Text me maybe

I will never understand why relationships have to be so damn complicated.

It’s you and I, we like each other, we want to spend some time together and give it a try.
Done! Easy! Right?

Hell no! No pain, no gain. In this case, no game.

When you’re approaching somebody, you need to weigh every single word and look after any action you take. You need to play that game.

Should I ask for their number?  What should I say and how often should I text?  Will they think I’m going too fast and feel some pressure? And if I don’t, will they feel I don’t care?

Don’t spend too much time overthinking it because, whatever you do, it’s always gonna turn wrong.

And instead of simply being honest, we’ll lose the beauty of seeing each other’s shy expressions, smiling for that funny thought, looking down when recalling that hurtful story, only because we’ll always focus on a game we never know how to play right.

So next time you like somebody and you want to give this thing a try, just keep it cool and safe: go for “Text me…maybe.”

Jim
The Britalian Post

A London bbq

Oh, Britons are so weird!

Their classy and composed speaking, their messy and uneducated eating, their stone cold behaviour and aggressively drunk manners along with their unstable position in relationships – distant, indifferent, uninterested. Sometimes you wonder about what they feel like, if they feel something; how they handle their daily life, their BBC, their afternoon tea, and that thing they call ‘latte(y)’.

LATTE(y)???
Yeah, apparently they’ve discovered some evolution of cappuccino for us still unknown.

Speaking of which, our friends threw a bbq a couple of days ago to celebrate a mate’s bday.
With the rare fantastic weather being the perfect background – steaks, burgers, sausages and much more flipping on the grill, diffusing a drooling flavour that accompanied the entertaining tunes played through the Bluetooth speaker – 30ish people were swallowing cans of beer like they were nuts.
And sure thing, they were really nuts!

Among the number of countries that showed up on that day, I can recall Spain, Brazil, Austria, Germany, Peru, Slovakia, Italy and, well well well, England. Yes, one of the sophisticated Britons had honoured us with his presence. And whether it was for the alcohol making them sociable or the folks there just being naturally friendly, all went along with each other – judging by the loud Spanish-blasted laughter and the Italians-led group dancing.

You know London itself is practically a huge bbq – a place where different types of meats are cooked on the same irons creating a unique taste.

With a closer look though, I realised that we strangers were the ones who were grouping up per country/language, setting the others aside. The English dude instead was the only one who was ping-ponging from group to group to socialise with everybody.

Wait a minute.
We often talk about Brexit, about being left apart from a number of Britons who are segregating us for being immigrants. Whereas, sometimes I feel like it’s us who are exiting them – taking ownership of a space that doesn’t belong to us and we should appreciate more, and not being excluding individuals who are giving us the opportunity to remain.

So while I was totally zoned out having this random thought, I turned towards him and he was sitting there choking himself with a stripe of steak he hadn’t cut.

“Oh, dude, I can’t take you anywhere.”

Jim
The Britalian Post

Comprehension is hard

Comprehension is hard.

Even if you’re good at languages and speak one regularly, you will never own it as much as a native does, and will always experience some issues when trying to express yourself or understand what others are saying.

Simply said: you suck!

I remember the time I started watching the first episode of Game of Thrones and how weird it felt when I realised I couldn’t catch a damn thing. So I sat in front of the tv to pay more attention and began to wonder if they were using some of those made-up languages like in The Lord of the Rings.

After a few lines, I started grasping a couple of random words here and there and…of course it‘s English, you ignorant dickhead! Given so, I put subtitles on and dialogues became much clearer. More or less.

That made me think about how freaking awesome would it be if all people spoke with subtitles. Can you picture it? Like, when somebody’s talking, you actually see these words in white that flow right above the chest. Can you imagine how everything would just be easier? Communicating would be so simple, misunderstandings and awkward moments would no longer happen. Above all, you’d always know what to say back; even better, you’d always have something to say.

However, when you have subtitles, you tend to focus more on the reading rather than on the listening, more on the words than on what one’s seeking to express.

She wouldn’t get you wanted more than just screw her – you know…guys with their perverse mind, right?! Yet, when you told her you loved her, just right there by the river, when the night was over and you were drying her teardrops with your fingertips, she wouldn’t know what to say back.

“I…I don’t understand…”
“Punch me or run away!”

So she left.
But she didn’t turn her back, she slowly walked backwards holding your look until she disappeared behind that alley.

Sometimes, even if you say something clearly, if declaring a so ordinary and pure something should be really easy, you just end up like us when dealing with native English people. You got it: with that dumb fuck expression on! Because everybody will always focus on the meaning of the words rather than on what you’re desperately seeking to express.

That’s why we shouldn’t need subtitles. That’s why comprehension is hard.

That’s why you suck!

Jim
The Britalian Post

I wish I had a pound

One early morning at King’s Cross, on a cold and sunny day, I was pacing outside the station in a never-ending wait. A cup of hot coffee in one hand and a smoke in the other – Ed was goddamn late and I was freezing my ass out there.

There were not many people around except for me, few commuters, some guys who were setting up stands to serve food, and obviously a few bums begging for spare change. I didn’t really count how many of them were roaming about but I’m sure I must have engaged with them all. 

They started approaching me one after the other and it took me a good few mins each to understand any of the words they were trying to speak – a drunk bum’s English mumbling is not the easiest to get.

I’m sorry, I wish I had a pound.

I always feel sorry for these people – abandoned to their fates and constrained to a stunted life. They, who bravely live and survive winters in a daily search for food and, potentially, some sweet booze to warm them up and maybe help them forget some sad past story.

I remember I used to know one in my area: he was Italian, in his late 30s. He had moved to London in the mid-90s and had found his fortune working in the IT field. Unfortunately, he was too young to keep control over the unlimited resources London had given him and squandered his fortunes to his very last pound. According to his story, the government had also turned their backs on him, and his family, well, probably he didn’t even have one.

So every time I see one of them, I always recall that guy – I search my pockets for a pound and feel so guilty if I can’t find any.

I’m sorry, I wish I had a … 

Hang on a moment.

When I first came over, I didn’t even have the shadow of a pound. I lacked the language proficiency, the skills, the being comfortable in a new and different country, in a so big and alienating city. I, and so many other people just like me, had to find my way in: I started out washing dishes in a Moroccan restaurant at 2 quid an hour. No help, no support, nobody to speak with. I really didn’t have a pound.

Yet I made it. I worked my ass hard to a wealthy(ish) life. It cost a lot of effort and sacrifice, pain and sadness, desperation and, often, fear.

Other than me, these people were born here, they speak the language, they live in their own country. They were born with a least a pound, if not their own, one or two from the passers-by.

So I am sorry: every time I search my pockets, I myself wish I had had a pound.

Jim
The Britalian Post

A woman

A woman is a fierce example of how a human being can champion bravery, fatigue and pain. A woman who is strong, patient and powerful is more than ordinary.

A woman is thoughtful, much smarter and sharper than any other human being. For a woman, overthinking, processing information, seeing through and deep understanding is more than ordinary.

A woman feels things long before they happen. She carries the burden of being so sensitive and sensible to reality. She carries the burden of her being a woman hitting hard on her body every month. And it’s more than ordinary.

A woman needs to accept that this is the way it is.

A woman cries openly, and publicly, because she needs to suffocate all the tears she drops privately. And she hides, and she fights. And nobody ever knows that this is more than ordinary.

A woman loves, because for a woman, love dramatically pulses from the inside and cracks her mood. And she can still smile. And she can still love. And her love is more than ordinary.

A woman is unique. And she is extraordinary.

And that woman is the one I call mum.

Happy International Women’s Day!!!

Jim
The Britalian Post

White trainers not allowed

In view of the trip to York to attend the Jorvik Viking Festival with Ed, I thought I would buy a comfortable new pair of trainers to walk about town. As soon as I entered Sports Direct, I found a very convenient deal on this pair of white Everlast trainers – 50% off. Great! Fit well, look good – I handed over £25 without hesitation.

Upon arrival in York, we made our way downtown, which gave me the opportunity to test the performance of my new shoes. Also, they were really cool and looked damn stylish under my black pants. You know, when you believe you’ve found the right match, you feel so a la mode that you start hitting the street like a badass. And that’s exactly what I did.

In the evening, we started exploring the nightlife moving from a bar to another, drinking our way into the night and checking the local fauna. Yes, girls.
Two well-dressed chicks approached us for scrounging a smoke and suggested that we should join them in this exclusive club called The Biltmore. After they gave me a few compliments, comparing my appearance to a someone I don’t know who the hell it is (the York accent sounds like cavemen’s), Ed was addressed as Tommy Shelby from the show Peaky Blinders (do watch it if you haven’t) and was asked to put on his Birmingham accent over and over again. Although the awkward moment, we decided to go check out this place.

On the spot, we started peeking at the inside from the opposite sidewalk to make certain that there was something good going on in there. Yes, once again, girls.
We both felt very cool: Ed with his newly acquired popularity, me with my great outfit. So, I mean, we bowled up to the entrance like we owned the place. 

Unfortunately, the bouncer stopped us immediately: “Sorry, white trainers are not allowed in here.”

“What?! This is the most stupid rule I’ve ever heard!” – I cried out.
Ed wasn’t too bothered, well, not as much as I fucking was. He made a smirky laugh and suggested that we’d go to Valhalla, a typical Viking bar just a few streets away. We made acquaintances with these two amusing ladies: one in her late forties, the other in her mid-thirties; the former being completely plastered!
*Between her slurred attempts at flirting through an acrid, bitter breath, I suddenly noticed that her glass was swaying uncomfortably in my direction. Before I knew it, my prized new trainers became stained with the memory of her.* She poured a whole pint of stout over my freaking new shoes that quickly absorbed the liquid and turned into a light brown tone. The shining white was totally gone. Fucking bitch!

*[Ed wrote this bit himself. I mean, he’s co-starring in the story, so I have to give him some credit. :D]

There. Since my trainers were no longer white, it was worth taking another shot back at the club. Though, for your information, we didn’t get any closer.

The truth is, appearances always matter.
Whether you’re smart, deep, interesting, trustworthy people, or just wanna spend a great weekend with your bud, the way you speak, the words you use, the way you act, the way you move, the clothes you wear, will always come first. So if you wish to be accepted among people – people who “matter” – just erase what you’ve always believed in, re-build your personality or whoever you’ve been all along, wear some glossy outfit, be a yes-man, and you’ll get everywhere. In one sentence: follow the rule.  

And remember: don’t wear fucking white trainers!

Jim
The Britalian Post

It’s not gonna be a bad day

Monday sucks big fat donkey balls, dude!

Come on, don’t be so dramatic! It’s not gonna be a bad day.

That pinch of negativity at the beginning of the week is a common feeling for everybody.
But, easy, not every Monday is a bad day. 

Last Monday, I’m sure I didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed; in fact, I didn’t wake up at all. So not only was I late at work but neither was able to do any workout which fucked up my weekly schedule.

But, easy, it’s not gonna be a bad day. 

If only it hadn’t taken me a half goddamn hour to catch the first bus and another half to get on the first train. I did say I was already fucking late, right?
At the building where I work, you need to swipe your personal pass to access the gates. An easy action, if only I hadn’t tried to swipe my Oyster card instead (the card for transports, for whoever doesn’t know) when I suddenly realised I had forgotten my pass at home.

But, easy, it’s not gonna be a bad day.

As soon as I started my laptop, it froze for 15 mins and when it came back to life, the internet didn’t work. Not a big deal, so I had time to go for a cup of tea. And while I was pouring hot water from the machine, the mug slipped from my hands and I spilt a terrible amount of deadly hot water directly on my thin trousers. Needless to say, I started dancing Disco Inferno to overcome the pain. 

But, easy, it’s not gonna be a bad day.

At lunchtime, we were off to a nearby restaurant with the whole team for celebrations. I ordered a simple chicken salad to stay light and when the waiter came with the dish – oh I was really starving – he accidentally hit my chair’s legs and knocked over the whole salad on me. Getting another one took another half and the team had already finished.

But, easy, it’s not gonna be a bad day.

I was off at 6pm, tremendously tired, and headed to the station willing to get back home as soon as possible. The train came rapidly this time, if only it hadn’t taken 40 mins to make 3 stops due to a signal failure. No panic, I eventually reached my stop and waited for the connecting bus. It came in a min sharp but, for some strange reason, it decided not to stop, even though I was flailing like a maniac. Now, you know that thing that sometimes happens in movies and cartoons? I can assure you it hadn’t even rained – the bus wheel plunged at the speed of light in a black puddle and I took a wonderfully disgusting shower.

But, easy, it’s not gonna be a bad day. And I’m almost home.

To recover from this intense day, I decided I would treat myself to a giant pizza and some TV series. Oh, the relief when I finally sat on the couch.
So since a few days before, while on the way back home, I saw this big Domino pizza shop and, as many people have always praised it for making a really good pizza, I started wondering what it would taste like. Thus, instead of ordering delivery from the Neapolitan pizzeria I usually get pizza from, I thought I would give Domino a chance. I mean, shame on me for getting such a pizza (I’m Neapolitan for fuck’s sake), but I pride myself on being quite open-minded.
The delivery was quick. The rider said I owed him £4 more, which I was sure I had paid already online, but I was really starving to death so I just gave him the money. When I got back inside, I checked and guess what? I had already paid the full amount. Fuck!
Ok, never mind, let’s just chill out and dig into this pizza.
So I opened the box and…and…”what the fuck is that? Why is there fucking pineapple on my pizza???” A ‘simple’ mistake in the order.

But, easy, it’s not gonna be a bad… 

&$!#%5¡¶@
MONDAY SUCKS BIG FAT DONKEY BAAAAAAALLS!

Jim
The Britalian Post

Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day.

The day when love’s in the air. The day when heart-shaped decorations are hanging pretty everywhere. The day when themed chocolate and treats of all sorts stack up at each main joint of the city.

The day when boys and girls hold hands, exchange flowers and sweet presents. The day when restaurants are packed and couples eat fancy gourmet food. The day when men miserably run out of money to impress. The day when being romantic is rather fair.

The day everybody thinks it’s commercial but they end up celebrating it anyway.

The day you yourself think it’s commercial but you wouldn’t mind opening the door and finding the person you love. Just like you do every day but today more than others.

The day when you get back home and sit alone – and it’s just another day.

But then my cuz knocks on the door holding a bottle of red wine.

And it’s again Valentine’s Day.

Jim
The Britalian Post

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