I bloody love it when you British folk take your holidays here in Los Angeles. You look almost saintly as the California sun reflects off your translucent skin like white-hot laser beams from heaven. Plus, you’re a hell of a lot of fun at the bar, and the Mexicans here really appreciate the novelty of white people who actually give a fuck about soccer.  But most of you probably think that a bottle of 2000 SPF lotion, a pair of Daisy Dukes cutoffs and a hundred quid will get you through a week in the City of Angels. Think again, fancy pants. Here’s what you’ll really need to do if you wanna survive in what my close personal friend Ice T calls “The Home Of The Bodybag.”  

1. Learn Spanish
English hasn’t been the predominant language in Los Angeles for decades. In fact, even the Asian and European immigrants who come here speak Spanish these days.  To wit:  I live in an area called Historic Filipinotown, which is only an accurate description if by “Historic” you mean “run down” and by “Filipino” you mean “Mexican.”

2. Be vegetarian
143 million pounds of beef were recently recalled from Southern California. According to CNN, that’s enough to make two E-Coli burgers “for every man, woman and child in the United States.” Yum!

3. Buy stuff.
We all know you can afford to, what with your British pounds running roughshod over our flimsy greenbacks. The dollar is so weak these days that you can buy a used car in Los Angeles for the price of an iPod in London. (We hate you for this, by the way—but mostly we hate George Bush.)

4. Bring a book—and, like, a sandwich.
For traffic jams. You’ll be spending most of your time here in these. But because you insist on using the wrong side of the road back home, you’ll also require a driver to shuttle you around Los Angeles. No driver, no admittance—them’s the new rules. If you’re unwilling to hire a chauffer, feel free to book a trip to India instead. We hear the pound is even stronger there.

5. Try this amazing new delicacy we have called “ice cubes.”
Immediately upon arrival in the UK, my friend Ironlung demands a bucket of ice. He’s been doing this for years now, and he still hasn’t gotten one. What is it with you people?  It’s hot here in Los Angeles, and a cocktail is best enjoyed “on the rocks” by the pool, not at room temperature in some public house with a carpet. (We hear the cold beer trend has recently caught on in England, but we still suspect way too many of you sad limey fuckers still prefer your pints piss-warm.)

6. Know the difference between a British “fanny” and an American “fanny.”
In the States, “fanny” is just a cute word for ass. So don’t be appalled when you hear a young mum threaten to slap her daughter’s vagina raw in the middle of a public street. (As you can see, this information is actually more important for Americans to have while—we refuse to use the British “whilst”—in the UK.)

7. Own a gun.
Everybody else has one—why shouldn’t you? I happen to own several—one in my car, one for each room of my apartment (I’ve even got one taped to the back of the toilet, Godfather-style), and one strapped to the gut (or “gunt” as I like to call it) of my morbidly obese cat. However, non-residents—and by this I mean You—cannot purchase firearms in the state of California, so you might want to explore your Kevlar options.

8. Kill all the white people; then we’ll be free.
As mentioned in tip # 1, all my neighbors are brown and, quite frankly, I like it that way. When whitey moves into a non-white neighborhood, it can only mean one thing: Gentrification, which is the Latin name for an irreversible economic affliction with symptoms that include gelato shops, Starbucks, and exorbitant rents. Luckily, the folks in my building seem to harbor a bizarre affinity for six-and-a-half-foot white men with no apparent means of employment. What does this mean for you, you ask? Stay the fuck out of my neighborhood.

9. Don’t be a fuckface.
We’re all stocked up here, thanks. Reason magazine recently published an article by Michael C. Moynihan entitled ‘Take Them Back To Dear Old Blighty,’ in which the author lamented the armies of tracksuit-wearing, loud-mouthed, lager-swilling chavs who have descended upon American shores to score cheap goods and watch Ricky Hatton get his ass handed to him by Floyd Mayweather. But we breed enough drunken sport-fan shit-heads as it is, so please leave the Manchester United routine at home. In other words—try to be less American, okay? There’s really no need to blend in.

Greetings limeys and other assorted peoples of Britain, Britain, Britain:

Just back from Helsinki, where I totally saw four out of five members of Children Of Bodom naked.  It seems that having a Yank journalist around got them so hot and randy that they felt compelled to strip down to fighting weight and whip out their pale Finnish junk. Then we all jumped into the Baltic Sea, which made our dinks shrivel up like little stacks of dimes while (I refuse to use the British “whilst”) our testicles withdrew into our body cavities like scared turtles. It was disgusting and hairy and totally liberating at the same time—so much so, in fact, that I’m toying with the possibility of going gay.  First up on my potential buggery/manwich list: Our beloved Rock Sound Editor. I know he’s a married man and all, but everybody knows that ass-fucking doesn’t count as cheating. Especially if it’s with another dude. Does Captain Taylor have the fortitude (and elasticity) to withstand an American-style delivery of the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name?  Tune in next time…

Love, 

Bennett