Days 11 and 12, Friday and Saturday October 21st-22nd, 2011.

Slang of the day: barm. Origin: Probably England, I don’t know. Definition: A bun with flour on it. Used in a sentence: I had a sausage barm for dinner in Manchester.

I had the whole day to kill before my bus to Manchester, so  I went to the Albert Dock in downtown Liverpool and enjoyed The Beatles Story, the only museum/attraction you really have to pay for in Liverpool. But when in Liverpool, it’s kind of a must, and I got a discount from staying at the Embassie. I’m a big Beatles fan, so basically the biography/history of the Beatles with some cool artifacts was right up my alley. Nothing shocking or much new information I didn’t already know, but a couple hours of Beatles music and history helped ease the hangover.

Then I got a bag of chicken nuggets at Tesco (basically a kind of British Wal-Mart that I’ll get to know intimately) for a pound and wasted time until the bus. I used megabus (megabus.com), a really cheap bus company throughout England (I think it also has buses in the US and Canada). It was 2 pounds 50 for the 2 hour trek, which I actually didn’t even pay, because Bank of America froze my credit card due to suspicious transactions for the second time. Not only do I work for them but I called them and told them I’d be in England. Nice work. So, while my reservation number worked, it was another hour of nervous tension in my life I could’ve done without.

I was working my way to York and Durham up North, and Jimmy (the Aussie from Bath) was in Manchester through the weekend so I thought I’d meet up with him before, getting a chance to see more of England.

Okay, this post has been boring, so I’ll fast forward to drinking. Jimmy and I go to a kinda upscale restaurant/club called Tiger Tiger across the street from The Birdcage, which was bustling due to half off alcohol during happy hour. We order two jugs of Long Island Iced Tea’s, which do the trick. We’re joined at our table by two middle aged women. Neither attractive, and one a monstrous (in every sense of the word) version of Snooki. It was her birthday, and they were enjoying champagne. She was nuts, but seemed like she’d be a fun guide around Manchester, which she offered (we were planning on doing a pub crawl before the offer). We assume they are meeting up with friends, which would improve the outlook considerably. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.

We follow them to another bar/club where I’m denied entry due to my “trainers.” I only brought one pair of shoes aside from my senior flip flops (senior in High school, mind you), a pair of cross training tennis shoes I figured would be the most versatile. But I had been in a lot better clubs than this in London and other places with no trouble at all, but for some reason, Manchester hates trainers. The girls went into the bar, leaving us, which was a blessing.

We find ourselves back to Tiger Tiger where we dance with randoms all night. I chat up a elementary school teacher with freckles, but that’s about it. We also crash a hen party and play with their blow up doll (hen = bachelorette, stag = bachelor) in a creepy 80s room of the club.

To top the shit night off, we go to a strip club (we got free entry!). English strip clubs are weird. No dance stage, just girls that come up to you in booths. They also weren’t very attractive. I told one I wasn’t going to buy a lapdance from her within minutes. She literally smelled like rubbish.

Weird fucking night. I only get lost once on the way home. I’m combining the two days, because, I’ll be honest, not a ton of interesting things happen. Sorry.

The next day, Jimmy and I explore Manchester, going to a free Pacific Science Center-like tent thing called Bang! and the museum of industry, which was actually pretty cool, and proved pretty convincingly that 5 year old children can outperform hungover 20-somethings in science hands-on puzzlers. From there we get strawberry beer at a placed called Taps, a brilliant bar with taps at each table, so you can serve yourself. It’s dangerous and expensive, but we had to try it. I also heard about two other brilliant bars: one that has taps on the tables but it keeps track of how much beer each table is drinking and updates the amount on the wall and shows the whole bar, so every one is competing against each other. Yeah, I don’t think the U.S. will allow that one. The other is a bar that works like the stock market, where the price of spirits and cocktails and beers vary due to supply and demand throughout the night. It’s in LA. Maybe Barrett, et al should check it out.

We do a cheap Tesco dinner: a baguette, guacamole dip, an apple and a 10 pack of Fosters. We watch TV in the lounge of Jimmy’s hostel. What’s on? You can’t make this shit up: Back to the Future II (if you know me, you know I’d lick Michael J. Fox’s asshole, even if it’d be a shaky target). We watch the whole movie with a group of random foreigners and then head to the Manchester pub crawl. That couple hours before hand was actually one of the most fun I’ve had travelling.

We fucked up. The previous night’s pub crawl was packed with people, this one was smaller and kind of a lame group. We went to a few cool bars and a sweet club called 42 Below, but exhaustion had taken hold, so I bid Jimmy and Manchester adieu.

Next: Toby & York!