Rule #11 - Train Narcolepsy is also a no-no...

I suppose it's a good thing that I can't claim this story as my own, but I think this is simply too funny not to share...

Helpful Background Information -- There is a group of us that started out as just a few UGA alumni getting together to watch what usually turned out to be hugely disappointing football games and has grown into a hilariously random assortment of fun-loving American expatriots (representatives from Georgia x 4, California, New Jersey, Texas, Indiana, & New York) with a French guy, a Spanish guy, and a Scottish guy (who is 23 and wears Rockports, has not even a HINT of a Scottish accent, and used the word "y'all" in an e-mail last week!) thrown into the mix for good measure. Our core football network has grown to include roommates, co-workers, friends of friends, etc. It's lovely. Anyway, the group typically goes out together on Fridays and Saturdays, and lately, we've been getting together at New Jersey Joe's flat on Sunday nights to watch the NFL playoffs and laugh about the shenanigans that we got into over the weekend. Then, on Monday mornings, Adam (the original Bulldog football host) sends out a group e-mail recapping the latest happenings, and the e-mail chain carries on until the next weekend, when the silliness starts all over again.

The following hilarious story is an e-mail from last week's chain, authored by our Sunday Night Football host, New Jersey Joe. Joe is everything you want a yankee to be. He's brooding and sarcastic and looks and talks a bit like Robert Dinero does in 'Goodfellas.' However, despite the accent and the fact that he loves the Yankees, he's definitely one of the nicer people I've met since I've been here, and he's a lot of fun. What makes this story even more amusing is that he's not a crazy 22 year old frat boy...he's got a graduate degree from Princeton, he works at some big important investment bank here, and he's getting married in 2 months. And here is what happened to him last Thursday night...

"Okay, so I hit a new low in London last night.

A couple of drinks after work turned into a late night bender with multiple beers, Sambuca shots (I don’t recommend this), and no dinner eaten, so I got hammered. I managed to catch a midnight Jubilee line train out of Canary Wharf and figured I could grab something to eat at Baker Street. I remember making it to Green Park station, just two stops away from home, and thinking about how great a kebab would be.

Next thing I know I am being shaken by two Underground employees who are telling me I must wake up and get off the train. Staggering to my senses, I find myself in a place I have never been before – Wembley Stadium. I think it might be in Zone 17, and it’s just shy of 1 am, so no more trains are running (WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS CITY!!!????). I have exactly £2.50 in left my pocket and there are no banks or ATMs in sight. In my condition I get the grand idea that I can walk home, despite not having any maps or knowing only vaguely what direction I am facing. Within 10 minutes I am hopelessly lost, sobering rapidly, and realizing just how freaking cold it is. I backtrack to the stadium, which is the only landmark I can see.

I try to call the only taxi company whose number I have to see if they will accept credit cards – they do not answer. I now notice that there are 5 missed calls from my fiancée, who is flying into London today. She rings again and I have to explain to her that I am stranded at Wembley stadium at 1 am because I passed out on the last train and I’m not sure how to get home. She finds this incredibly amusing.

I attempt to figure out the night bus, and a helpful guy standing at the bus stop tries to explain the 5 transfers I must make to get back to Baker Street . Given my previous struggles with the night buses (as Faith can attest), I think about walking home again. I head off in a new direction, and as luck would have it, I find a Premier Travel Inn near the stadium. I go into the lobby and figure I will get a room and just take an early train the next morning to go home before work. Miraculously, this travel inn happens to have an ATM in the lobby, and to make a long story even longer, I am able to get cash and have reception call me a cab (which by the way only cost £15 from Wembley - less than we paid from Angel to Baker Street at 2am two weeks ago).

The moral of the story is this: don’t pass out on the last train in London when you have spent all your cash.

More importantly, despite my raging hangover and chuckling fiancée, I am still fired up about going out Saturday night in South Kenyonton . So let’s all throw on our dark jeans and meet at the Dreyton Arms, followed by the Eclipse. Maureen will be out with me and is looking forward to meeting everyone - you can join her in heaping scorn upon me for my unfortunate bout of narcolepsy."

Footnotes, in case anyone cares to keep reading and wants clarification -- There are 6 zones on the Underground. Central London is Zone 1, out to Heathrow, which is in Zone 6...therefore, 'Zone 17' would probably be in Scotland somewhere. The fact that he was pondering a kebab just before zonking out on the train is classic. Joe LOVES this late night London staple and is always the one looking for the nearest open kebab shop when we're meandering home at 4 am. I can attest to his night bus troubles because his flat is about a 10 minute walk from mine, so we usually brave the STUPID late night transportation system together. A couple weeks ago, after waiting, in the rain, for a bus for close to 45 minutes, we gave up and decided to cab it. It ended up costing us almost 20 pounds to get what couldn't have been 5 miles in a taxi. This city makes absolutely no sense. As for the last paragraph, South Kenyonton = South Kensington, the neighborhood home of Jeremy Kenyon, our Texas representative. The knock on South Kent is that it's the snobbiest area around, and, according to Zagat Jeremy, some of the bars require that you wear 'dark jeans.' We actually had to walk past a Lamborghini dealership and a Ferrari/Maserati dealership to get to the pub. Rough neighborhood, huh? Oh, and Maureen is Joe's super cool fiance who is here for the next month or so. She arrived last Friday, came out with us Saturday and has completed her initiation into the group. She's actually making chili and chicken wings right now for our normal food/normal fooball Super Bowl shindig this evening. We love her already!

I'll write my own real blog in a day or two, but I thought Joe's story was funny enough to pass along. In the meantime, I have to go write my dissertation proposal (that's due tomorrow at noon, after the game won't be over until probably 4 am...great) and head over to watch the football game. I'll be back with stories and pictures from Spain later this week though! :)

Hasta luego...