American Patrick Vs. British Patrick

I swear I haven’t conciousley changed the way I act, but somehow everyone I know in the University of Sussex program has a view of me that differs slightly from the American view of me.

Mainly, everyone here says I’m extremely positive and optimistic.

This is a big turn from American Patrick, where “pessimistic” was the main adjective applied to me. And for good reason – I could be very downtrodden while at Northwestern.

But still, I must be doing something radically different if one person feels the need to label me “the most optimistic person ever.” Maybe it’s the breezy Sussex summer or the abundance of steak-flavored crisps in the lobby vending machine that’s sub-conciously made me (gasp!) positive. I can’t even download music, yet I’m apparently buzzing with life.

(To be fair, I have also become known as the “indie person” and “the writing guy,” titles I’m very used to. Whenever someone finds out that I maintain a Cute Animal Blog, they lose it, it’s great.)

I’m trying to think about if I’ve changed in any other ways since I’ve been here, and can’t think of anything specific. My newfound optimism (which doesn’t apply to any thoughts of my future career, a thought that makes me want to set a bunch of small fires just to relax) may just be in the eyes of my friends here, or maybe being in England is actually subtly making me a more upbeat person. Even with a lack of Taco Bells.

Oh, I got a difference! American Patrick didn’t say “dodgy.” Yep, that’s character growth right there.

Obligatory “Football” (Soccer) Post

England’s current obsession of the moment, besides Amy Winehouse tabloid talk, is Wimbledon.  The BBC devotes about five channels to the tennis tournament everyday, and then talk about who beat who for almost as long on the news. On the train, a lot of the passengers clutch green Wimbledon gift shop bags, surely containing some small trinket proving they went to Wimbledon. Even all the American students talk about how they want to go to Wimbledon, see a match or just walk around aimlessly outside the venue. Just anyway to be there.

While the rest of England fawns over a yellow ball bouncing on green grass, I’ve fallen for the other sport assoicated with England: football (err, soccer). Before accussing me of just liking “the beautiful game” because I’m in England and thus need to love everything remotely British (I still hate Oasis), I’ve always been curious about the sport.

(Note: The game is going to called soccer from here on out. I still love the NFL, and the only football I know is the one where the ginourmous men smash into one another.)

Whereas most Americans declared the game “boring, slow-paced and full of Euro sissy boys” (all of which can be true), I’ve always yearned to learn more about soccer while growing up. I liked playing it enough as a little kid that, when all the other kids got old enough to start playing sports where the ultimate goal wasn’t just post-game orange slices, I became a soccer referee. For two years, I faced low pay and lunatic parents in order to run around with a bunch of second graders and pretend I knew anything about the game.

I followed the World Cup closely whenever it aired, and developed my first nationalistic sports crush when France won the thing in 1998 (“I’m part French, I guess I should cheer for them and hate other countries for no reason! Wee wee!”). One of the first professional sporting event I went to was a Los Angeles Galaxy game at the Rose Bowl. I followed along, but never knew enough to truly be considered a fan of the sport.

This June, I started watching Euro 2008, the big soccer tournament in (duh) Europe. Though my two rooting interests (France and Greece) sucked big time, I still found myself consumed by this tournament, and followed it whenever I could. I’d made a breakthrough – I no longer was watching soccer to just feel good about my “European roots,” but because I enjoyed the game. I even read the 900-page long History of Football book on the plane over here.

Tonight, I watched the final match of the tournament at the campus pub. Getting to see it in Europe was definitely interesting – it’s the first time I’ve seen a large group of people cheering and going crazy for soccer without a hint of irony. It also shined a light on how Europeans enjoy their sports – they focus on the what could have been, and wait for the moment. And then go absolutely bonkers for that moment.

I’ve been told the key to appreciating soccer is to not focus on the player with the ball, but those around him. The fans in the pub certainly got this idea. They hooop and holler when a player to at the bottom of the screen breaks away or a player cuts in front of the net right before a header. Soccer is a lot like a conversation – the most interesting parts happen between the words.

The fans in the pub remain mostly silent during the action, only emoting when something intriguing forms or someone scores (or, they laugh when a player gets kicked in the nads. A true universal joke, that one.). Even when they make a noise, it’s usually just whooping, no words. This stands in stark contrast to American sports fans, who need language attached to their cheering, even if it’s something as simplistic as “fuck yeah.” The Americans in the pub cheered, but also added insightful commentary like “what a good kick” or “he should just kick it.” It’s like laughing at a joke, and then adding “that’s funny.” Emotions speak louder than words sometimes.

I enjoyed watching soccer with the British – it helped me follow what was going on better than ever before, and revealed the strange passion the game brings to so many. Soccer will never be as big in the U.S. as it is here (I always see kids kicking a soccer ball around in the street, it’s really adorable), and will never top baseball or football in my personal interest spectrum. But I enjoy it, and can now at least say I have non-American exposure to the game.

But those players sure do flop a lot. Makes me hate the San Antonio Spurs even more.   

This Is London

I won’t waste words telling you how silly crossovers can be. Nobody is happy when Fred Flinstone meets George Jetson thanks to a glitch in time. Crossovers should be left for comic books and online fan fiction.

And yet I got the most welcome of crossovers ever today when Emily met up with me in London. She’s also studying in Europe this summer, in the south of France, right by the sea. Probably one of the sweetest summer vacations I could ever imagine, especially as she’s equa-distant from Paris and the Italian border. She’s visiting family in England before, so we met up at the sprawiling Victoria Station in London.

It’s always nice to be reminded of my old life outside of Facebook status updates, to see how people very important to me are doing in person. Even though I’m enjoying myself immensly here thus far and originally intended this trip to be a break-away from the usual, some communication makes everything a little better (though I’m still not good at this remotely, considering I frequently forget to use such simple tools as AIM or GChat. To be fair, my school bans Skype, so I get a pass on that). Just seeing a super-familiar face on another continent guaranteed a good day. And it very much was.

Maybe more importantly, though, was the fact Emily served as an excellent tour guide of London. She said she had been on guided tour after guided tour, and has thus sponged in enough facts about famous landmarks and notable streets to give me an impromptou tour of the city. She showed me (and explained the significance of) 10 Downing Street, various big-ass statues, the London Eye (I?) and a pirate ship displayed in a back-alley somewhere. Unlike most employed tour guides, however, Emily embraced the idea of being an uber-tourist in the town, a move sending shivers down the spines of “serious visitors” who don’t want to look like fools in front of people with pink hair and neon-colored jackets.

London, like New York, is such a big city it’s impossible to really take it all in on a single day, so it’s hard to come up with definite impressions of the place. But that hasn’t stopped me before. If New York didn’t blot out the sun with skyscrapers and had castles, it would be London. Buildings sit tightly next to eachother, stores and homes jammed together. London has plenty of unique, quaint stores all to its own. And it also has roughly a zillion Starbucks on every block. London is very grey, but not a depressing grey, rather an old-timey grey, like a silent film full of birds and car horns honking at toursits not looking the right way and almost getting hit (sorry Emily).

London also served as the perfect place for Emily and I to totally indulge in every hapless American’s dream – we became British for the day. Though we didn’t adopt Renasaince Fair-like accents, we did try to do as much British stuff as we could. At the top of our list – have afternoon tea. Unlike in America, where tea exists only in the realm of old ladies and gay people, the British take the drinking of tea super seriously. They have morning tea and afternoon tea, and heaven help you if you mix the two up. If you get tea from Starbucks, they probably reinstate the art of public execution to deal with you. It’s important stuff.

We went to Tea Pod, a green-colored store (possibly a chain, but who’s judging) specializing in tea. We placed our order (“afternoon tea”) and watched as the young waitress brough us two medium-sized kettles of tea. Next, she brought out a small pitcher of milk, as the British add a splash of the stuff in with their tea. She also brought out a plate of scones (fat muffins) and a tiny tub of strawberry jam. And finally, she pointed out the secret ingredient that made my tea so delicious – the sugar packets. I doubt the English actually throw in a wheelbarrow’s worth of sugar into their tea, but it helped me drink more tea than ever before, so whatever.

We also went to a pub (titled, ironically enough, Sussex House) and had a drink. It was Emily’s first time, and my 12th time this week, since everything but the pubs close at 4 p.m. in Brighton. Minus the clearly not-British bartender I dealt with (me: “Can I get a shot of whiskey?” him: “A shot?” me: “Yeah, a shot. You know, in a shot glass…” him: :puzzled look: me: “uhhhh…you know….ummmm…” him: “Oh, a SHOT!”), Sussex House delivered a very relaxed atmosphere where we could chat about the future (the first time I’ve done this in a long time where I didn’t want to jump in a tank of electric eels afterwards).

We walked back to Victoria Station, took one last photo and said goodbye. I’ve gotten so used to goodbyes by now they rarely leave me feeling anything significant (I’m a robot, apparently), but this one filled me with a rush of joy. Because, though we had to say farewell, both of us were off to do truly awesome stuff with our summers and hopefully have amazing experiences. It’s exciting to see others excited.

Not to mention we both now get to be the obnoxious we-went-to-England students next year in Evanston. Brace yourself for British slang and tea time, Northwestern.

A Seagull Just Took A Cereal Bar FROM MY HANDS…

…and I’m bleeding on my arm.

If you ever come to England, do not carry food outside where seagulls live. They aren’t like the frightened seagulls of America. These seagulls are proud, British, strong and willing to dive right at you and pry a strawberry cereal bar out of your hands.

Seriously though, what the hell?

I Still Write Pretentious Reviews: English Pizza Hut

American fast food restaurants occupy a strange place in English culture.  Joints like Burger King and McDonalds aren’t treated like crap establishments meant to be buried between a laundromat and a guitar store. No, in England these places get top-notch design and placement. I’ve seen Subways that would put Spaggo to shame. The Burger King I ate at had three TVs, one approximately as large as a Jumbotron. McDonalds was full of neon lights and avant-garde furniture.

They look fancy, but they do share one trait with their American burger bretheren – the food still sucks.

Famed American pizzeria and stuffers-of-crust Pizza Hut should face a similar fate in England, since in the States the most positive thing I can say about the restaurant is that their pasta didn’t give me an intestinal worm. Pizza Hut may be a step-up from Dominoes “put ketchup on a piece of white bread” approach to pizza, but not by much. Just focus on the cheese, and how it could have been peeled off from the walls of a North Korean nuclear power plant.

Yet lo and behold, Pizza Hut doesn’t just look fancy in Britain, the taste has been improved. In a strange break from the fact that, like an American Whopper, a British Whopper only tastes good while intoxicated, Pizza Hut pizza tastes legitimately good in Britain. I don’t know how they did it, but the English have bested the U.S. at the chain-pizza game.

The venue isn’t shocking at all – a nice, two story building in downtown Brighton playing soft music and holding a salad bar. As mentioned, American restaurants are revered in England. But the menu offers the first hint something is different. Mainly, the English Pizza Hut menu is two-times bigger than the American incarnation, which I assumed was just a checklist of pizza topping followed by BREADSTICK: YAY __ NAY __. This Pizza Hut had a page worth of starters and sides, going from all sorts of different breads to chicken strips to nachos. They even served non Pasta Hut related pasta. Even the pizza page got more space, mainly to show off English-exclusive pizzas, like the Mediterranean Meat or Supreme Supereme.

The pizza still comes in the same ugly black pan used in the states, but cut into it and the difference becomes clear: the cheese is actually fresh and not melted down styrofoam that has been re-frozen. English Pizza Hut pizza tastes much more fresh than any Pizza Hut I’ve encountered in America. The sauce doesn’t overpower. The toppings all get room to shine, especially the sausage, dubiously renamed “spicy beef” on this side of the pond. Even the bread, usually stale enough to shank a man in America, is soft and delicious. It’s tough to call any pizza “high cuisine,” but English Pizza Hut tastes as little as fast food pizza as a fast food pizza place can.

A special pie deserves special treatment. At English Pizza Hut, a server sits you down at a nice table, before a well-dressed waiter takes your order. Drinks come in glass cups, not the big plastic jugs shaped like R2-D2 you find in America. When your pizza finally arrives, the server doesn’t just throw the pan down and walk back to the kitchen to sob about his wasted life. He asks if he can ground pepper on it using one of those old timey pepper stick things. A fancy feast like this apparently can’t be eaten with your hands though. Every European in the restaurant went at the pizza with a fork and knife, even the crust. Strange site, since I’ve seen people in American tear into a slice before washing it down with the tub of marinara they give you for the breadsticks.

I used to equate Pizza Hut with the phrase “restaurant jammed to the side of my local Taco Bell.” But England has taught me that even the trashiest and greasiest elements of our culture can be transformed into five-star dining experiences with just a little care and thicker napkins. Now I’m just waiting for the instance I see a Popeyes based after a Brazilian steakhouse. Then I’ll know the British are winning.

Things I’m Obsessed With At The Moment

This list isn’t a copout as much as an easy way to highlight a few English highlights. And at least I didn’t rank them.

- Crisps

- Euro 2008

- The fact Pitchfork updates at the perfect time during the day across the pond

- Not thinking about journalism

- Seagulls on a college campus

- This band

- Trying to plan a trip to Glasgow

- Class

- How bizarre British newspapers are (nudity in a paper! Well I never!)

- The fact they still air Big Brother and The Weakest Link here

- Representations of America

- The Southern train

- Sunny days

- Going to London

- Treadmills with TVs AND radios installed in them

What I Do Without The Internet or I’m Old

Whenever the little blue globe on the lower-right hand side of my computer screen transforms into a sharp red “X,” I panic. Ability to connect to the Internet, like the ability to eat food or drink Diet Coke, is essential to my existence, and whenever I can’t have immediate access to such vital websites as ESPN and Cute Overload the will to exist vanishes. You could call it a problem, but e-mails and updates come in so quickly I need to be immersed in the digital world in order to just know what’s going on outside of it.

As evidenced by the lack of blog posts in the last couple of days (note: they are up now), my computer refused to comply with Sussex’s Internet. For an excruciating 48 hours, I got by only using the building’s computer cluster, visiting the small room for 10-minute bursts throughout the day. No longer tethered to the Web (I reiterate, not by choice), I was left with large chunks of free-time. I had no idea how to fill them, besides maybe sleep them away, hope this was all a bad, outdated dream.

Now, with my Internet working fine and five tabs already open, I’m not nearly as desparate for the Web as I was. All that free-time did leave me with lots of blank spots in my schedule, but instead of simply fritter the time away, I (gasp) did stuff. Not bogged down by the urge to refresh Kotaku every other second, I walked around campus frequently, figuring out every nook and cranny of the place. The lack of Digg in my life prompted me to head into Brighton, via road and rail, as often as I could. And without any Facebook issues in front of me, I could go out and meet people in real life.

I also felt real old.

The other night four new friends and I went into Brighton as part of the school sponsored walking tour of the city. After roaming around the tight streets and having locals tell us to “shut the hell up,” we ended the night by going to a pub, the traditional English bar. The five of us found a seat amongst the sketchiest shadows of the back of the joint, and spent the next 10 minutes trying to figure out what to do next.

The first moment of young oldness came when I purchased my first alcoholic beverage legally. Thanks to England’s wacky laws, 18 is the legal drinking age. I asked for two shots of whiskey and, in order to flex my masculinity to people who didn’t know I maintain a blog about cute animals, opted to not chase it with anything. And just like that, the act of drinking passed from an act of college rebellion to just another thing I could do if I wanted, like buy cigarettes or rent a carpet shampooer.

This particular pub’s shots came in a size about half to that of your typical American shot, meaning I didn’t get intoxicated at all. Though, I was clearly impacted enough to buy eight of them over the course of the night. Plus the bartender, either taken by the fact we were American or offended by our Yankee-Doodle-Dandy-ness, offerred us free shots of, failing to tell us what we were drinking. When we pressed him on it, he said “magic.” Not satisfied with that answer, we eventually got something out of him about how it was a “combination of syrups.” Still a bit sketchy.

And of course we drank them. Since I didn’t wake up in a bathtub filled with ice cubes, I imagine it couldn’t have been that bad.

Two of the people with us, both 19, had never taken a shot of anything ever before. Though we frequently told them we weren’t pressurring them, we eventually pressurred them into taking their first shots ever in England. In order to quell any of the fears they had going into the ordeal, I instructed them on what to do. Don’t taste it, just throw it back. Get something to chase with. You won’t die, I promise.

I found myself in an odd position. After years of being a novice who didn’t even drink that much, I was now mentoring two young folks about drinking. Not the noblest calling, but a good deed is a good deed, even if it’s messing up your throat.

They took their shots, didn’t tumble onto the floor and enjoyed it. I felt proud, like I’d just watched a baseball player I’ve coached so long finally get a hit in the Majors. And not throw-up onto the bar. We walked back to the train station, and went back home, where my computer still sat unpowered.

Different Class

Written Monday in the afternoon

My biggest complaint with the classes I’ve taken at Northwestern over the past three years is how little I care about the subject at hand. At best, a class presents something I’m not familiar with (Advertising, Intro to Film, European History) and keeps my attention for the next 12 weeks (with the exception of film, which helped me build on my already existing love of cinema, but allowed me to see it in a new light). At worst, I’m stuck in a lecture about a subject I have no attachment to trying to scrape by while the teacher rambles on about ideas I’ll push out of my head in 10 minutes to make room for the “$5 Footlong” jingle. I hate distribution requirements for this very reason: in the pursuit to make us “more well-rounded individuals,” I’m missing out on reaching my full-potential in fields I excel at and love. These classes diminish subjects students really love and shine at to mediocrity, stomping out the opportunity to have students gifted at one field but perhaps lacking in say math in favor of middle-of-the-road “balanced” students.

My first class at Sussex promptly dashed any fears of a similar uninteresting academic atmosphere the moment the teacher gave everyone in the class a Hold Steady “Massive Nights” single.

When I told someone during the opening party I was taking a class titled “Sex, Drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll,” they laughed and said “that’s awesome.” And yes, it really really is awesome. The aim of said awesomely titled course is to teach us, according to the syllabus, “how public relations has shaped the UK music industry.” The other goal is to gather about 10 students in a classroom three times a week to just talk about bands and how we get music.

The teacher, the awesomely named Johnny Hopkins, looks like a 30-something who never grew out of his 19-year-old skinny jeans and unkempt haircut. He works for a record label as the public relations guy, and helps promote bands like The Hold Steady and Drive-By-Truckers (the other free CD we got, in case you were curious). He used to work at Creation Records, and helped make Oasis and Kasabian huge. Johnny Hopkins, for lack of better wording, is hella’ awesome.

Class is spent talking about how bands present themselves. How Jerry Lee Lewis marketed himself directly at teenagers, something no other musician did at the time. How the entire ‘70s punk scene came to be. How Daft Punk are geniuses for dressing up like robots. History of Asian Art this isn’t.

The other, more self-satisfying reason I adore this class after only two hours is because, for the first time in a college setting, I feel like the smartest person in the class. At Northwestern, I feel clearly out-of-my league in 99% of the classes I take. In distribution classes the students who actually give a damn obviously outshine me. Even in the journalism courses I adore, I still feel extremely outclassed by my peers who cycle between reading The New York Times and Slate while mastering the concepts of “front-of-the-book” and copyediting. It can be frustrating to feel like an idiot about something you love so much.

But not here. I’m probably not the smartest student overall, but I am miles away the most well-versed musically. The teacher asked if anyone knew who The Hold Steady were, and I was the only one in the class (I promptly declared my love for them). Later, he asked if anyone knew who Throbbing Gristle was. I did, and only me! Same when he asked about Swans. And T-Rex. I’m glad to know all the hours I pittered away reading music blogs and Pitchfork have finally proved useful.

Also, though it means absolutely nothing to anyone but me, but I’m the “hippest” in the class. The teacher asked us what kind of music we listened to – a tough question since I don’t subscribe to only one genre, just as willing to listen to indie pop as rap as acid house – and I responded with stuff like “Radiohead, Modest Mouse, Wilco, weirder stuff like Animal Collective, Grizzly Bear.” The person next to me said Barry Manilow, about as uncool as uncool gets. Others said such fine acts as Hinder, Coldplay and “whatever is on the radio.” One guy declared his favorite band was Linkin Park. I thought all of those people grew up and got jobs at Denny’s, but I was wrong. As smug and asshole-ish as it sounds, I finally feel like the coolest kid on the block.

This is definitely the most interested I have ever been in a college class, and also probably the best shot I’ll have at a university level to be remotely brilliant. And, even though the last few paragraphs emphasized how bitching I am, this is one of the few classes where I actually think I’m going to learn truly interesting stuff. It has been awhile since a subject actually made me excited to go to class.

Also, we actually get to go to a Hold Steady concert in London in mid-July, as part of class. Now that’s truly awesome.

No Anxiety

Written Sunday at 3:12 p.m. British time

Beginnings always freak me out. When I went to NHSI back in 2004, I remember feeling an immense dread as I walked into the Jones dorm. I knew nobody, didn’t know how to make friends and was in a part of the country I’d never been before, thousands of miles away from anything familiar. I think I came pretty close to crying, I was so jittery.

Flash forward to fall freshman year at Northwestern. Though the place looked a little more familiar this time around, the same nervous feelings sunk in as I hung up my t-shirts in the tiny closet. How do I meet people? Will they like me? Should I be out meeting people instead of asking myself questions?

Somehow, my first day at the University of Sussex hasn’t brought out these old demons. Quite the contrary actually. Partly because I’ve already been through this routine twice and partly because I’m now aware everyone else feels the same way (insight I didn’t have the last two times), I’m feeling decently comfortable here.

Today I’ve mostly been taking in the sights and setting up my room. I took a tour of the campus and got a pretty good feel for what it’s like. It’s slightly smaller than NU, but seems more spread out, fields and forests taking up any empty space. All the buildings look nearly the same, built out of aging red bricks and sporting big Helvetica letters on the side declaring what their purpose is (the library says “library”). The most stunning view comes when you walk onto a porch through the gym’s bar (yes, bar), offering a gloriously (or as my guide said in a thick accent, “re-dick-u-lus”) green view of a Cricket field and the rolling hills of The South Downs. Moments like that make me wish my camera didn’t vanish.

Even more impressive – my room. I wouldn’t say I’ve been saddled with bad rooms at Northwestern, but I tend to occupy either cramped doubles or narrow singles. Here, I have a sink in my room. I have a desk that may be wider than my room back in Evanston. I have a big board decorated with weird British posters left by the previous occupant. And I have two chairs. British schools know how to spoil a student.

I’ve met a few people and heard another one blasting Lil’ Wayne’s “Lollipop,”, but need to get around some more. The people part always is the scariest hurdle, and I should be more terrified of becoming a recluse with a huge room, as a lot of people already know one-another (there are a lot of students from Penn State and UC Irvine, and most students seem to be from California). But somehow I’m not worried. No use in stressing out about making friends when I’ve only been here four hours. If I’ve learned anything from Northwestern, it’s that situations tend to spring up, and rushing into such new circumstances like it’s my only chance to meet people does no good.

Besides, the reception starts at six (all the lager we can drink!). No need to get nervous now, not after doing so well so far.

I Don’t Go Out: More TV Ramblings

British late night television, at least on a Friday night, isn’t very interesting. Nothing but news and news and news and one show where a guy with a bad haircut interviews people. And with only four channels to choose from (at least in my minimalist hotel, where the bathroom is two floors below me), variety isn’t king.

But Saturday morning programming in England rocks, because it is so awkward.

I’m currently watching a British cooking show where three British chefs and Jerry Springer are making really fatty burgers. I love it because Jerry Springer isn’t doing anything at all – he’s walking around, making snide comments about what the chefs are preparing. He looks like he wants to be any place else in the world right now. When Jerry Springer eats the burger they made, he even chews awkwardly. It reminds me of when Japanese ads feature American actors for no reason whatsoever.

The other big Saturday morning fare is kid’s programming. Unlike in America, where Saturday morning means cartoons and explosions and explosions and commercials, British programming opts for…variety shows and instructional shows, with no commercials at all. Take The Slammer. It’s kind of like America’s Got Talent, but it takes places in a wacky jail where the winning act “gets to leave jail.” Also flying directly in the face of jail logic, “The Gov’nor” brings in a bunch of school children to judge the event. Today’s episode featured magicians, an accapella group and a guy telling jokes to his computer. I was transfixed.

Following a re-run of Scooby-Doo, the slew of instructional programs came on. Art Attack taught me how to paint my own gypsy, well Fingertips showed me how I could turn an average cereal box into a CD holder resembling a DJ’s turntable. My personal favorite was Beat the Cheat which teaches kids how to swindle people. That isn’t the aim of the show; the intent is to teach kids how not to be swindled by shady street people, but in order to protect them they have to tell the youth how the swindiling goes down. Much like telling a kid you can get a buzz sniffing a marker BUT DON’T DO IT, I imagine this show just teaches kids how to rip people off. I now know how to steal pounds from your back pocket, by the way.

Currently, I’m watching a reality show aimed at kids that should put anybody to sleep. Beat the Boss pits a team of experts who do something against kids trying to do the same thing. Today, they have to design a reptile habitat. This could be interesting, but all they show are the kids and adults holding meetings. Meetings to talk about design, meetings to talk about presentation, meetings to talk about meetings. It’s like watching a marketing class on TV. They did play a Foals song though.

Finally, the British love outdated thing. Big Brother is on, though I thought that show ended around the same time as Will and Grace. Also, Steve Irwin still has a TV show. Even though he’s been dead for two years now. I want to yell at him not to go near the water, but alas, I’m already too late.

Now they have a show on where a panel see who can send a text message the fastest soundtracked by Bloc Party. Even I can’t stomach this, and I just watched a ghost for half-an-hour.