These titles get worse, they really do. But not as bad as BRAPA poetry, oh no.
This post is brought to you by the WiFi on board the Bolt Bus from LA to Vegas, with upload speeds of about 1 photo per Hershey’s bar. The technology that forged the moon landing 48 years ago, folks.
In the absence of Ordnance Survey, have a screen save of yesterday’s map for the visit to Beverley Hills. Think of it as a bit like Reddish.
All visitors to MAGA should use the buses and metros, it’s the closest you’ll get to a BRAPA style experience.
Mrs RM did me proud by huffing loudly at a chap throwing rubbish out the window of the No.2 from Sunset to Westwood, before I convinced her it was performance art.
Certainly the can of Pabst Blue Ribbon (above) rolling gently up and down the aisle would have formed a key exhibit at Margate’s Turner Gallery, a metaphor for the futility of Paul Pogba or summat.
In contrast, the art at the Getty Museum was a bit “old”, and no match for the building itself, one of the wonders of the world.
Congratulations to Mrs RM and the Japanese octogenarians for walking up the hill to the Getty rather than waiting 25 minutes for the shuttle.
She deserved her late lunch at BJ’s Brewhouse, a burger/brew/ball game sorta place in central Westwood near the Uni.
What can I say, there wasn’t a Sam Smiths or Wetherspoons, and it was Burger + unlimited fries for $9.99 day. Go figure.
“Hi I‘m Sarah and I‘m your server today. I recommend the Draught Bass, sorry sampler flight“.
If you’ve been to one of those French Les 3 Brasseurs places, you’ll know what to expect beerwise. It’s not Tiny Rebel.
But the Hopstorm, apparently a West Coast IPA, was just like Punk IPA, said Mrs RM.
And the burger and fries were possibly the best we’ve ever had. It was the only meal we had all day.