Hawaii: Day Trip to Brain Hemorrhage Beach

'Hey girls, welcome to Sandy Beach. Just wanted you guys to know, we're advising against swimming today. Current's pretty strong. Not sure we'd be able to pull you out if you got in trouble. And this beach is known to cause the most spinal injuries in the world'.

Bloody hell. We - Martina, Karin (my roomies) Filippa, Heini (additional Swedes) and I - had woken up extra early to get the rental car and head out to one of the many beaches that line Oahu's shores. After a scenic diversion twice round Diamond Head, Karin had managed to point the car east and we'd parked up at Sandy Beach, east of the mountain where some terrifying waves were round-housing into the sand.

I hadn't been in the ocean yet and was looking forward to splashing about and maybe digging a hole or making some kind of fort. I'm not one of those lie-on-a-beach-all-dayers. I don't need a tan, I need activities. Now the lifeguard was telling me that was out of the question.
What. A. Jobsworth.
Luckily, I had some TIP TOP companions to chat to and a boiled egg (bought from the petrol station for thirty cents. Excellent seaside snack) to eat. However, Sandy Beach also turned out to be Bloody Windy Beach and after a while, the decision was made to try another spot and look for lunch.

It just wasn't the day for beaching. We sat on another slice of sand further up the coast, with our hoodies up and knees to our chattering lips. 'I'M HAVING SUCH A RELAXING TIME!!' Martina screamed over the wind.

You wouldn't think Hawaii to be cold, but it gets pretty darn gusty from time to time. It rains a lot too, but only drizzle and there's always a rainbow to make up for it, so its allowed. This breeze just wasn't easing up though. We threw in the towels and trooped back to the car, heading to a Mexican shack on the roadside for tea.

the Hawaiian hello demonstrated by Baz

Perhaps driving in Sweden is easier than driving in the States, but Karin was having a tough time on the Hawaiian roads.
We overshot the diner and ended up in a driveway leading to a Marine army base. Waiting at the stop sign to rejoin the main road, another car (presumably driven by a real-life Marine) pulled in and signed the friendly Hawaiian wave to Karin, who lost all control of her hand and the limb it was attached to trying to figure out how to do it back, all the while yelping hysterically in Swedish. The other car had passed by now, wondering who this cabal of screeching women emerging from the base actually were, but Karin had pushed the pedal to the metal and propelled us approximately fifty metres to the tiny car park of the Mexican cafe up the road. 

I hoped it wasn't local local food, which consists of rice and mincemeat and is completely devoid of any greens or vegetables whatsoever. Loco Moco looks WELL rank. This place had 'organic' and 'fresh' plastered all over its exterior so it couldn't be that bad. Unless tofu was involved. I scanned the blackboard menu above the till, picking out the fish tacos and went to sit outside on the benches and let the girls try and teach me more Swedish. A lady behind the grill yelled out my name when my order was up. I came back with a plate of this:

Yes, it was necessary to make the picture that large. Because anything less would be an injustice. And because I'm showing off. Because this meal of fish tacos was BOMB.COM, snazzmatazzmic and Offish Delish off the hook.

The fish - pleasantly meaty - had been marinated for a long time and then grilled for optimum flavour. Each portion came squashed inside two soft corn tortillas and topped with chunky chilli and pineapple salsa. It's companion was homemade coleslaw, dressed in some lemony peppery goodness that is making me salivate just by looking at this picture. Garlic also featured, but I can't pinpoint where - it was definitely flitting about.
The others had ordered pretty tasty looking dishes too (there was a portobello mushroom burger in attendance) but I reckon mine was the best. Definitely worth searching out, definitely worth driving to the east shore for.

karin, martina, filippa, heini

Satisfied, we ambled back to the car and began the trek home, stopping briefly at cliff overlooking Sandy Beach and upon which a lighthouse perched for a quick photo-op and look at the view. There are some places that are never boring to look at, some vistas that you never tire of, and this was certainly one of them.

WE AT THA' SLATS! - Las Vegas

Las Vegas; a theme-park for adults, where the ride is a rollercoaster of your personal finances and thousands of dreams are crushed and reformed from a pile of smouldering betting slips in a heartbeat.

It's not for the faint-hearted, but even those who detest extensive neon lighting and unrelenting garishness will find a soft spot for this city of the perpetual weekend in the Nevadan desert.

Because we had the foresight to book about five months in advance, we were able to secure a room in OAP Central, The Flamingo on Las Vegas strip for about £115 for two of us for a four night epic.

We crawled into the city, our flame red Dodge Avenger inching past landmarks like the MGM Grand, New York New York casino and the legendary fountains of the Bellagio.

The pavements were crammed with all kinds of curious creatures that form the spectrum of humanity; it was like Noah's sodding Ark for delinquents. Tramps and vagabonds battling for supremacy over the bubble-gum stained pavements in front of McDonald's, rich kids sweating the previous night's champagne indulgence into the doorways of Gucci and Prada, studded motorheads chewing on leathery cheeseburgers at the Harley Davidson casino and bumbag-wearing retirees on holiday from their Florida sheltered accomodation, trying their luck at a game of craps and sucking faces after a few hours at Margaritaville. All were there, all were hopeful.

After throwing our stuff in our pink-fluff bedecked room, we headed out to join the masses, clucking in annoyance when small children and pensioners got in our way. Long gone was the slow, easy stride we'd picked up from the desert. We had a session to get on with. Didn't these slow pokes know there was FREE CHAMPERS to be had on the casino floor?

After submitting ourselves to a screening for the pilot of a TV show at the MGM Grand (the show, starring McLovin of SuperBad, was okay, but a little too try-hard with the jokes) we made it to the glitzy, ritzy and snazmattazmic Bellagio and slid onto the faux leather stools in front of the penny slot machines, trying not to flag down the gliding waitresses too enthusiastically.

I fed the machine a $1 note and slowly tapped the 'Place Bet' button, making sure the 1 cent light was lit. Finally, after losing a dismal 43 cents thanks to my paltry bets, my peripherial vision detected a middle-aged blonde woman picking her way towards me, red-lipsticked mouth stretched into a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes and order book at the ready.

'Drink, honey?' she asked.

'Yes please', I showed her my teeth and said in the hesitant Hugh-Grant-in-Four-Weddings-manner that foreigners associate with every Briton that ever lived, 'erm... Would it be alright if I had a glass of champagne please?'

'SURE! 'Course you can hun', she beamed, properly, genuinely now. 'You want the same sweetie?' she looked at Leah, who was aghast at my request for such extravagance. 'No problem, I'll be right back. Love that accent'.

living the high life

And that was how we whiled away the first portion of our evening in Vegas: playing the pennies but only as a front to attract more waitresses and their seemingly endless shipment of alcohol.

When our bums got sore and we tired of winning scraps on the machines, we made our way to Caesar's Palace where a suited and booted man named Jesus stood guard at the gates, armed with nightclub fliers for tipsy girls on a mission to spend as little green as possible. HELLO.

Despite our jeans and jumpers combo, Jesus flagged us down and furnished us with little pieces of card that entitled us to free admission to PURE, Caesar's nightclub, with free drinks until midnight. Now, under normal circumstances, we're not the kind of girls who go and do MTV-dancing in dark, anonymous nightclubs where banter is out of the question and the primary aim for most attendees is to attract a mate. But, open bar. 
A friend from home was also in town and planning to make a beeline for the same club later that night. So it made sense to go, load up and leave like the casual Cinderellas we were when the clock stuck twelve. How bad could it be?

ABSOLUTELY HORRENDOUS.

It was a master remix of a night out in Watford, Chingford, Newcastle and Glasgow rolled into one atrocious bump-and-grind session. The women wore tight bodycons (even those with a few extra lumps and bumps had ill-advisedly managed to winch themselves into one, doing that shallow, quick breathing thing to ensure their lung capacity stayed at a minimum and they didn't tear their side seams) with deep necklines. Ankle-breaker heels on, hairspray threatening to breach health and safety regulations, faces frozen somewhere between trying not to shart and utter disdain for anyone that dared to so much as glance in their direction.

Then there were the men. Oh, the men. Some of their shirts where buttoned lower than the girls' necklines, occasionally revealing a perma-tanned peck, but more often than not, a gristly moob. Their eyes hunted the women, searching, waiting for the first wobble that signalled the free drinks were working on lowering their inhibitions, and hopefully their pants too.

Leah and I commandeered a table at the edge of the dance floor and enjoyed our new powers of invisibility. We tried to get as many drinks to our table as we could, racking them up for when they would no longer be free and doing some fantastic comedy R'n'B dancing to the poorly DJ'd music. I bumped into my chum from home, Jeremy, who was thrashing out some shapes on the dance floor and adding his own rap to the smoke and music that swirled above our heads:

'Yeah we're in Vegas! Whaddya make of us? Yo, don't be hatin' on us! We're just happy to be here, don' want no freakin' fuss!'
(Or something along those lines.)

Leah bowed out at midnight but I stayed on for another hour, bouncing around the rooftop bar, paying a painful $10 per beer and watching Jez chatting up the laydeez, fall over and make me try on his glasses.

Then I headed for home, weaving my way out of the throng, through the casino, onto the road and into the Flamingo where I fully expected to open the door to a slumbering Gassonimator. SHE WAS NOWHERE TO BE SEEN. Awol! How could this be? Perhaps she had been talked into a game of Craps, misunderstood the concept and required assistance and a well-planned exit strategy. Should I contact her relatives? The A-Team? Call a plumber?
No, it transpired that that evening, she was simply more double hard than me and had continued to happily trundle along the Strip, muttering to herself, ordering more complimentary drinks and writing abusive messages on Facebook.
What a trooper.

crab legs, prawns, grilled fish, salad, mexican rice, sausage

nachos, salsa, sesame ball, roast beef, bun

Food was the activity of the day, we decided when we woke up feeling bruised and confused the next morning.

Vegas, the most excessive city in the nation of excess, offers unlimited buffets for every tastebud, every wallet, every fancy.

A welcome pack from The Flamingo in our room contained vouchers for a discounted meal at Flavor's buffet located in Harrah's Casino, so we decided to head over and fill our boots.

sushi, fish, prawns

Snow crab, prawns, sushi, vine leaves, spare ribs dripping in chemically-enriched gloop, fortune cookies, fajitas and thick slices of honey-roast ham, it was all there for the taking. And boy, did I try. After all, there are children starving in Africa. I owed it to them to eat until it started to feel weird around my heart.

I managed three plates and then a dessert plate as well before I admitted defeat. In the battle against Abha and the buffet, this time, the buffet had triumphed.

watermelon adds balance

The next couple of days were lost to Vegas where most buildings have neither a clock or windows, travelling out to Fremont Street on the Deuce, watching free shows outside Caesar's Place and the Bellagio, gawping open-mouthed at cowboys in town for the Rodeo at the Convention Centre and catching Mardi Gras beads at the Rio casino. It was during Rio's Show in the Sky performance that a pudgy, scrunchied she-beast very nearly gouged out my right eyeball, such was her desire to take home some strands of the cheap gold beads herself.

Over the course of our stay, I found myself pushing more and more dollar notes into the slots, placing larger bets each time. There was no point playing a penny a go, you'd never win anything. No, to win big you had to bet big. TWENTY CENTS A BET. That was how I began rolling, Leah clucking in disapproval next to me but egging me on too. My risky stance paid off for a few jubilant minutes, taking my winnings up to a dizzying $15 before the House began to claw back the cash.

Hey ho, that's how Vegas goes. For small fry like us anyway. Leah had somehow managed to transform her 30 cents in credit to $5.45 in real cash and was buzzing with glee that she'd now be able to purchase her dinner as well as a pack of sanitary towels. Some people might have riches, others fame, we're happy with the smaller pleasures in life.

winning

Down the River Road Without a Paddle

Earlier this year, ITV broadcast a documentary showing Sir Trevor McDonald (one of my guilty crushes) voyaging up the great Mississippi, absorbing the history of this diverse slice of America. Hillbillies, ghostly plantations, fishermen, funnel boats and Huckleberry Finn, they were all here, somewhere. 

I watched avidly during my 4am lunch break at work, wishing I was with Trev, delighting in the weird and wonderful. The river trail looked particularly enticing.

When planning Operation U S of Heeyyy!, Leah and I were in agreement that the Mississippi would feature prominently. We hoped to pick up a car in Memphis and take it down to New Orleans, stopping at towns along the way. 

Our first port of call was Holly Springs, MS, about an hour south east of Memphis, to the home of an Elvis SuperFan who turned his house into an insane, ridiculous shrine to the King himself. 

Graceland Too was at the bottom of a quiet street, rubbing shoulders with otherwise normal looking residential properties. We spotted it instantly - you'd have to have a severe fungal eye infection not to. From the gate to lion stone statues to the roof and Christmas trees on the lawn, everything was a searing shade of cobalt blue. It was like that scene from Mr Bean when he redecorates his living room by igniting a stick of dynamite attached to an open can of paint. 

 We parked up and walked over to 200 East Gholson Avenue, leaves crunching loudly under our All Stars as we tried to set our cameras to the right instagram filter to capture the madness that lay just metres from us. Unfortunately, SuperFan didn't appear to be home - his driveway, filled with rusting old iconic automobiles that no doubt would have gotten the nod from the King in their heyday, was devoid of a normal everyday vehicle. 

I rapped on the metal door until my knuckles turned bright pink but no cigar. We decided to break for tea and came back in a half hour. There was no way we could leave without trying our hardest to breach the Graceland Too barriers. 

I scouted the perimetre, looking for a point of entry, spotting a glint of light near one of the barricaded up back windows. All of the windows were nailed shut with planks of wood. From the inside. 
Hmm. 

We were either about to enter a world of sweet Elvis drenched madness or on the precipice of a brutal and horrific butchering to death by a manic fan dressed in a white, diamante-festooned jumpsuit. 

Even so, I was still desperate to see the inside. The website claimed the house was open 24/7. So what the hell? 

Was it rude to knock on the window, hinting at someone home? Would SuperFan be irked at two girls hammering on his door or would he be charmed by our Queen's English? 

I clawed at the door one final time, pushing open the letter box and shouting 'PAAAAUL! PAUL. OPEN THE DOOR, PAUL!' on his front step before admitting defeat and shuffling mournfully back to the car.

I sulked for about ten minutes then got on with the business of navigating us to Clarksdale, MS, the original home of the blues and Ground Zero Blues club, owned by none other than gravelly-voiced actor extrordinaire Morgan Freeman. We dropped our stuff off at a motel on the edge of town and parked up, walking cautiously around the windswept empty streets in a mission to find the watering hole of the local townsfolk. There wasn't a soul to be seen. It was eerie. 

Clarksdale had all the usual landmarks of an everyday town - petrol station, local craft store, Greyhound stop, post office. Just no people. The odd car would go by, slowing in amazement to watch these two out-of-towners actually using their lower limbs and WALKING along the pavement. I had a feeling we'd find an unassuming shack somewhere, push the door open and discover a wild and hedonistic party thriving inside. It hid from us for a good half hour, like an expert hide and seeker, until the wind carried over a snatch of music and we raced towards it, desperate for a drink and shelter from the chilly Mississippi night. 

The neon sign in the middle distance of Delta Avenue told us we'd found Ground Zero. And when I pushed opened the heavy wood door, I'd found what I'd hoped to - every man and his dog having a wild old time inside. 

Saturday evening in Clarksdale was held at this one spot. I ordered a Southern Pecan beer at the bar which was scrawled with sharpie messages from previous patrons and clambered into a stool, smiling at the barflys next to me. 

A father from Alabama, on his way back from a music festival with his son, caught my accent and once again, we were off, discussing what I was doing here so far away from home in this quiet corner of Mississippi. He told me to have some catfish - fried in a sandwich and bought from a roadside garage - and to keep my wits about me when we got to Bourbon Street in New Orleans. We failed to spot the Freeman, but it was a superb night all in all. I managed to beat a brother-sister team at a game of billiards and drank enough Pecans to sink a Mississippi steam boat.

The next morning, we headed south to the state capital, Jackson. But before doing so, I indulged in a hearty Sunday meal at Abe's BBQ where the sauce changed every view I'd previously held on barbecue sauce. Instead of a treacle-like suffocatingly sweet sauce, the condiment was watery with a greater spice to sugar ratio. The 'comeback' sauce (because once you try it, you're guaranteed to come back for more) was perfect on its own or thickened with hot sauce and Offish Delish smothered over chicken tenders. It was the best breakfast I've had. No, okay, in the top three at least.

Seltbelt fastened and sat nav programmed, we headed south to the state capital, Jackson. We'd heard from various people from night before that Jackson was a bit sketchy, advised not to go out at night and, 'be careful girls!' so we headed straight to a motel and settled in for the evening, entertaining ourselves with the excellent selection of reality TV on offer. Extreme Couponing USA is my favourite, while Leah is partial to a bit of Teen Mom 2. We both love Jersey Shore with a depth that rivals a toddler's affection for her first Cabbage Patch Doll. 

We left Jackson to be explored the next day and headed out bright and early to the town centre. On the advice of two rotund visitor centre ladies, one of whom failed spectacularly in polite social conduct by reaching out a padded little paw and stroking my hair mid-conversation, we headed to Fondren, a hipster neighbourhood on the edges of the downtown area. 

Here was Brent's Drug Store, the set of a scene from the motion picture The Help starring the lovely Emma Stone. I's interior stays true to the film's era - the civil right heavy 1960s - and still offers thirsty customers fountain sodas, malts, grilled cheese sandwiches and birthday cake ice cream. 

I gorged on a retro burger and fries before taking a quick turn around the block. Dotted with pastel coloured charity shops and craft boutiques, its a cute little slice of town that reminded me of pony-tailed cheerleaders and slick haired, letter jacket wearing quarterbacks of yesteryear. 

We left Jackson and 1965 behind as we continued our drive south, this time heading to the town of Natchez, slap bang on the Ol' Mississippi. It's shameful to say, but until now we still hadn't laid actual eyes on the famous river. Memphis had kept us occupied with her history of musical legends and delicious chicken, and Clarksdale and Jackson veered away from it's banks. But Natchez clung to the river like this charmer suckling at this cow's teet.

After getting the balance between cheap and clean motel room right, we directed our GPS to Under-The-Hill saloon. This is another bar recommended by my America Addict chumbawumba back in the UK. It is run by a professional leprechaun. He wasn't as cheery or as charmed by our English accents as his Southern fellows. This threw me. 

I expected genial conversation, followed by hearty laughter and an offer of adoption by last orders. What actually happened was me shouting my head off at the deaf, and incredibly drunk, old fella for a Pecan Beer, an offer of homemade gumbo from a Louisiana visitor (this disappointingly never materialised), playing darts with a girl called Britney and her manfriend Kelly and being bought rounds and shots by the Drunkest Man in Existence, Pat. 

oh Pat. He meant well.

Pat had been stumbling around in our direction for a good hour, mumbling about his miserable 35-year marriage and telling us he was a 'good guy, really, have a drink on me'. Once his invitation had been accepted, he clearly felt so emboldened by our hesitant friendship that he felt comfortable enough to stroke Kelly's muscles - 'Ah'm nat gay man, but you got amazin' arms!' and tangling his grubby fingers in Leah's and my hair. I am, apparently, good-looking for a Mexican. 

Cheers, Patrick.

The next day marked our exploration of Natchez. We high-tailed it to the visitor's centre after perusing the antique shops (antique in America means barely 200 years old. She's still a young pup) which pointed us in the direction of antebelleum houses (much like mama Gump's house, but each cost $15 to visit. Just to have a look around. Jog on) dotted about the town, an old Indian village and a burnt out nightclub. 

The Grand Village of the Natchez Indians turned out to be pretty cool. It was free and also educational - the best type of daytime activity. I learned that Indian males once sacrificed a child from their clan to move up the social order in the hope of one day becoming Chief. A bit severe perhaps, but I feel this tradition could be exported and enforced on council estates and Chicken Cottages throughout England. Boost your CV, sacrifice a chav today! 
Farewell Broken Britain.

Rubbery Chicken and Musical Madness at Sun Studios

Memphis. Three-nights of insane good time fun.
Let me break it down for ya now: 

 

Beale St and Wednesday night's Earnest Warblers.
After a light afternoon snooze and a trip to the airport to confirm we'd be able to hire a set of wheels on the 17th, we headed to the bright lights and hot blues clubs of Beale Street. It's three blocks crammed full of clubs, tat shops, general oddities and bars such as B.B King's, Hard Rock, a voodoo alley and Superior Karaoke. On the hunt for happy hour deals, we meandered along looking into shadowy windows and laughing at the absurdity of one menu selling deep fried strawberries.
Yeah. I know.
I convinced Leah to have a drink at Superior Karaoke. It was loaded with X Factor wannabes yowling their best country n western, heavily obese black women their voices smoother than a tumbler of bourbon and a Lady Thang (imagine an obese Kate Hudson blended with a generous heap of Miss Piggy) who I couldn't work out if Leah loved or loathed. She watched Thang with this intense fire, mesmerised by the furious whipping of her curly blonde hair, laughing at an unimaginably hilarious anecdote. Her false lashes dipped into her pint glass, tinging the amber liquid with streaks of black mascara as she looked seductively across the bar at the MTV camera that surely must've been concealed somewhere in the venue. Why else this show, Lady Thang? She was ridiculous, a star spangled cartoon who clearly thought she was all that and a bag of chips and I loved her.
Between her, the grinding of Leah's teeth, the blinding display of musical talent and $6 glasses of Big Ass Beer, it was the best Wednesday night I've had this side of August.

 

 

 

The next morning, on the advice of the biggest Yankophile I know, we headed towards the waterside to find the hallowed ground that is Gus's World Famous Chicken restaurant. Tucked between industrial looking shop fronts, it doesn't look like much. But the reviews on Yell told a different story. 'I WANNA MARRY GUS'S CHICKEN AND HAVE IT'S NUGGETS!!', one hysterical customer had declared. Another proclaimed it was the best chicken he'd ever had, but please, no one tell his mama, it'd break her heart. GQ Magazine had selected it as one of the top three restaurants to fly across the country for. It had a lot to live up to. We pushed through the glass door and stood in line, gawking at the fried turkey promotions for Thanksgiving, special prices for Ugly Pecan Pie and talking to Kook, a friendly bottle blonde who promised me that we were on the way to Fried Chicken Heaven. She wasn't wrong.


DANG BOY.

I ordered a plate of dark chicken which came towards my salivating face with chips, coleslaw and the best barbeque baked beans I've ever had. I'm not really into BBQ. I find the sauce can be sickly and sweet just does not go with meat in my cookbook. But these beans. Yes.
They came second to the chicken. Arriving searingly hot from the frier, the chicken landed on the plastic red-checked table, the excess grease dripping on a slice of inexplicably placed white bread.
The succulent flesh, encased in tracing-paper-thin batter hinted at a twist of pepper and peeled easily from the main piece, gently releasing ribbons of steam and fragrant poulty aromas towards my twitching nostrils.
It was deliriously good, certainly some of the best chicken I've eaten. No meat sweats, a huge calorie debt but absolutely no regrets.

 

We also did a tour to Sun Studios. Obviously. I'd have to slap myself with a rubber chicken if I'd gone all the way to Memphis and failed to visit this womb of legendary talent.
A heavily sideburned man theatrically led us through the studio's history, playing scratchy original versions of Elvis's first song and Johnny Cash's recordings.
Then - and this was by far the best part - we entered the recording room where all these makers of history sang, sweated and breathed. It was AMAZING. The ceiling was rippled like a giant McCoy's crisp to help with acoustics and there were three spots marked on the ground with black crosses that showed where the King of Rock and Roll once really, truly, madly stood belting out the kind of hits that made millions of people mess their pants with excitement. Leah and I stared transfixed at the ground then shuffled towards the spot in silence.
I felt a tiny pea of jubilation seeping into my own gusset.

Super cool.
 

 

 

Supermarket's Weep (with joy)

One of the many things I love about America is her supermarkets. The sheer choice, the absolutely bonkers products and the inventions that sadly never made it to the UK's shores never fails to leave my eyes agog and my mind submerged in wonder. I'm sure the produce on offer in New England varies to that of the South, Mid-West and West Coast.

Here are just a few of the items I found in the north east's aisles:

The original saucy minx, Mrs Butterworth. Don't be fooled by her prim stance; Joy Butterworth loves doing the twist and simply relishes in gushing out her warm, sweet syrup all over the hottest piece of bacon and sausage that lands in front of her. Slag.

Doggy Pick 'n' Mix! Treat Street for your puggly mutt.

Excellent start, but this needs to be pushed further. Where are the LOTR Cheerios? Light-sabre-shaped turnips, leeks and carrots? A Game of Thrones turkey crown? A lettuce head modified to resemble a DeLorean time machine? Pull your finger out food developers, and save geeks the world over from the terror of rickets.

SNAZZMATAZZ! I never know whether it's duct tape or duck tape but I know I want animal print heavy duty tape in my life. It's the simple things. 

This is a rifle, there are many like it but this one could be yours. Who wouldn't want a pink gun called Daisy?Someone who doesn't take pride, that's who. Put it in your trolley, fool. 

Just in case you forget the basic rules of living.

NO.

I can't help but think Frieda would have been better placed to sell depilatory cream with all that lush face foliage going on.

Alright BABEZ, fancy a nyt out 2nyt? Juz uz girlz, bcoz who needz a man tho init? OMG LOLOLOL. Get ur bodycon out n ur heelz on cuz we r gna HIT THE TAAAAAN. xoxoxoxoxoxoxox l8rzzz

A scene as old as time.

WHY DON'T THEY SELL THESE IN ENGLAND? So many times I've had to make do with salted popcorn while our American cousins gorge wantonly on Buffalo Wing and Ranch flavoured popcorn across the Atlantic. This injustice must end.

Give your kid a Handi Snack and see if they develop a taste for Mr Salty. 

It's not a party unless you've got cheese in a can.

Seriously, what was the thought behind naming these sweet and salty snacks? They look like they should come with an R rating and a packet of K-Y.

The WINNER: Discounted ammo with every pack of beef jerky. God bless America.