So I’ve arrived. Nola Chick is across the pond doing all she can to spread a little love to our boys. Fresh off the plane at London’s Heathrow Airport, who do I see but a gang of jet-lagged Chargers fans. I smiled in their faces while secretly sprinkling grandma’s gris gris on their luggage. Bloody bastards.

At customs, I had an interesting interaction with the British bloke behind the counter.

Customs Bloke: “Why are you here?”
Nola Chick: “Going to the Saints game.”
Customs Bloke:”What is it with you people and this game?
Nola Chick: “Um, it’s football. But you know, the real football.”
Customs Bloke: “Yeah, well I get it for men. But why do women care?”
Nola Chick: Obviously this is your first run in with one of “The Chicks.”
Customs Bloke: Confused and frustrated facial expression followed by a heavy sigh.

While walking to my friend’s flat near the London Bridge, my companion and I happened upon a man in a Saints t-shirt. Upon noticing my companion’s fleur-de-lis hat, the man whispered in a throaty voice “Who Dat?” (Yeah, he said it like it was a question…as if to say “Are you really one of us?” We both responded with an over the top fervor “Who Dat.” Then, in a recognizable and comforting yat accent he asked “Y’all going to the game?” Our response, “Oh yeah!” I swear it was like being on Bourbon St., except without the smell of piss and horse manure.

Later during a walk near the London tower, we spied on a few more Saints fans. We yelled to them “Who Dat!” In a drunken slur they replied back, “WHO DAT!” We’ve realized this will be the calling card of the weekend.

Tomorrow, we plan on playing a game of “I Spy a Saints Fan” which I’ll be sure to share with you and accompany with pictures.