Chapters -Getting there -First impressions -Ah, Manch ester -Man U - Valencia -Game on -On to London -Art & relics -Shakespeare  reduced, Belushi's  gets a wake-up call -Scams, Hard Rock, &  free cheese -Ciao Bella -Flowers, mushrooms,  slugs & lettuce -Let it snow, Ice  Princess -Fabric, Yazoo, Frijj -Euston, we have a  problem -The best half I never  saw -Final thoughts London Read my journal entries from Europe here. 2/25/01 Left with no more than the address, tube stop and barely enough quid for cover. Saw Ciao Bella on the way out, as she naturally hasn't followed through on her promise to ditch her ex if he hadn't called by 10. Didn't seem to have anything better to do either, but I was tired of people who preferred to stand around, fag in hand, and look sexy rather than throw down. We arrived at Farringdon Station, and emerged to a heavy snowfall. It was a beautiful sight and one of the more enduring images I'll take away from London. Too bad I didn't have a camera with me. The club was at capacity when we arrived, which meant waiting in the queue after a thorough security check. I'm pretty certain that the word "queue" has more consecutive vowels in it than any other English word... [segue]... Waiting under our borrowed large, multi-colored umbrella, we passed the time by trading inanities with the Flying Finn. She's a nut, but very fun to be around. A good combo of Aussie girl personality with Spanish model looks. She particularly liked "fcuk" [from the French Connection U.K. store] and our pronunciation of said term ["fkuk"]. She was studying to become a tailor... and no, the irony was not lost on us that were going to a club called "Fabric." We made it inside eventually. This place is big. Seems to be an old power plant or station, as it's filled with various brick archways, levels and an erratic blend of high and extremely low ceilings. In many rooms it's nearly impossible to see, thanks to glaring spotlights and the 'piped-in' smoke that mixes with the cigarette offshoot of the local punters. Speaking of whom, there are few that are dressed outlandishly (my orange shirt being the most colorful item of clothing in the entire club), and most dance unremarkably. Anyone we saw that danced quite well we'd immediately assume was American, a sentiment echoed by a US gal I spoke with later in the evening (after she spilled water all over me). Next