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Panic not, fair lovelies

Hello People of The Earth

The Bay Area Brit here. I normally update with a funny essay, or captioned photos of people mis-behaving in public. BART I’m looking at you.

But today I’m just giving a quick update. Sorry I haven’t added anything here lately, I’m in the closing stages of writing a new book. I think it’s the best thing I’ve written so far, and I wanted to finish it completely before devoting time to anything else in the writing department. It’s a funny, murder-mystery set on a construction site in Marin County, and if I tell you any more than that, you won’t get me to shut up.

If you miss me–stop pretending you don’t miss me–I will be reading a short, funny essay about my purely platonic relationship with James Bond at The Cartoon Art Museum in San Francisco, Saturday March 1st.

It should be a fun event and well worth the entry fee. Regardless of whether a Brit is prattling on about James Bond, the museum is a must-see in San Francisco if you’re a fan of the comic strip/cartoon oeuvre.

Thanks for continuing to follow The Bay Area Brit

I love you all tons and tons,

Matty Stone (The Bay Area Brit)

Meanwhile, this.

JamesBond

The Gospel According To BART (Strike Edition)

Welcome to the fifth “Gospel According To BART.” Now with some late-breaking news about the BART strike, we go over to our “on the train” news team Diane Summers and Ron Dayton……

“Guys, you’re on. Ron…wake up! You’re on live! Diane, can you hear me? Cut to Gary with Sports, I think they’re dead.”

BART's definition of "OUT OF ORDER" greatly differs from my own.

BART’s definition of “OUT OF ORDER”  differs greatly from my own.

So I'm confused. Is this the button to call the Agent or to get the elevator? If only it were clearly marked.

So I’m confused. Is this the button to call the Agent or to get the elevator? If only it were more clearly marked.

Dear BART,  Shit doesn't work as an adhesive. That is all.

Dear BART,
Shit doesn’t work as an adhesive. That is all.

This is why you should feel uneasy when someone sits RIGHT BEHIND YOU. He's already taken out the lady to his left. I don't know, maybe he's just taking a photo of a mole on the back of the guy's neck to show him and tell him he should get it checked out.

This is why you should feel uneasy when someone sits RIGHT BEHIND YOU. He’s already taken out the lady to his left. I don’t know, maybe he’s just taking a photo of a mole on the back of the guy’s neck to show him and tell him he should get it checked out.

Meanwhile outside the station, in the BART parking lot, commuters discuss transport alternatives to BART. "Hey, bro, cool bike. We have so much in common. Wanna go grab a coffee sometime?"

Meanwhile outside the station, in the BART parking lot, commuters discuss transport alternatives to BART.
“Hey, bro, cool bike. We have so much in common. Wanna go grab a coffee sometime?”

Phone theft on the BART system is on the rise. Cameras are not a guarantee of safety, please keep an eye on all your valuables, including laptops, purses, and especially phones.

Public opinion as to whether BART should strike is mostly in favor of not striking, but this chap says he is with them and on his own strike against whatever it is that he might be paid to do.

Whether BART workers are justified in striking is a hotly debated issue. But this chap says he is with the workers and peacefully picketing in a show of sleepy solidarity.

You Can Doooeeeet!!!!

    When I was 16 my arms were like two pale sticks attached to an anorexic snowman. I was painfully thin. It wasn’t my fault—I’m English. Dickensian-skinny is to the youth of England as childhood obesity is to America. I was completely free of the burden of things like fat or muscles. I had seldom lifted anything heavier than a suitcase, and had never felt the urge to lift said suitcase over my head as a form of exercise for any reason. I was a runner, and that was how I chose to exercise.

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What’s The Matter? You Afraid To Die? – A Love Story

     One night after leaving a club in London I was standing on the curb waiting for a green light so I could cross Oxford Street. It was late and there was barely any traffic, but in my slightly drunken state I didn’t want to misjudge the speed of any vehicles coming my way. Just then, a beautiful woman with long, black hair ran past me, stopped in the middle of the street, spun around and said in an American accent, “What’s the matter? You afraid to die?” Read more

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The Bay Area Twit

    The last time I was in England I was reminded of the difference between American and British customer service. When you go to a supermarket in the U.K. the cashier is responsible for ringing up your groceries AND THAT’S IT. If you want someone to bag up your things, forget it, you might as well have a grocery bagger flown in all the way from the States.

Fair enough.

     In the U.S. the supermarket cashiers are told to engage their customers, call them by their name, and be familiar to encourage a sense of community and loyalty. But it can all go horribly wrong when a clerk, as often happens, assesses what you’re buying and announces to you (and whomever is around you) what you’re having for dinner. This is all well and good if you’re buying chicken, corn, burgers and buns, and a 12-pack of Bud Lite.

    “I’ll bet you’re barbecuing,” they’ll say.

     “Yep, you got me, we’re barbecuing.”  Your mouth forces a reluctant uncomfortable smile. Perhaps you feel a little guilty that you are indeed off to a barbecue as the cashier toils away at their job for another 6 or 7 hours.

      But suppose instead of placing barbecuing supplies on that conveyor belt, you’re buying toenail fungus ointment, hemorrhoid cream, and 27 rolls of toilet paper. The last thing you want is an uber-chatty checkout clerk trying to do their best Sherlock Holmes impression, loudly announcing how they imagine the rest of your evening is going to go.

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Agent 99

Last week The Bay Area Brit turned three.

The terrible twos were good to me. And since three is one greater than two, I expect this third year to be …er…oh, shit… Math …hang on …carry the one…minus the Leap Year day last year…um…Awesome!

Today is February 25th and marks the one-year anniversary that my host, WordPress started keeping track of the various countries that visit The Bay Area Brit site. Now this won’t tickle your fancy as much as it does me/mine, but in the last 365 days I have had visitors from 99 different countries. Now I know what you’re thinking: So what, 99 people from 99 countries happened to stumble upon your stupid little, somewhat amusing site in the space of a calendar year.

Well that’s not quite the case.

My ego will not allow me to believe this was in any way an inconsequential feat.

I have had only 3 hits from China. It’s a country of a billion people, but I happen to know that those hits came from some pretty influential people. In my mind, I’m bigger than Chairman Mao at his peak, and there are giant banners with my face on it decorating Tienanmen Square. Maybe I should tell the lady that answers the phone when I order take-out from my local Chinese restaurant (Yang Chow) that I am extremely famous in her homeland. Maybe I will get the special friend and family discount or some free Chow Mein or maybe they’ll name a dish after me…That would be pretty cool.

ChairmanMe

I had a cyber-visitor from Iran. This was not recorded by my host but by a different site that tracks visits. They also showed a visit from someone in Sudan that also wasn’t registered by my host. Well whats up with that, WordPress?

My Iranian and Sudanese peeps want to know the Brit’s scoop too.

The day that film director James Cameron went 20,000 leagues under the sea off the coast of Guam in his mini-submarine, I got a visit on my site from Guam. True. Guess who in my warped mind I assume visited my site? That’s right. Mr. James Cameron. I also feel pretty sure that there will be a British character in his next movie loosely based upon you know who…wink-wink.

If something goes wrong down there at the bottom of the ocean, please tell The Bay Area Brit how much I love his work.
“If something goes wrong down there at the bottom of the ocean, please tell The Bay Area Brit how much I love his work.”

Okay, so yeah, I’m a tad delusional.

 I’ve had hits in Africa too. Ten countries in Africa. Did I mention how famous I am in Africa? I’m like Nelson Mandela meets Haile Selassie meets Shaka Zulu meets Charlize Theron. I could like totally be the President of Africa. Well, you know, if one person could rule a continent. *Note to self* learn Swahili.

I’m also massive in random East-European countries. Countries that I never even knew existed. And by massive I of course mean that I get a shit-ton of hits…and why not, yo, I’m eloquent and whatnot. I’m so whatnot.

I’ll bet that if the dismantling of the Soviet Bloc hadn’t already happened I could have helped with that. You know why? Because Mother Russia loves it some Bay Area Brit. Da, it is true.

Some people have said that I must have an agent that spends his calendar year going from country-to-country and logging in Internet Cafes and hitting up TheBayAreaBrit.com. I have encouraged my friends to support: (Whassup, Venezuela, New Zealand, Malawi, and some of Scandinavia) But an agent? If that was the case, wouldn’t I just have the agent go to one more country so I could claim 100 countries? But then I couldn’t use the cool Agent 99 Get Smart reference.

TCDGESM EC006

 The third highest number of hits after The U.S. and Canada (my face soon to be printed on the Canadian dollar BTW) is of my homeland: Great Britain.

However, In spite of the hits, I’m pretty sure the British don’t care about me….No, no, no, no …it’s okay…But that’s the beauty of being British: We really don’t care about stupid things like a trivial blog written by some Trans-Atlantic twat.

I’m appreciated in China, ALL of the former Soviet bloc, every European country, Iran and a bevy of other countries in the Middle-East. Almost all of Central and South America, Some of Africa, and all of Asia excluding North Korea. But the response back home in Britain? “Think you’re better than us do ya?”

“No, no, no, no. Well, yes, of course I do. Did I mention I’m a tad delusional?”
 

The Package

Look at me. I’m like a child on the morning of his birthday, waiting for the mailman to bring him a gift. No, it’s worse than that: I’m like a spoiled lapdog running to the window every ten seconds, waiting for his owner to come home. Every faint whiff of perfume that wafts through the slightly cracked window has him running around in circles near the front door.

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