelled of dish soap, which is -- in fact -- one of several dozen acceptable smells for a kitchen to have, so I was pleased... but also saddened over what I knew had to happen next. I quickly found another two plastic bags for my hands (no sense in wasting a perfectly good pair of gloves, right?) and marched out to the lilac bush.

The cartoon version of events playing in my head expected the lilac to have wilted and browned over night from the presence of its new neighbor, but this was thankfully not the case. The toaster was still there, though, and it was attracting the interest of about a half-dozen flies. I don't remember what happened next, probably because I had resolved not to breathe once I had left the kitchen and was running out of oxygen, but I'm pretty sure it involved our apartment building's dumpster. When I came to my senses, I was back in the kitchen, searching desperately for a scented candle.

I learned many years ago (from Sesame Street, I think) that toasters, like ice cream cones and telephones, are not alive, and thus do not die. Also, I learned about two weeks ago that our apartment building has mice. So, naturally, I am operating under the impression that we are now short a toaster AND a mouse. Tom has yet to return from his vacation, but I have a feeling that when he returns, this whole story will end up costing me a trip to Target and about forty bucks. It will be money well spent, though, because I may be able to use this experience as evidence that we probably need to get a cat.

Abe Froman, Sausage King of Chicago

So here's something amusing. As you may know, advertisements are everywhere in London and double decker buses are certainly no exception. This picture shows the ad for the new Will Smith movie, Hancock. The first time I saw this I thought, "Someone has put something on Will's lip to make it look like he has herpes. Well, that's kinda funny I suppose. Serves 'em right for plastering such a huge picture of his face on a bus." But then I saw the same circle thingy on another Hancock bus. And that's when I thought, "Wow. They got that one too. That is dedication to the vandalism cause." But when I didn't see ANY Hancock buses without the STD-resembling circle, I started to wonder if there was something flawed with my thinking. So I started checking out other ads, and lo and behold, that circle was on all of them. (Unfortunately for the model, placed in a very embarrassing place on the Armani underwear ads.) You would think that the advertising people would take this bus "nubbin" into account when designing their public transportation ads. I'm just saying.

Further down the fence is a sign that says "IMPOLITE NOTICE - LOCK YOUR MOTHERFUCKING BIKE TO THIS MOTHERFUCKING RAILING AND YOU'RE DEAD, MOTHERFUCKER"

If I had all the money in the world I would buy this truck for my niece, Chana...she absolutely loves trucks. She also loves to wear flannel shirts, smoke Marlboro reds, listen to Loretta Lynn, and be referred to as Large Marge.

The back wall of a butcher shop. First of all, that's a lot of plastic bags. Not very eco-friendly are we, Mister Animal Slaughterer? Second of all, I'm pretty sure that if you open the tape deck of that boombox, you'll find a Culture Club tape.

I have no funny quip about this one. I just like the picture.

Still on a mission to singlehandedly bring back the side ponytail

You can't see it in this picture, but to the right is a Saint Bernard with a London Times in its mouth heading this way.

If this doesn't look like a relaxing summer afternoon to you, I don't know what would. (Okay maybe he could be eating an ice cream cone, but that would be overkill don't you think?)

A sign in Holland Park. If it were legal for a country to marry parks, I would be living in the land of Mr. and Mrs. Lovesparksalot. And Elton John would have sung at their civil partnership ceremony.

Here's a sign stating the obvious. Hidden on the left is a sign that says "TREE" with an arrow pointing to the right.

Here's what looks like a boring picture of old people...
The woman on the left is drinking some anti-oxidant pomegranate juice hoping it gets rid of her crows feet and finally makes her attractive to the 30 year old hunk in Corporate Accounting. The man in the blue sweater is talking about how his wife just spent £50,000 to renovate their kitchen which didn't need any sprucing up since she hasn't cooked a decent meal in her goddamn life. The woman in the yellow blazer is thinking that this 6th cup of wine won't be enough if he's going to keep talking about his whore of a wife and their kitchen. The man in the white jacket is thinking that it's been over 4 hours since he popped that blue pill and maybe he should consult his doctor. The couple on the right is talking about giraffes.
However, if you look closely, you will notice that on top of the brick wall is a blue blob. And wouldn't you know, that's a peacock!! They just roam free in Holland Park. It's amazing! (Not as amazing as old people's conversations, though.)

If I hustle, by Monday, I might even make it to Rhode Island

No short jokes, please. Also, it's been quite awhile since I've seen an adult do this pose, and I feel like I'm due for a showing.

I'm telling you. I could spend another 6 months in this city and still find new parks to explore every weekend. They just love their grass and flowers here. This one was found in Regent's Park.
If you go to a park in America, you might see a pick-up game of football, baseball, or frisbee. If you go to a park in London, you will definitely see a pick-up game of soccer and cricket. And kite flying, naturally. (I guess the Let's Go Fly A Kite song from Mary Poppins wasn't as random as I thought.)

Jamie Lynn Spears' baby's daddy is a pipe layer. I am not making that up.

Not too much going on. And so a couple snippets will have to suffice on this going-to-be-excruciatingly-long Friday.

I went to see a showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at an outside venue near Tower Bridge this week. It was the first time I had been to an audience participation show, but it sure as heck won't be the last. Except next time I'll be dressing up; now I just have to decide whether to wear a gold sequined hat, a ratty maid outfit, or a corset with garter straps.

Yesterday I overheard someone at work saying they had made a "school boy error." I was left wondering if this meant they had blinded someone with a slingshot, pulled a girl's pigtails, or hid a frog in the teacher's desk.

Like I said, it's been slow going. In the meantime, here's a picture of G's desk to keep you entertained. (Please pay special attention to the "figurines" on his monitor stand.)

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Within Holland Park there's a lovely Japanese garden complete with a waterfall, koi, and plenty of rocks arranged in a feng shui pattern, I'm sure. (Crap, feng shui is Chinese, not Japanese. I'm never going to hear the end of that one.) In order to take this picture, I disobediently Kept On The Grass.

At least one of you (okay, so technically ONLY one) has complained that I'm not sending pictures with ME in them. This is because ever since Camera and I became best friends, I am reluctant to hand him over to others to take my photo. Knowing my obsessive-compulsive behavior about "my things," I'm sure you can understand this. Here's one that Eric took after we ate lunch at the rooftop Members Only Lounge at the Tate Modern (just one of the perks of hanging out with him). Warning - hips may appear larger than they actually are.

And here is one from a Houston rodeo in 2003.

Here's a Globe Theatre actor/musician making a face that appears to imply something inappropriate about playing his skin flute.

I hope Jack Nicholson has heartburn all day today

Last night I walked around Holland Park and took a bunch of pictures that old people would like (flowers, statues, ponds, etc.). Here's one for all you grannies out there.

I love that there's some kid out there who's as fed up with her Crocs as the rest of the sane world is and has tried to hide them inconspicuously. (I assume it's a her and not a him for the child's sake.)

One of the marvellous things about summer in London that I will greatly miss is the fact that the sun is out from 5 in the morning until 10 at night. This picture was taken around 8:45 pm.

I don't know WHO Ian Collins is, but I certainly know WHAT he is.

I’m glad I didn’t throw out that Celtics hat I got in 1992

Unrelated to the Bard, pigeons, falafel, and sweat-accommodating clothing, I have two updates for you:

1) The jets from Monday’s pictures were for The Trooping of the Colour in celebration of the Queen’s birthday. I felt only slightly ignorant for being informed of this by someone living in Boston (thanks Brent!).

2) Oftentimes in my blog I will refer to people as “stupid,” “idiots,” or “insanely incompetent.” Sigh. It is with great sadness, and shock for you I’m sure, that I must now include myself in those categories. When I mocked the Freddie Mercury fans for inscribing the words “I still love you” on his door, I was not privy to the meaning behind this phrase and simply took the opportunity to further ridicule yellow-toothed Brits. It was not until my friend Ted, a contender for Freddie Mercury’s Biggest Fan, enlightened me that this lyric was dramatically expressed in video for “These Are The Days Of Our Lives,” the last video made by Queen; Freddie looked straight into the camera and all but whispered it. It is believed that this was his way of saying goodbye to his fans. Excuse me, waiter? I do believe I’ll have a slice of that humble pie.

My inane thoughts are slowly creeping into my dreams. And while the following dream I had is absolutely absurd, it might also be a brilliant idea:
I was supposed to get together with some guy to study (I’m pretty sure I will be having nightmares about academia until the day I die) but we had never met before so there was uncertainty as to how he would know who I was (for some reason I knew what HE looked like). I was standing near the bus stop waiting for him to arrive when I saw him get off a bus. Instead of looking around for me, he simply bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Lisaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” and waited for me to come to him.
So. Clearly I had this dream so I could relay to all of you a fantastic way of rendezvousing with a blind date, a client, or a middle-aged study buddy with a colossal red beard. (Please do not make insinuations about beards, my dad, and my dreams. That’s not necessary.)

A brief, yet crucial letter to the sports teams of Boston:
Dear Red Sox, Patriots, and Celtics,
Please stop winning championships when I am out of the country. It’s really not working out for me waking up at 3:30 in the morning to eye-flutter my way through your games. By all means, keep being awesome and winning. But please try to keep my schedule in mind when you do, okay?
XOXO,
Lisa

I'm definitely going to be in trouble for calling my mother a crazy, old hag

The stage. It was a nice gesture that they painted the ceiling so us paupers in the Yard could look up and have something nice to view.

The rich folks' seats. They actually weren't that plush; you could rent a cushion for £1 so that your backside wouldn't have to suffer the unforgiving wooden bench for hours. Maybe standing wasn't so bad.
Here is Eric sitting before the show. When I went back to stand next to him, I found that he had been singing to himself, securing himself as my favorite person in London.
After the show we walked along the river towards Tower Bridge. I expressed my fears about the Thames, large bodies of water, and large things in general. Buoys included. I pointed at these orange ones and told him that I found them to be quite petrifying. He told me I was being silly considering we could crush them. And then he did for me.

Tea at a cafe. Right before his iPhone rang, I was fiddling around with it and decided that maybe people who sell their souls to Apple for gadgets like that aren't so bad after all. I NEED ONE!!!!!!!

Is it wrong that I just kept picturing Gwyneth Paltrow as a man?

Secret identities, gouged-out eyeballs, names like Cordelia, Regan, Edgar and Edmond, strangulation, sword fights, bastard sons, a character named The Fool, sororicide, and more “whilsts,” “thees,” “eres,” and “betwixts” than you can shake a stick at. You know what it all means, don’t you? Why Shakespeare, my good friends! King Lear at the Globe Theatre to be specific. I know, I know, I might as well wear a t-shirt that says “London’s #1 Tourist!” But I had to go. It’s just something that needed to be done in London.

Life advice #88 – If you aren’t familiar with a Shakespeare play, for heaven’s sake, buy the Cliffsnotes, read Wikipedia, ask your mother, or call up your 10th grade English teacher for a synopsis before you go see it. This will avert spending 3 hours standing in the Yard thinking ridiculous notions such as:
“Wow. Those costumes have mesh holes at the armpits. What a great idea! We should totally incorporate that into today’s fashion.”
Or.
“Those pigeons are definitely gonna crap on my head. They keep flying over me and there’s no way I’m lucky enough to walk away from this without a huge green and white glob on my shoulder. What do I do if it does happen? Do I ignore it? What if people look at me? Oh God! What if the actors look at me?”
Or.
“I am SO sick of standing. £5 for a ticket is great, but 3+ hours standing in one place? I don’t think I can make it. There is only so much shifting back and forth I can do. Were they serious when they warned us beforehand that we couldn’t sit down?”

Shakespeare. Sure he’s a brilliant guy. But oh boy is he good at making me, not to mention those other ditzy-looking American tourists, feel unbelievably dumb for not being able to understand our own language. Having said/complained that, I really did have a great time; even if I was dangerously close to being spat on by the actors who approached the edge of the stage.

One last thing. I would like to point out that my mother quite frequently reminds me of her favorite King Lear quote: “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.” I don’t believe she actually deems this true, though. That crazy, old hag will say anything.

I had porridge for breakfast. It was surprisingly delicious. And mushy.

Sometimes I am amazed at the things I stumble upon in this city. Saturday I was walking along the river after a somewhat successful day of testing in the office (this time my computer actually decided to work!) and all of a sudden there were a whole bunch of jets in formation flying above. I'd say there were about 10 or so different groups of them. I have no idea what they were, why they were doing fly-over's in London, or whether they were headed towards Kate Middleton's backyard.

I got bored waiting for the Tube, so I started taking pictures of things.
They didn't look that heavy to me; maybe they're just retaining water.
I don't know if you heard about this or not, but this is a telescope that sees from London to New York. It's rising up through the ground here in London right in front of Town Hall. When I saw people looking into the lens and waving, I turned to Eric and said, "Wait, a minute, they can actually see people in New York? I thought it was just a prop?" To which he replied, "Yes, they actually built a telescope that goes through the middle of the Earth and when you look in, you can see straight through to America." Touche, Eric. Touche. (Just to clarify, there's a camera on both telescopes so you actually can see each other. But as Tenacious D would say, we don't have the technology yet to build a telescope through the Earth's core.)
Saturday was the World Naked Bike Ride in London. It was pretty much what it sounds like - naked people riding bikes through the city of London. In case you can't read what the pamphlet says, the mission of the ride was to: Protest Against Oil Dependency; Curb Car Culture; Celebrate Body Freedom. Oh and yes, that IS an image of E.T. in the upper right hand corner. I staked out a good spot on a park bench right at the beginning in Hyde Park and took as many pictures as possible without seeming too perverted (mission probably not accomplished). Clearly I can't send you the pictures I took of the ride because I'm pretty sure I would get fired for that. So if you want to see some funny-yet-disturbing pictures of naked people riding bikes, go to the blog (www.lisashoshana.blogspot.com) as I've posted some there.

Nudity and Bikes! (Part 2)

The hat makes the outfit.

The view from behind (pun intended) wasn't any better...

Good thing this guy wore a disguise. No one even had an inkling it was Denzel Washington.
You want 2 cd's?
Unicycles! Mantinis! I can't really think of anything that would top this.

Nudity and Bikes! (Part 1)

This dude fell right at the beginning of the ride. Falling off a bike isn't a graceful thing to begin with; so the fact that he was naked only added to the overall awkwardness of the situation.


Okay, so this guy wasn't naked. But how could I not take a picture of a guy dressed as a gorilla riding a bike while sitting in a leather chair? Come to think of it, I think I saw that image on a Rorschach test the other day.

This was one of two pregnant women I saw on the ride. I love the message written on her belly. Also, she looks a little like Jane Montossi, no?

This is a situation where fanny packs come in quite handy, don't you think?

I can't imagine how much work went into this get-up. Also, tandem bikes added a whole new layer to the Naked Bike Ride.

Approximately 100% of the time

They told me I couldn't bring my triton to go fishing. "You'll never catch any trout that way," they said. Oh really? Well how's this for you guys? Not only have I caught 4 trout and 2 bass, but I haven't taken this crown off in 37 hours. Not to mention my incredibly muscular thighs which I think simply intimidate the fish into dying for me.

You want to know my talent? I suppose it's a valid question for the Mr. Scotland pageant to pose. Let's see...where shall I begin? I know all Aaron Neville's songs by heart, I can ride a unicycle, I make a shepherd's pie that makes your mother's look like dog food, I rock this drum major hat like it's my friggin' job, I can dismantle and assemble my rifle in 97 seconds flat, I wear a size XXL kilt, cats fear me, I can say "Let down the drawbridge" in 5 different languages, I once recited Top Gun in its entirety, and I scored a 1370 on the SAT's. Is that enough for you, gentlemen? Now please hand me my tiara, I have a 4 o'clock trolley to catch.

I know I was paid 400 shillings to pose for this (What the hell is a shilling anyway? How many pints can I buy with 400 of them?), but I have a couple gripes. First of all, I have a no nudity clause. And, if I'm not mistaken, I do believe that's my right nipple showing. Second of all, my receding hairline isn't that bad, is it? You couldn't take some liberties with that and cut me some slack? And finally, I thought I was just holding a copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for "scaling purposes." I didn't actually think you'd include it in the final sculpture!!! But this is still okay. I only have one request - change the name on the base of the sculpture from Kirk Cameron to Hume so people don't know it's me.
This is bullshit! I know the rules of war statues - a man on a horse with all 4 legs on the ground died at home, a man on a horse with one leg in the air was wounded in battle, and a man on a horse with only his rear legs on the ground died in battle. But what the HELL does it mean when there's a man sitting on a horse and his face is absolutely covered in bird shit and the horse is spotlessly clean? Are the birds targeting me? What did I ever do to them? For the love of all that is holy, it looks like I'm crying poo!
Cindy: You said 4:30!
William: You heartless wench, I told you I was working late and wouldn't be able to pick them up until 7!
Cindy: This is SO like you, William. Every time I have something to do and ask you to take care of the kids, you come up with some excuse and ruin everything!
William: Well maybe if you hadn't pushed for custody and acted like a total bitch in the courtroom we wouldn't be in this position!
Cindy: Don't blame me for this, William. Don't you DARE blame ME when I wasn't the one sleeping with my secretary.
William: Whatever, Cindy. Just give me Lucy and Joe. We're going to Chuck E. Cheese.

In which Lisa finds where the frat boys of London are

So you remember that guy on a sticker whose picture I took way back in my first week here? I said I didn’t know who he was and made fun of his hair. I’ll refresh your memory:

That’s Boris Johnson. He’s the new mayor of London. And yes, his hair still looks like that. He recently beat out Ken Livingston, who had been mayor in town for quite some time, for the position; you probably read about the elections over in America, or, if you live in England, you probably went down to your local Ladbrokes and put a tenner on who you think would win. Well it was Boris. And one of the first things he did as mayor of this town was to instate a new law that prohibits drinking on public transportation. That’s right…prior to June 1, you could sip on some gin and juice while riding the Bakerloo line, chug a Magners on a 390 bus to Oxford Street, or guzzle Johnny Walker Black on the DLR train to London Bridge. So you can imagine the chagrin the drunks, the under-25 London population, and recently-laid-off people felt when they heard about this new law. But they weren’t going to take this one lying down, or passed out in a Soho doorway as the case may be. Oh no. They would go out with a bang. With, of course, a little help from something I like to call Facebook.

A couple weeks leading up to “Tube Day” as it was called, multiple Facebook groups were started with the sole intention of forming a party on the Underground like no Underground has ever seen before. Boris could take away their drinking rights after June 1, but Saturday May 31 would still be theirs. And so messages were sent, posted, and forwarded to more than 15,000 people and pretty soon there wasn’t a dude-mush in the city who didn’t have plans that Saturday to buy a case of Bud heavy, grab their funnel, and make their way to the nearest Circle Line station to revel in the last moments of acceptable public boozing.

But the geniuses behind the London transportation system would not be intimidated. Sure, they were aware of the impending debauchery about to be laid at their feet, but somehow they trusted the public to behave themselves and so, in all their wisdom, they did not increase the amount of employees scheduled to work that night. Well, I’m sure you all know where this is going, so let me just enlighten you with some statistics of the night:

Liverpool station closed due to overcrowding
Baker Street station closed due to overcrowding
Euston station closed due to overcrowding
Euston Square station closed due to overcrowding
Aldgate station closed due to overcrowding
Gloucester Road station closed due to overcrowding
17 arrests
4 Tube drivers assaulted
3 other members of staff assaulted
2 police officers assaulted
50 staff verbally abused or spat at
Quote from a random dude-mush: “There were people’s sweaty armpits in my face but I didn’t care because I was drinking.”
Quote from The London Times: “But what started as a happy drinking session descended into chaos as drunken revellers jammed stations, fought, vomited and damaged trains.”

I’m not saying I’m the world’s smartest person (though a case can certainly be made), but even I saw this one coming from a mile away. Oh, and while there were no statistics reported about the increase in the amount of urine found in the stations, I’m sure you can all take a stab at it.

Here are some more visuals for you: