Few forms of reading are as entertaining than that offered by British newspapers. While every country has their tabloids, featuring off-the-wall stories (often fabricated) about celebrities, this type of content seems to always find a place in even the most reputable newspapers produced by London daily. From The Sun to The Guardian and everything in between, more emphasis seems to be placed here on uncovering the latest football wife-and-girlfriend drama or the accidental private part flash by a busty blonde on her Ibiza getaway than things happening in those less important issues, like, oh, national politics or human rights.

But before you journalism purists get bent out of shape about it, just relax…and enjoy it! I’m always entertained no matter what I’m reading—even coverage of football seems to revolve more around hurt feelings and dented Bentleys than game strategy—and it has certainly made many a long commute via Southwest Trains and the Tube go by in a snap. One that comes to mind was in the wake of  football club Chelsea’s historic Champions League victory in 2012—the biggest accomplishment in the club’s 107-year history. Rather than focusing on some of the hundreds of newsworthy subplots, much of the next day’s coverage revolved around the hurt feelings of striker Fernando Torres, who felt “more humiliated than he had ever been” because he was relegated to coming off the bench rather than starting the match. He still played a significant amount of time, including the decisive conclusion, but somehow had the gall to let his personal ego outweigh a once-in-a-century team accomplishment. And the newspapers ate it up, comically (perhaps just as comically as seeing a gaudy Torres at front and center of the team’s victory parade through West London the next day).

British newspapers are more comedic soap opera than journalistic integrity and I, for one, actually prefer it that way!

Nobody can say they’ve truly experienced England until they’ve visited a local pub. With catchy names like Firkin & Fox or The Little Driver, you’re bound to be enchanted with the elaborate décor, quirky menu and the general way they operate.

First, there is rarely waiter service. While people order drinks at the bar in most of the world, here in England you also will request a menu and place your food order at the bar, and pay up front. You’re handed a number, and minutes later your entrees are brought straight out to your table. No tipping necessary.

Secondly, you may be surprised to see not only beer, but even wine on tap. At least in some places.

Next, you have to get with the lingo. Weekends often feature a Roast, which is (as you may guess) some massive portion of roasted meet only available on those days. “Bangers and Mash” means simply sausage with mashed potatoes. “Bubble and Squeak” is basically the veggies that happen to be leftover from the weekend Roast, and “Pudding” can stand for just about anything that they couldn’t come up with a more fitting name for (so don’t be alarmed if what is called pudding is actually more like bread).

Finally, perhaps the most surprising thing about British Pub food is the cost. In America, fast food tends to be the cheapest option if you’re looking to eat on a budget. In the UK, however, it is common to find pub specials with two meals for £8 (or thereabouts), which include a drink (maybe it will be £10 with alcoholic drinks). It’s also regular to see deals like “burger and a pint” for £4 or £5. In comparison, you’ll likely pay more eating at Burger King, making pub food all the more essential to daily life here.

In the U.S., it seems like a must for any reality television show to have someone on the panel that boasts a heavy British accent. Whatever the reason, it catches our ear, women find it charming, and it creates memorability. Not to mention that just about everyone can reel off their rendition of a British accent on demand.

But while it makes enough sense intuitively that it would, I am still surprised every time the same effect occurs on the other side of the Atlantic. Despite that, it appears that British people have the same reaction to American accents as Americans do to theirs. Catchy, charming and memorable. And yes, the English do love to offer their renditions of American accents as much as we do theirs!

So if you’re in America and you want to be considered exotic, fear not…there still is a stage for you—in England.

Imagine a million people running around with no place to go, all united in celebration of….something. So what that the vast majority of them haven’t a clue exactly what they are celebrating? It’s Notting Hill Carnival, baby!

Every year on the last weekend of August, about a million people of every creed, color and nationality descend upon this otherwise quaint neighborhood on the western edge of central London—just to the north of the posh Kensington and Holland Park areas and just east of gritty Shepherd’s Bush. The Carnival originated in the 1960’s as a celebration of West Indian culture, with a heavy dose of Trinidad, Jamaica, St. Lucia and just about every other country in the region. While its origins trace to a time of heavy racial tension in London, it has evolved over the past four decades into a multicultural celebration, with countless blocks of narrow residential streets packed shoulder to shoulder with peaceful party-goers.

While the event is centered around a parade, featuring Caribbean steel bands, dancers with elaborate costumes, radio deejays and the like, most attendees probably never see the parade course. Instead, every few hundred feet there seems to be another party going on, with a new set of speakers blasting reggae, trance, hip hop, and just about anything else that gets people moving.

If you can navigate to some of the food stalls, you can enjoy Jamaican specialties like jerk chicken, plantains, patties and rice & peas, and of course there is Red Stripe—the beer of choice by a longshot—available by the basketful.

Enjoy some of the pictures below from the Carnival, and if it looks appealing to you, book your ticket to London for the last weekend of August. If you’re looking for one of the largest street parties on the planet, with completely free entrance, you won’t be disappointed. 

My ID:  7:07am, Thursday, 30 May 2002:  London Heathrow Immigration

United Airlines flight UA956 from New York-Kennedy

Unfortunately, my Initial Descent to the UK wasn’t the greatest. As my first foray overseas, I knew nothing about immigration, customs, or the world’s busiest international airport. As such, I booked a ticket from London’s Gatwick Airport to Dublin, Ireland, for about three hours after my scheduled arrival into Heathrow. I had calculated that the time to get between the two was about an hour, so that would be plenty. What I failed to account for, however, was the full hour it took me simply to clear immigration at Heathrow’s Terminal 3. With most North & South American flights, as well as many European flights and even some Asian flights, arriving in the morning, I learned first-hand that Heathrow can be very congested during these times.

By the time I finally cleared customs and made my way to Gatwick, my flight was long gone. I had to purchase another ticket…only to be informed that it was a bank holiday weekend and everything was full (this was also my first introduction to the terminology of “Bank Holiday”). Fortunately, I was able to purchase the last seat on the last flight available that day to Ireland, but into Belfast instead of my intended destination of Dublin. I took it, and ended up meeting the couple on the flight that I ended up staying with when I returned to London a month later—funny how things always seem to work themselves out.

Not the easiest process in the world to go through…