Kyle and I have this thing where we ask all the old guys who are working at the venues if they've seen our favorite '60s acts, and they usually have. Our new one is to scope out old English guys and ask them straight up. So we approached a white hair paying for his food and asked if he saw the Small Faces. Yes. Stones at Hyde Park? Check. Dylan at Isle of Wight? There. Four piece early version of The Nice? Yup. Jesus! We have since concluded that all white hairs have most likely seen the Small Faces or Traffic or Family, and Kyle and I will never cease to be jealous of them.
After our first sit down meal in a restaurant on this tour we got in Lester and went to Stonehenge. Yes, the place Spinal Tap sing of, the place where Clark W. Griswold talked to Russ about life. Since Ben has been there about a million times, he read Mojo in Lester while the five tourists stared at rocks. Old rocks.
When one approaches the 'henge it is an awesome sight to behold -- looming at the top of a hill like a big shit that awaits you after a Taco Bell binge late on a Saturday night. We walked the tour counter-clockwise and I felt the weirdness of this place. There was some creep dressed like a medieval person at the cafe having a coffee, and as weird as that seemed I guess that's just the way they roll in the 'henge. It sorta fit the mood.
Stonehenge is indescribable, and i am glad we did it. I felt like a cheese-ass tourist, but who cares?
All the best,
Skip’s Current State: hungover.