literally in edinburgh
I was in Edinburgh last week.
I liked it. Any city that you can walk around even when you are lost without getting tired has a friend in me.
Although it took me a while to get the whole “everything is a bridge” concept.
I went up to the castle, it was ok.
Bought a magic slim wallet.
Went to their wacky parliament building, in which you can just sort of walk around like you own the place, and spent a great deal of time trying to work out exactly what drugs the architect was on.
Enjoyed walking around their hills, that is fun, not alot of fat people in Edinburh, they all have heart attacks i guess.
I went on a ghost tour, cause if i was in Roswell I’d go on an alien tour, more on that later.
I ate lots of seafood. For some reason I never thought of places that cold and seafood went together, but after my 40th oyster i realised cold weather seafood was good.
There was also some haggis eaten, it was ok, not my thing though. I preferred Wannaburger.
And most importantly I learnt how to drink whisky.
You can’t learn how to drink whisky on a whisky tour, although i did that too (and it was a good tour, lots of free whisky), the best way was in some old pub sitting around watching the old guys do it.
House whisky (a cheap blend, the good stuff is too expensive for a weekday), with water in it, and half pint of lager to wash it down with.
I am now a whisky drinker, although I don’t always need the half pint of lager.
You can’t ask for more from a holiday to leave as a beer drinker, and come back as a whisky drinker.
Thank you, Edinburgh.
McDonalds
To the average eye there is almost nothing different between an English McDonalds and an Australian McDonalds.
To my eye there are subtle differences.
The meat definitely tastes differently, but not enough so that the normal person could detect.
I can, but I am a hamburger connoisseur, it doesn’t have as much taste as the Australian stores, and seems smaller (even on a quarter pounder by quarter pounder comparison).
In England the fries have almost no salt, apparently you are to salt the fries yourself, if you feel the need.
When you order a meal deal, coke is not automatically put in for you, they actually ask you what drink you want.
The stores look the same, but in England there seems to be way less drive thru options, and most importantly, very few Macca’s play grounds.
This is great, as it means you can eat your putrefied burger in some semblance of peace.
They have newspapers like the sun, and crap of that ilk that, the aussie ones tend to have all papers, even the broad sheets.
Also this was the first McDonalds that I was ever offered pirated DVD’s from a guy who opened his jacket to show me Will Smith and Madagascar.
In Australian stores I have only been offered drugs, booze, sex and a Video player.
Literally an aussie in Paris: Quick
People like to say, oh you can’t do this or that there, that is not right.
Fuck em I say.
These are the same people who only ever travel in tour groups or get up early every morning on holidays.
There are no rules on holiday.
If i want to not go to the arc of whatits, i wont.
If i don’t want to wear a beret, i wont.
And if i don’t want to watch a french film in french, i wont.
Paris is Paris, explore it your way.
My way is via fast food.
Every international country i have troubled too i have eaten fast food, mainly via hamburgers and fries.
It started in America (the heart of the cheeseburger), but it has gone with me to South Africa, England and now France.
Luckily for me, in France they have Quick, a burger place that seems to fill the hole of not having any burger kings.
McDonalds still reign supreme here, but Quick is the thinking persons fast food (like burger king).
Why are they good, well they seem to have some form of real steak in their burgers, they have real cheese in there as well, and they have an assortment of buns and burgers to choose from.
They have this thing called the Quick N Toast, which has steak bacon and blue cheese, and has a toasted sandwich exterior.
It’s shit hot, and yes i said bacon, only place i found bacon in France at a lowly fast food establishment, because as well all know, fast food restaurants are the truest form of humanity.
The bacon was of McDonald’s quality, but who was i to argue about the quality after living without the hope of bacon for days.
I got my food for take away, and awaited the usual walk with bag of food in one hand, drinks in the other that i had done so many times before.
Quick don’t see why you should have to use both hands, like an animal, when carrying food.
They have a carry all box, a box with a handle, that can fit 2 drinks, 3 burgers, deux frites and so many condiments.
It’s like the the swiss army knife of fast foodery.
So not only did they give the world fries, but they gave the world the perfect carrying implement.
I suggest to everyone that they eat Quick when in Paris, fuck the tourist fascists who prey on the fun of everyone.
Look at all the space, much more room than the average french apartment. And way cleaner. 
The design is practical, and yet has a certain style to it, it’s Andy Warholesqeu with traces of early cubism. 
The handle is red. 
chicken, chips & all that shit
There is no real reason for this, but for some reason I had myself convinced that London was the home of roast chicken and chips.
On my first trip here I don’t remember having them at all.
But the first thing I wanted after 30 hours of not sleeping was bit of roast chicken and chips from a take away place.
My guide, seeing my desperation, said no problem, I was assured chicken surrounded us on every corner.
Unfortunately there was a cultural misunderstanding.
Chicken and chips in London means fried chicken.
If you want fried chicken there is a place on every corner.
KFC and I have never got along, it’s like a sick substitute for real chicken, like ordering winona ryder and getting phoebe cates.
I love the way it sweats in a bag you see (chicken not winona), and you can’t get that at a pub.
After 5 weeks I had given up on roast chicken and chips in a bag, and when I lost that dream, a little piece of me died.
Then one day at my local fish and chip shop, one I had somehow not eaten at, and there just behind the counter, hidden under a plastic container I saw chicken, real roasted chicken, just innocently sitting there under a sign that said 3.40.
So I asked the guy about his chicken and chips, was it indeed, non fried.
Yes, Yes, 3.40.
So I told him my little story, and he was thrilled I wanted roasted not fried, and we got talking about the history of chicken and chips in this country, as only an Australian and an Asian man.
He said roast chicken and chips was an institution in this country.
Then those bastards KFC came here and they ruined it for everyone.
Now instead of having roast chicken, everyone has fried chicken, at least that’s what Mr Dandy said.
Such a shame.
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