England Day 2
England Day Two
At the Tower of London, we hustled to the Crown Jewels. Everyone heads there first, and it only gets worse as the day drags on. One or two stiff arms later—don't look at me, I was following my wife—we stood in awe of a diamond roughly 500 times the karats I could afford. "Wife, stop looking at it." Meanwhile, I became fixated on a Christening spoon from the 12th century. Our silverware set is definitely missing a few pieces. How do you keep a spoon that long? This was history right here. Where's America's spoon? Probably in the next National Treasure movie.
No photos allowed here, folks. Next stop: the royal beast section. Exotic animals once symbolized power and were gifted between monarchs. My favorite? The ostrich, a close relative of my natural enemy, the emu. The ostrich died after eating a nail. People used to feed it nails, believing ostriches ate iron. Why? Ancient times, you never cease to amaze. Why would it eat metal? And by ancient times, I mean before Google. Does it poop armor? Come on.
Speaking of armor, we headed to the White Tower. This is where they keep the old suits of armor. King Henry VIII’s armor was a standout—especially the later models, designed with a built-in beer belly. All bodies are beautiful, even when they’ve been shaped by years of royal feasts.
Next, we visited the Imprisonment Tower. This creepy spot housed prisoners who carved messages into the walls—what they called "graffiti." Bone-chilling stuff. I apologized to any presumed ghosts and politely greeted them—no hauntings, please.
The Bloody Tower came next, where we learned about the lost princes. This tragic tale involved a young king, his two sons, and a power-hungry uncle who took over the throne after the boys mysteriously vanished. We’re overdue for a movie about this. Two Angry Birds movies instead? Really? I bought a "Linear History of the Monarchs" book just so I could complain adequately. To be continued...
On the way to lunch, we passed the royal raven cages. The ravens eat meat and blood-soaked biscuits. Pretty metal. For lunch, we went Italian—no blood-soaked biscuits here. I was warned not to overeat since dinner wasn’t far off. I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my bolognese. I tried an Italian beer because I’m chasing an Untappd Italian badge. They’ve got Peroni, Peroni, and Peroni. When the server accidentally brought me a duplicate beer, I pleaded my case for a different one. She agreed to swap it out, but my follow-up, "What are you going to do with that one, though?" didn’t pan out. She took it back. Three Italian beers down—progress.
Next stop: museums. "Would you rather go to the British History Museum or the Natural History Museum?" I sensed a trap. "Natural History Museum," I declared confidently. "Well, we’re going to the British History Museum." So close.
We tackled the museum’s "quick view" list, which was basically a scavenger hunt for education. Surprisingly fun. We hunted down each item and snapped glare-riddled photos. No mummies, though—I’m not risking a curse. Sorry, Cleopatra—yes, she’s here.
Dinner was at Gordon Ramsay’s Heddon Street Kitchen. He’s my favorite chef. Probably everyone’s. I always say I could be on MasterChef if not for the cooking part. He taught me how to make scrambled eggs, after all. The burger was so good I struggled to breathe while eating it, looking like an infant learning about cheerios. We finished with his famous Sticky Toffee Pudding—hands down the best dessert we’ve ever had.
Somehow, I rallied to go drinking after that feast. Love makes you do wild things. We searched for a speakeasy, which turned out to be the walkie-talkie kind. We buzzed into a place called Cahoots, where it was swing dancing night. You had to order £25 worth of drinks to secure a table—easy. The semi-professional dancers wowed us. Turns out, they offer lessons before opening to the public. That explained a lot. I had cocktails featuring their signature liquor mix, Cahooch. Hooch—get it? Took me a minute.
I wanted to repeat my water-chugging bar trick from earlier, but the bar was closed. So, I did what any self-respecting adult would do: threw a tantrum and fell asleep. Cleopatra’s ghost probably understood.
