Further proof that my husband is British – (Like you didn’t already know) Tia
I don’t know how it’s going to happen. Frankly, there aren’t a lot of hot British guys just roaming around LA as far as I know. And you practically have to be butt-booty nekkid to fly from London to the states, which in my opinion is something of a deterrent for coming here. And if I can’t take my iPod on the plane I’m not going on the 6-hour flight over there anytime soon. Like I said I don’t know the logistics. But my husband HAS TO BE BRITISH.
I have been an anglophile for a while now. Anyone who knows me knows it. It the accents I think. Plus, how can you not love guys with those accents who look like this:
(Look how happy Becks and Ashley are. Too bad they lost in penalty kicks in the next round)
It’s impossible not to love them.
But the big thing is the music.
I love LOVE LURVE music. The only person I know who loves it more than me is Toya. (While I might not know a title or confuse a face, she is spot on.) And while I do love Toya I don’t love her like that. Thus leaving an open slot for a male music lover to come on in, sweep me off my feet and up my cd collection by a few hundred or so. The problem is I don’t know but one guy in the states that can feel music like Toya and I feel music. And it’s Tag. And well, I don’t feel no kind of way about him. I mean other than occasionally wanting hit him in his chest. HOWEVER, I do know quite a few English guys that have this music thing on lock.
And think about it. When you were younger so much of the best music came out of London: Breathe, Culture Club, Breathe, The Police, Breathe, Seal, Bros (that’s not for everyone), Breathe, Level 42…The list can go on and on. The Brits had that music thing clenched. And apparently they still do.
I almost wrecked my car today. But in the split second between wreck and safety I thought, “God I know you’ve a got a great British guy for me. Because otherwise this will become an unhealthy…umm…unhealthier obsession and I KNOW you don’t want that.”
A friend of mine who is a DJ in London sent me some cds because, well, just because. One of the cds was of his radio show. In the first 20 minutes there were too many “Aw, shoot!!” moments to count. But the thing that made me take my hands off the wheel, cover my mouth and scream and then inadvertently almost pull into the opposite lane of traffic was Luther’s Don’t You Know That segued into Let’s Chill. Now Let’s Chill is one of my favourite songs of all time. So I briefly lost all control of sanity and started screaming. Granted, it was the Charlie Wilson version but I didn’t care. Besides, it’s first name Charlie, last name Wilson. It’s not like he can’t SANG.
But it was one of those things that makes you ask, “Who does that?” Why would you do that to me? Do you not care about my safety at all? If you did you wouldn’t have put that song on the cd with no warning label. It’s like Phil Collins One More Night. The song needs some sort of disclaimer because it just sneaks up on you. No warning. No time to think. Just, “One more night…”
Anyway, I recovered quickly enough to jerk the wheel hard right and get back in my lane. And as I pulled into the parking lot at work I realized, for the umpteenth time, that I HAVE to have one. I turned off the engine and sat silently pleading with God. “PUH-LEEEEEEZE give me an Englishman with nice teeth and a deep appreciation for music like this. You said ask and you will receive whatever you need. I NEED this. PUH-LEEEEEEZE Amen.” (I know that’s not what that scripture meant but you have to realize that I was a little off in that moment.)
I have an illness. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch. But if I had one of my very own I think it would be better. I wonder if there are support groups for people like me? Hmmmm…..