From France to the UK

We woke up in Diksmiude, Belgium and drove through the early morning mist toward the port of Calais. These were the Flanders fields made infamous in World War One, but we had more mundane concerns. Our work permits for the UK weren’t sorted properly and I knew it going in. There was every possibility we’d be detained for hours, maybe even denied entry, and we were anxious.

Calais doesn’t help matters. It’s a smoky, desolate jungle of diesel weigh-stations and surly French truckers. If there was ever a place you wouldn’t want to be trapped it would be here. Sure enough, the border guards detained Eric for being a hippie, but after a half an hour it was determined that it was a non-prosecutable offense so they released us.

After a charming crossing on the rusty SeaFrance Cezanne we accustomed ourselves to driving on the opposite side of the road and hightailed it to Birmingham. Hilariously, we didn’t remember to procure voltage adapters for the UK so we had a last minute crazy rush around trying to find some feesking plugs.

The two bands playing with us tonight in Birmingham are both young indie-emo bands with their bangs down in their eyes, so it looks like we’re going to have some culture clash tonight. I’ve already freaked out their girlfriends with my leering.