Foggy London Towne

Warning: this article isn’t about the Edmonton Oilers Ice Hockey Club, their penalty killing unit efficiency or quality of opposition statistics. Instead it is about our wanderings overseas and the beers we have crushed. You’ve been warned, I’m a Scientist!

Well, well, well Europe. Be prepared to get a Wanye-shaped foot in your ass. You might have been able to trick us regularly in Spain with all of your "Spanish" and "local nudity laws" but this is England and if we can’t communicate effectively using the King’s English then Robin Brownlee was right when he called us "easily one of the dumbest people I have had the misfortune of meeting."

Everyone in London seems to go to the pub and engage in long deep talks with each other. There are no TVs in most parts of a traditional English pub, no distractions, no video games. Just sitting down with your "mates" and staring them in the eye as you crush "pints." This must explain the British desire to go and dominate the world, so you can return home to the local Cock and Ale Tavern and tell all of your pals of your exploits abroad.

If we had to go to the bar and just talk to the boys, we too would feel compelled to do way wickeder stuff too, like smash the Belgians, dominate a subcontinent or what have you. Luckily we have 190 TV screens within line of sight in our beloved Edmonton bars and we can observe others doing things and make witty comments like, "That Tom Gilbert is a piece of lazy shit. Right fellas?" And then we all laugh heartily, slam our pints on the table repeatedly and no one needs to actually do anything.

After awkwardly talking to one another, the OilersNinja and your ol’ pal Wanye left the pub and got straight crushed in a London night club called the Road House drinking Canadian Club Rye. At the beginning of the night we told the bartender that we were going to drink all the C.C. he had in the joint and we didn’t disappoint.

The big shock on the night came at precisely 2:12 AM. No lie, the good folks at the Road House played the theme song to Baywatch and to our imperial surprise the party people danced up a storm.

We literally hadn’t heard the theme song to Baywatch since we used to watch Baywatch — which last went down in about grade 8. Mind you when we watched episodes of Baywatch in Grade 8 we weren’t really be in it for the audio if you catch our drift. But that is another story for another website. And what does the bar back up this auditory assault with? The Friends theme song. We have never heard the Friends theme song for more than 3 seconds as we changed the channel to find Sportscentre, but there went the British dancing to it too. And this guy (noted below) here decided to turn his shirt inside out and dance with the ladies. Rookie move, "mate."

After the bar it was off to get a "donar kebab" — the local version of a Dustin Penner. It was no Queen Donair we can tell you that, but we were in no condition to quibble over quality.

We have been reading the Nation from cover to cover whenever spotty wi-fi coverage gives us a chance. The article Brownlee wrote the other day is probably one of the best of the year and he is bang on as usual in his assessment of the State of the Union.

Whether Tambo or the veterans are to blame something needs to be done — and quick. We can’t imagine this is the team Kay-Z earmaked $205 million for, nor is it the team Pat Quinn and Tom Renney thought they would coax onto the ice when they signed onboard. Nor is it a team that the City can sufficiently get behind during the conversations to build a new arena.

Bottom line: winners stick around, losers play in Long Island.

This team needs to improve — and fast.