A few weeks ago (better late then never on this blog right???) I left Jordan for eight days of rest and relaxation in England. I went to go experience Premier League football and the British pub culture, something that I missed the first time I went to London with my family in 2001. My older brother Jake took “holiday” and met me in London.
Part One: Culture Shock
March 8, 2013
Amman, Jordan 5:46 a.m.
Two muscle guys with British accents sit directly behind me on the plane. One has a tattoo of a rose on his left bicep, the symbol of England’s rugby team. I can’t understand a word of what they are saying. This trip could be very interesting if I don’t know what the heck is being said. I can understand Arabic enough, but I had no idea British English would be harder. I was greeted with “Cheers,” by the British flight attendant; I said “Sabh al kheir,” Arabic for Good Morning.
8:01 a.m. London time
We are beginning our decent and the British guys behind me are talking about Ginger Wally. I am not sure what this is slang for, but I know that I have arrived in somewhere very different.
8:24 a.m.
I nearly trip while on a moving walkway as I stare at two girls with blonde hair. Welcome back to the Western World!
9:38 a.m.
On the Heathrow connect to Paddington Station, which takes you through West London neighborhoods that look so British. Houses tightly packed together like any city, but they have a distinct foreign look in an industrial looking area. The weather is a beautiful gray with puddles and some raindrops from earlier showers. This sure as shit ain’t Jordan. And looks exactly like London should; just like every other passenger. I don’t know what exactly that look means, but they look “different.” I guess I am preparing for a little culture shock. I am used to the Middle East and right now I feel like my eyes are as wide as dinner plates. In 17 minutes above ground on the train I have seen more industry than in all of Jordan in two months. I have gone from a country with a King on the money, to a country with a Queen on the money. Except in the former, the King still rules.
11:07 a.m.
Aimlessly walking around the neighborhood around Paddington after several cups of coffee just getting a feel for the city. I have a day to kill before Jake arrives and I don’t have anything else planned but relaxing and adjusting. A policewoman on a horse walks past me. This place is so weird.
11:31 a.m.
First pint of Guinness at a pub, a 19.2 ounce Imperial Pint of a creamy beer that is just delicious. I picked up a copy of The Times and read the many pages of soccer coverage. Heaven on Earth.
12:20 p.m.
I order another Guinness and an order of fish & chips with mushy peas. I really enjoy this little sports pub that I’ve stumbled upon. A few other people are drinking and enjoying a rainy early afternoon. I love the quality of the writing on a peace about the previous nights Tottenham-Inter Milan Europa League match: “It was not just Bale, though, who menaced them on this occasion. Kyle Walker breezed past Juan Jesus and Alcaro Pereira on Inter’s left flank as though they were but spectators; Gargno, a yapping little terrier, could not so much as nip at Mousa Dembele’s heels.” The chips are crisp, fish is good cod, and peas are mushy.
By 1:30 p.m.
I arrive at my hotel. I check in, lie down in the bed, and drift in and out of sleep. I then take one of the greatest showers I have ever had. After two months of waiting an hour for the water to heat up my water so I can take a shower, instant hot water with intense water pressure is amazing.
That Night
I pub hope going to a few different places and try different kinds of beer. I have my first meat pie, a steak and ale variety in a place next to Euston Station and chat with an older man about football and cricket.
I have a few chats with other strangers, partly because I can not help but strike up conversation, also because I am having a hard time adjusting and am starring at people. They are all amazed that I am studying in the Middle East and have a hard time understanding why I chose to study there. I am having a harder time understanding what they are saying to me. English is spoken enough around AMIDEAST that I still hear it everyday, but English English is a whole different animal.
After a few more pints I am exhausted from jet lag and ready for sleep. Tomorrow is a huge day: my 21st birthday, my first premier league game, and the first time I will see a family member in two months.
Day Two: Extra Cold Edition
March 9, 2013:
7 a.m.
I am up early, jet legged (Amman is three hours ahead of London) but well rested. I lay in my bed a little while longer before taking another exceptional shower for an exceptionally long time, one of the best birthday presents I have ever received.
8:03 a.m.
A free breakfast buffet and a copy of The Times. Almost ordered my morning coffee in Arabic. The man to my right is Nottingham Forrest kit. A good start.
By 9 a.m.
I see a familiar face coming through the door: JAKE! A sight for sore eyes on my birthday. He looks good, but terribly jetlagged. A quick shower and our first drink of the day—some lovely scotch—before Jake grabs breakfast and we head to West London and Loftus Road for QPR-Sunderland.
11:44 a.m.
On the Tube to game:
Jake: “I have no idea what it is going to be like.”
Me: “Do we stand?”
While on the tube, we did read some nice poetry. Seriously.
12:10 p.m.
We have arrived at our first English pub before the game. Not terribly crowded at this pre-match place, mind you, three hours before kickoff. Jake made a terrible mess of entering the pub, showing a security guard (which I presumed was there to maintain order) his American drivers license. He seemed beyond confused, his face saying, “Why is this guy showing me this ID?” It is 18 to drink in London and neither of us looks 18.
12:22 p.m.
Jake: “Do they allow women in pubs?”
12:38 p.m.
On TV everybody is waiting to watch Everton play Wigan in a 6th round FA Cup game at 1 p.m. Everybody he is here to watch football, talk football, and drink beer. Most are not wearing any of the teams colors colours whatsoever. The exact opposite to American sports where you go to a game in your teams gear only. Is this due to the violent mentality that still hovers over English football?
1:01 p.m.
Me: “I think there are 10 women here and six of them are working behind the bar.”
1:03 p.m.
Me: “This is a lot more bald friendly country than Jordan.”
Jake: “What do you mean?”
Me: “There are a lot more bald people here.”
1:06 p.m.
The Cranberries song “Zombie” is playing in the bar.
Jake: “We’ll it’s good to note the music hasn’t changed since the 1992 inception of the Premier League.”
1:07 p.m.
One of the six women bartenders is now singing along to Zombie.
1:55 p.m.
Three bobbies walk through the pub. Nobody pays much attention to them. Jake and I wonder what was the issue? We assume just to check on the supporters from both clubs drinking together in one pub. And we are reminded this will not be an average sporting event.
2:08 p.m.
We are asked by our two new friends—supporters of Sunderland and older men—about our feelings of the team Wolverhampton, better known as Wolves. “Sentimental. Sympathetic.” They answer the question about wearing colors: comes down to the fan base. Some wear colors, others don’t.
2:19 p.m.
We are really enjoying the beers of London. We have tasted several delicious beers, but have been sticking with Carling’s Extra Cold variety. A light beer that seems to be looked down upon and is served Extra Cold—which only means the beer is three degrees colder than normal.
2:45 p.m.
We have arrived at Loftus Road. We walked with the supporters through a odd looking turnstile and into a old stadium that holds around 19,000.
Loftus Road
3:00 p.m.
Kickoff has arrived. We are so excited! Oh wait. These teams are crap. Nevermind that. We are THERE!
3:55 p.m.
Half time QPR 1-Sunderland 1. Jake and I enjoy a half time pint and split our first British meat pie. We have to hurry with the pint, because you can’t drink inside the stands but only in the concourse. You can’t bring anything out to the ground you might throw on the pitch.
4:15 p.m.
We have begun to chat with the Scottish supporter in front of us and tell him that our Great Grandfather was from Aberdeen, Scotland. He responds: “Ohhh Aberdeen. Well their sheep shaggers.”
(Our new friend then goes to the bathroom and misses this score. Filmed by me.)
4:47 p.m.
QPR 3-Sunderland 1. We head to a pub called the Springbok and have a celebratory pint with all of the giddy QPR supporters. Outside of the stadium twenty or so police sit watching from their horses.
8:00 p.m.
Exhausted, dehydrated, and our breath wreaking of beer, we sleep on our train to Liverpool for tomorrows match.
11:14 p.m.
Jake and I arrive at the hostel. Drop our bags down and walk five minutes to Anfield, where Liverpool play football. We have to see the ground the first chance we get. We have made it to our holy site.
Shawarma for Breakfast 