London’s Calling – and it’s Not to the Bullpen

I’m 37,000 feet above the Atlantic on my way to London. A lovely flight attendant named Annabel complemented me on my after-shave cologne. I said thanks, but I don’t think it’s me that was arousing her sense of smell (I use a fragrance-free balm). She smiled in a way that said, “You’re just being modest, lad.”  Perhaps, but it’s some other dude who’s poisoning the cabin with flowery scents.

I then ate a proper English breakfast while reading The Daily Mail. I also got a good laugh when I heard Annabel say “blimey” about something or other. I’m having a rather jolly time considering we’re still over eastern Canada.

Anyway, the timing of my trip is perfect because right now, I want to get as far away from the Mets as possible. The International Space Station would have been nice, but after seeing Gravity, I’m a bit timid about space travel. But I wouldn’t feel any safer at Citi Field. Not after Monday’s ugly season opener. Which was followed by the encouraging news that the Mets had signed 56-year-old Bobby Abreu and that Bobby Parnell, who returned to form with a textbook meltdown in the ninth inning, has a torn MCL or whatever in his elbow or whatever. No matter. He’s toast.

The only positive I can take away from Monday’s loss is that the Mets almost always win their home opener only to shit the bed with increasing messiness as the season progresses. So maybe they’re pulling a George Costanza and trying a contrary approach with the hopes of turning the tables for the better. Or maybe I’m getting light-headed up here and can’t think straight.

On Saturday, I plan to attend my first Premier League match – Chelsea v. Stoke City at venerable Stamford Bridge. I doubt it will have the creature comforts of City Field (and I know it won’t have anything to rival Shake Shack, unless they have something like Fish ‘n Chips Hut over there). But at least it will have an abundance of energy and the home side will be playing a game of real importance. Meaningful games! Yes, this should be quite a departure from the typical arctic conditions of a wind-blown Saturday April afternoon in Queens. While amongst the Chelsea supporters as well as my trek through other parts in and around London, I will try to keep the Mets far from my thoughts so as not to dampen what I hope to be a cheery mood during my brief respite.

I’ll just deal with those wankers from Flushing when I return.

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