Over one month in and the mad visa rush is almost forgotten. However forcing myself back into the world of academia after a five-year gap is tough. Especially when, thanks to American English, you have to start putting the letter “Z” in words that deserve the letter “S”. But I’m just about willing to do that if it keeps me in the country.
I’m in Soho. Surrounded by all the boutique shops. One of the shops is "Dash" owned and managed by The Kardashians™. Their fame and fortune is based on a multitude of reality TV shows. A recent “real life” storyline in a show focused on Kourtney Kardashian and her husband Scott Disick finding cupboards in public places to have sex in. Think about that for a second. On television.
This family has swapped dignity and privacy for $65 million profit in 2010 alone. There is nothing they won't do, say or sell in order to raise their profile/bank balance. They were recently turned down for setting up a credit card. A credit card. Aimed at kids. No manner of wonderful word play on "Kredit Kard’ashians" could hide a shockingly high APR.
Anyway, I walk past their store. Despite my previous criticism I always peek in the window in the vain hope of catching sight of the beautiful billionaires. Yet something else catches my eye. Someone had scrawled graffiti next to the “Dash” sign. They’ve written:
“Kim has a huge vagina.”
Standard graffiti. Yet three days later I walk past again. It’s still there. It’s visible for all to see. A whole three days. The place has been open all the time. It’s still there. Everyone that works there must have seen it. Everyone that shops there must have seen it. So I can only presume they approve. All the other brands peddling guff have slogans, McDonalds go with “I’m loving it.” Nike say “Just do it.” The Kardashians have “Kim has a huge vagina.”
It rolls off the tongue.
All the other brands peddling guff have slogans, McDonalds go with “I’m loving it.” Nike say “Just do it.” The Kardashians have “Kim has a huge vagina.”
I’m out to dinner with my girlfriend, her friends and their respective boyfriends. Eight of us squeezed into a booth meant for four. It’s a spectacular social gathering. As ever these days I’m the only Non-American. Some people say Americans are loud. They talk a lot. I’m not saying that. But I will say this. At one point I look around the table and all seven people are talking at the same time. All of them. Each and every mouth is moving and barking out noise. Eyes darting round hoping anyone will tune in. Who is supposed to be listening? I definitely wasn’t.
A mate of mine goes on a date. He claims it goes well. She is a friend of my girlfriend and the news filters back to me that the girl said that they “Just didn’t click.”
Unbeknown to be me she invites him round just to tell him this. Nice of her...It’s an hour and a half round trip.
He arrives. Clueless. They say hello. She sits him down. Tells him “We just didn’t click.”
“So, you’ve made me come all this way just to tell me that?”
“Umm, yeah, but I like made a salad and you’re welcome to like hang out and have some.”
“You could have told me on the phone. I had to spend 6 dollars on the train to get here.”
“Well like I said, I’ve like made a salad and you’re welcome to stay. I’ve downloaded the new Ashton Kutcher movie.”
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