'po-dunk-a-dunk-dunk'

Blimey, what a start to the holibobs... After i finished witerring around on the blog, Lucien deigned to get up, and sprang into action. A mere hour and half later we were ready to set off, we merely had to charge up the attery in his car with a fool-proof spangly new portable battery charger, which, in fact, didn't charge it a jot, it just sat there letting out a timorous beeping and annoying me. We elected to take the train into downtown B'more instead. I packed a daysdack like any good boy scout in preparation for our adventure. After about 20 minutes hike, followed by a 30 minute train rde, we alighted at Camden Yards, by the Orioles stadium. I was starting to flag from the nefarious effects of jetlag, and needed a boost.

This was rapidly provided by the consumption of a dozen oysters washed down with a frosty beer at the Cross Street Market. Now I felt tired, but slightly drunk and horny. Mr Lucien advisedly kept his distance. We chatted with some old timers hanging out at the Oyster Bar, who used to work as stevedores on the docks. Upon finding out my nationality, one of them, after trying out his British accent cmmended on our Sceptr'd Isle's television output, specifically, 'The Last of the Summer Wine'. Bizarre.

We were in the Federal Hill district, called so after the massive Civil War era fort that used to dominate the skyline of Baltimore. Now, it's all disused cannons, joggers and ducks:

We hiked on over to Slainte, an Irish bar in Fells Point to catch the excellent advert for English football that was the Chelsea-Liverpool semi final. While the game was low in quality, the atmosphere was electric, with knowledgeable US fans, mostly donned in the red of Liverpool, bellowed abuse at the big screens. All that walking had made Mr Lucien and I peckish, so I ordered the local delicacy of a crab cake sandwich, while he had fish and chips, washed down by several Amstels (which were on offer, you see...) The bar was manned by a sweating, Irish, many-armed Hindoo god of a barkeep, who whirled like a dervish taking orders. Sitting at the bar, we were soon flecked with the sweat of his exertions, while our necks were routinely moistened by a fine mist of saliva as drunken Yanks prostested or cheered at the happenings onscreen.

Three tension filled hours later, we emerged blinking into the sunlight and elected to go to No Way Jose's, a Mexican bar (obviously) that my companion had been banging on about in the weeks leading up to my arrival here. We took hunkered down to 20 chickens wings, accompanied by $3 margaritas (I maintain that the salted rim of the glass traditionally served with this drink is to mask the taste of it, but I am -forcefully- assured that I am mistaken in this apprehension). With our tummies still rumbling, we decided to order a $20 pitcher of margaritas, which came with 4 fajitas thrown in to sweeten the deal. If we had any plans to slip off into the night to another venue, these were soon thwarted by dint of the fact that were now too corpulent to move any great distance, such was the volume of food that we had consumed.

Fortunately, we were situated with friendly people (one of whom would turn out to be an insane depressive Iranian day-trader) and the bar was staffed by the perky and effervescent Tori, an old friend of Mr Lucien's from when he used to live around the corner. She resembled one of the Williams sisters, but wth the advantage of not looking scary. She had, she said, but 2 steadfast rules in her life; 'Stay black, and die'. What a coincidence! I had the pleasure of informing her that this was my newly adopted motto, which she found amusing for some reason, as she di when I passed favourable comment on her 'po-dunk-a-dunk dunk'. It's all down to the English accent apparently.

Admire my new chins/ This man was in 'Homicide'