I would always support a retailer that has the word 'flushing' in its title.
"Socialists drive Opels."
Or Vauxhalls, as they're known here.
That was the premise to our day expedition, and we finally settled on Rye.
Not rye bread - I didn't see any sandwiches made from low GI bread myself - but the actual name of the town is Rye.
Britain also has a high speed train! The thing was actually bullet shaped. And the four of us sped down to Rye, on the coast of Sussex.
Rye is next to Britain's longest, sandiest beach. If it weren't for the flag, one would think one was in....
It was sunny and warm, hence the reason for a day trip to begin with, so we sat outside and spoke about rude, crass things as me and my friends are tend to do, eat a roast and drank champagne.
Ate a roast. Brits eat full roasts at the seaside. On Sunday. Whether it's hot or cold. By full roast, I mean meat, Yorkshire pudding, potatoes and veg. They also eat sausage butties and other seriously heavy, stodgy foods on the coast.
Fish and chips aside, it just proves that the Brits can't live without these things:
The Daily Mail
Hourly debates about the weather
We all got sunburnt. My mate's bald dome - his head - is now a beautiful shade of lobster rouge; and my my other mate, She Who Hates Socialists, burnt her boobs.
She Who Hates Socialists dates one once. She said it was awful. And they drive Opels. And Ford Mondeos.
He exists. Except his real name is Phillipp and he changed it to Simon when he started retailing pastry treats.
Rye is not only pretty; it has famous people. Always one for a bit of famous stalkage, we got the details from our cab driver.
Paul McCartney lives there (important), and so does 'Tom' from Keane. (slightly less important. Maybe)
"Tom from Keane! NO WAY!" I squealed.
The cab driver showed me the CD case of the only (?) Keane album Keane ever made.
(Look, seriously, I loved Keane. I just can't remember which one Tom was.)
"Tom gave it to me and everything."
Peas: Get out of town.
Cab driver: What?
Peas: I mean, shut up. No way. For real.
Possibly the most compelling insight into the British psyche. British people drinking tea and eating scones on a street corner. In the sun.
We walked around, drank Pimms and checked out the vibe.
Then I got a craving for cake, pretty much right after the shops closed.
You can get your cock pierced in Rye, but you can't buy a cake after 5pm.
Seriously. The antiques stores and tattoo parlours, that pierce dicks as part of their service, were open, but not the tea rooms.
So I got home and bought 8 lemon drizzle slices from the fucking Nero coffee stand near my house instead.
Anyway, what a positively wankworthy outing. More day trips to come.