1. Most of those girls are thiiiiiicc.
    If the majority of your diet after 30 is Strongbow and Gregg’s sausage rolls, you probably ought to eschew the leather pants you bought whilst at uni. A couple of winners in that slew of photos, but given their straight teeth and clothes that fit, odds are they are visiting from Spain or Iceland.

  2. A ludicrous percentage of women in the British Isles just don’t have waists, even when they are skinny. (No butts either.) It made buying clothes for those of us with a more … germanic(?) … physique interesting.

    My 17th birthday present was a pair of proper riding breeches. We went to a shop in Dublin, and discovered that by the time a pair fit my calves they were a few inches too big in the hips. Which meant that I could have fit two of me in the waistband ( I was running about 24″ waist, 39″ hip at the time). My mother made a slightly snarky comment about needing German breeches to go over my German backside and the English woman who owned the place chimed in that German breeches always had the best fit. I never understood why English companies made their breeches to not fit the vast majority of English women who rode so that we all had to buy German. I can only assume that they based their designs on the average English woman who had no hips or waist, rather than the average English woman who rode who was their target audience.

  3. If there ever is a “Miss Wellbilt” contest in the UK, there will be a surplus of applicants.
    Daaam! Most of those ladies (I use the term loosely) are definitely well fed, virus hermits or not.
    BTW, to gain entry to that newspaper link, use private browsing, otherwise they kill viewership.

  4. We were there in June 2019, before the world shit the bed; stayed in the City of London, across from Smithfield Market. Nice pubs, really enjoyed the food, not as expensive as had been heralded.

    Or perhaps I didn’t give a fuck.

    Every Thursday afternoon the European bankers went back home; the Englanders went to the pubs downstairs from our VRBO, and proceeded to be completely shitfaced by 6PM with crowds outside the pub, dozens of empty beer glasses lining the curbs, people pissing in the park across the way.

    Real civilized, that; the piss-ground as I recall is where William Wallace was drawn and quartered.

    Brit gals are constantly threatening to explode from their skimpy clothing, are usually braless (not always a good thing), and while I like curves, I’m not a fan of cellulite, and there were many cubic meters of of that. And holy fuck are they loud.

    The guys are generally just shitfaced, not quite as shrill but they make up for it by being rude to each other (but oddly, not to us Yanks), unpleasant, and ceaselessly berate the women, but being in the City, they are well-dressed until around 8PM, whereafter they strip down to wife-beater sleeveless t-shirts and puke by the curb.

  5. The deadpan captions are the best.
    “Revelers sit on the floor in Newcastle as they see in the May Bank Holiday weekend.”
    Instead of, “Two girls passed out on the sidewalk.”

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