Author: RibenaRich

There are moments in life where time slows down — where the only thing that matters is the temperature of the river, the squeal of a tube scraping a rock, and whether your buddy remembered to pack the Costco tub of wet wipes. This past weekend, DeathJuice Nationdescended en masse (40 something strong, give or take a flip-flop) on the mythical yellow hills of Big Rock Candy Mountain, a place that sounds like a nursery rhyme but floats like a fever dream.

🐉 THE DRAGON COMETH

Our armada was equal parts tribal and absurd: half rubber tubes rented from the very kind and questionably sane folks at Big Rock Candy Mountain Resort, half inflatable chaos born of late-night Amazon orders and group chat dares. There were sleek blue rafts, flamingo-shaped inner tubes, and, towering above them all like a suburban Norse god, a massive inflatable dragon, tail whipping in the wind, wings that dared the sky, and an onboard crew of four snack-fueled maniacs who refused to paddle.

Big shout-out to the Resort crew not only did they rent us the tubes, they ran a tight shuttle game, herding our sunburned masses to the river launch like wranglers at an inflatable rodeo.

🌊 THE FLOAT: A CHLORINE-FREE BAPTISM

The Sevier River was exactly the kind of gentle chaos we needed. A liquid conveyor belt of sun and shade, rolling us between red rock cliffs and green cottonwoods, with enough twists to keep things interesting and enough calm stretches for the more Hawaii-jetlaggedmembers of our crew to just… vibe.

(Yes, four of our friends had just returned from life in Hawaii. Yes, they were still glowing like salted caramel mochi. Yes, we all question why you’d leave paradise for Utah)

There were moments of peace dragon drifting in meditative silence, and moments of sheer panic, like when three tubes got caught in a low-hanging tree that turned out to be a full-blown beaver dam. Nobody died. Everyone screamed.

🍗 THE INTERMISSION: WINGS AND WHIP

Around the halfway mark, we stormed the shores of Hoover’s like dehydrated pirates. Wet, wobbly, and slightly feral, we made our way into the restaurant still dripping river water and adrenaline.

We ordered chicken wings like we hadn’t eaten since Y2K and devoured Dole Whip in volumes that would make a Disney park blush. The staff either loved us or feared us. Probably both.

Someone suggested we just stay there and become river hermits. Another (possibly hallucinating from heat and sugar) claimed they could still hear the dragon whispering battle cries from the riverbank.

🏁 THE FINAL STRETCH: CABOOSE OR BUST

We re-launched with less dignity but more determination. The final leg was pure joy, floaters sun-kissed and full of fried poultry, our numbers holding strong as we coasted downriver toward the finish line at Caboose Park Holiday Home Rentals, where someone had the foresight to pre-position towels, Gatorade, and adult supervision.

By then, we were part water, part sunscreen, laughing too loud, shouting too much, and completely untethered from whatever stress we’d left behind in the cities we came from.

⸻

🎒 Takeaways from the Candy Mountain Collective:

• A giant inflatable dragon doubles as a spiritual anchor and occasional navigational hazard.

• Hoover’s wings taste better when eaten shirtless and barefoot on a wooden bench.

• Dole Whip can and will revive a sun-fried brain.

• Floating the river is the cheapest therapy you’ll ever get.

• Friends who tube together… clog every river exit and restaurant hallway together.

⸻

40 humans. 1 dragon. 3 hours on the river. One legendary day at the crossroads of Americana kitsch and aquatic absurdity.

This is why we do it. This is why DeathJuice exists.

Next time you see a candy-colored mountain in the distance, grab a tube, call your crew, and float like legends.

Filed from the chlorinated warzone of the Quality Inn Pool, Main Street, USA

The DeathJuice crew is on location.

This week, we’ve taken our caravan of chaos to Richfield, Utah—gateway to the Big Rock Candy Mountain, yes, the candy mountain of folk song fame, sugar-coated lies, and long-forgotten boxcar dreams. But we’re not here for your nostalgia. We’re here to tube the river, wreck our shins on underwater rocks, and wage chemical warfare in the Quality Inn’s pool area with Dollar General pool noodles and watermelon White Claws.

To say we’ve “taken over” the pool would be like saying the Berlin Wall was just a local zoning dispute. Our dominance is total. Germans on the Costa del Sol would bow to our towel placement strategies.

Tubin’ and Baitin’

Fueled by vintage glory and arcade pixel violence, we resurrected the 1980s via a few sweaty rounds of Toobin’. Spirits soared higher than a Mary Poppins kite on an Adderall wind. Floating the river tomorrow is the mission, but tonight was about hunting meat and testing faith.

The eternal travel question arose:

Do you risk local flavor, or submit to the predictable embrace of national chains with beige walls and half-frozen ranch dressing?

We rolled the dice. We went local.

Welcome to Boren’s: Where Fat Is Flavor and Flavor Is… Absent?

Boren’s Steakhouse is just a block away from the hotel. Naturally, we drove. Because this is America and walking a block is an act of either penance or felony suspicion.

The subwoofer growled Get Dead’s “Bad News” as we rolled up like punk rock cattle to the slaughter. Inside? Picnic tables. Sparse decor. The sound system was dripping Jason Aldean-style country twang—music that screams “Try That in a Small Town,” while offering you a lukewarm Dr Pepper and a side of condescension.

The staff? Polite. Hopeful even. You get the sense they wanted us to like it.

We ordered. Ribs and brisket. The sacred cuts. The test of any true smokehouse.

Back at the hotel, full of anticipation (and brisket-scented shame), we unwrapped our bounty.

What followed was a meaty betrayal.

Fat. So much fat. More fat than a British chippy’s fryer during peak hours. Lean option? That was a lie. It was as if someone whispered “beef” over a bag of suet and called it brisket.

BBQ: A History Soaked in Smoke and Something More Sinister

Let’s have a real talk. BBQ in America is complicated. Its roots are entangled in deep, often painful history. Developed out of necessity and brilliance by the oppressed, it’s been colonized into a flavorless parody by the same folks that now charge $23.99 for gristle wrapped in a wet napkin.

“Low and slow” is the slogan, but what it really means is, “We took trash meat and cooked it until you gave up and paid for it anyway.”

And the sauces? Nashville, Memphis, Carolina, Alabama White Death… all of it is a desperate attempt to distract you from the fact that what you’re eating would have been a hard sell to a feral hog.

Chains vs. Charms

Now here’s the kicker. Some of those national chains people sneer at? Yeah, they started out as local joints that actually nailed it. Before the investors, before the franchising, before the soul dilution.

Meanwhile, the restaurants that stay small town?

Sometimes it’s because they’re community treasures. But more often? It’s because they think slapping Toby Keith on the stereo and wrapping a napkin around a wad of fat passes as “authentic.”

TL;DR

We gambled. We lost. And now our insides feel like a smoker full of regret and Crisco.

But tomorrow… tomorrow we float the river.

We cleanse the sins of Boren’s in the holy waters of the Sevier.

We reclaim our joy.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll pack a lunch.

DEATHJUICE DOT COM

Never trust a rib that jiggles.

Before we had foam pits and triple tailwhips on YouTube, we had Nicole Kidman robbing banks on a Mongoose in 1983’s BMX Bandits. Yeah — that Nicole Kidman. Bright orange jumpsuit, curly mop of hair, and way more steez than any of us had at 16. That movie wasn’t just camp — it was punk. And for a lot of girls, it was their first time seeing themselves on a bike, not just on the sidelines.

But the BMX world didn’t exactly throw open the gates.

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The Gatekeepers and the Ghosts

For decades, women were told BMX was too dangerous, too aggressive, too… male. Early contests barely acknowledged women existed. Coverage? Nonexistent. Sponsorships? LOL. Even when women showed up — and they did — they were treated as a novelty act.

Racers like Cheri Elliott in the ‘80s and Tara Llanes in the ‘90s were beating boys flat-out in races and still got less recognition than a spilled Monster Energy drink. Meanwhile, Nina Buitrago and Stacey Mulligan were sneaking into skateparks and sessions, carving out space in a freestyle scene that refused to give them any.

Let’s be clear: The women didn’t “emerge.” They stormed the scene, ignored the gatekeeping, and started stacking clips — even if no one was watching yet.

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Social Media: The Great Equalizer

Enter: the internet.

Suddenly, the guys at the top couldn’t pretend it was just a “guys’ sport.” Girls like Angie Marino, Perris Benegas, and Hannah Roberts were posting clips that demanded your attention. DIY edits replaced industry approval. It wasn’t about waiting to get filmed — it was about grabbing a camera and proving your worth.

Now? You’ve got girls throwing flair barspins, footjam whips, and 540s in backyard ramps — while also editing, filming, and uploading the whole damn thing.

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Who Blew the Roof Off?

Let’s shout out the changemakers:

• Nina Buitrago – OG trailblazer who kept showing up when there wasn’t a women’s division.
• Angie Marino – Built platforms like Yeah Zine and The Bloom BMX to spotlight women riders.
• Hannah Roberts – Olympic medalist. Has more medals than most dudes have tires.
• Perris Benegas – Flow, power, and style like it’s 1996 all over again — in the best way.
• Macarena Perez, Minato Oike, and Sakiko Komatsu – repping the global stage with style and grit.
• Chelsea Wolfe – Rider, voice, and activist for inclusion in the sport.

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The Bloom BMX: Cultivating the Scene

You want community? You want consistency? That’s The Bloom BMX.

It’s the go-to platform for women in BMX. Run by Angie Marino and Beatrice Trang, The Bloom is part news hub, part community space, part hype machine — and all heart. From rider interviews to product collabs, they’re documenting history while shaping the future.

It’s not just for the girls — it’s for anyone who loves the roots of BMX: fast, fun, creative, raw.

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A Style We Can Follow

Let’s face it — men’s BMX has gotten burly. Tricks are so dialed, so tech, so spin-to-bar-to-whip-to-manual-to-decade that most casual fans are lost. You’re not sure if it was a 540 or a black hole collapsing.

Women’s BMX? It’s not behind — it’s different. And for many, it’s better to watch. The style is creative, inventive, raw. Street lines feel like actual lines, not just stunts. It’s closer to the soul of ’90s BMX: rough spots, loud outfits, weird tricks, and undeniable style.

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So What’s Next?

We’re calling it now:

• More global takeovers: Women in Latin America and Asia are growing fast. Expect a Tokyo-to-Bogotá pipeline of street edits soon.
• More inclusive events: No more “demo” status. Equal pay and equal platform are coming — whether they’re invited or not.
• Women running the brands: Expect women-led BMX brands, crews, and events to dominate. No one’s waiting for approval.
• Tricks getting gnarlier, but not robotic: Progression without losing flavor.
• The rise of dirt and trails: Watch for women to take over dirt in the next 5 years — mark it.

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In Conclusion: Women’s BMX is BMX at Its Best

It’s hungry. It’s stylish. It’s not overbuilt, overproduced, or overfunded. It’s real. And for a generation that grew up watching the same six dudes on every cover, it’s finally giving BMX its punk rock pulse back.

We’ll keep riding with the rebels.
Catch us in the comments when you’re ready to admit: the girls are stealing the show.

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Want some rider tags to follow?
@perrisbenegas @hannah_roberts_bmx @thebloombmx @sakikomatsuuu @chelseawolfebmx
DeathJuice-approved. Go get lost.

We know you came here for some unhinged takes, spicy memes, or maybe a caffeine-fueled existential rant about e-scooters. But today, we’re punching a hole through the veil of ignorance for your own good. Consider this an emergency broadcast from your favorite irresponsible uncles over at DeathJuice HQ. Why? Because you’re squishy, mortal, and very much on fire.

What Most People Overlook About Skin Cancer (Until It’s Eating Their Face)

You ever feel like the sun is stalking you? That’s not paranoia. That’s just biology and bad habits.

Skin cancer is the most common type of cancer in the U.S., which is wild considering how easy it is to not roast yourself like a rotisserie chicken. It’s up astronomically over the last 50 years—because surprise, the Earth’s atmosphere isn’t getting any thicker and our love of bronzed selfies isn’t going away either.

The Melanoma Mayhem

Melanoma is the boss-level skin cancer, and it’s not chilling out anytime soon. Forecasts show it rising another 6% in 2025, especially among people under 30—and especially especially among women. Nothing says “hot girl summer” like a malignant mole playing hide and seek under your ribcage.

“But I Wear Sunscreen… Sometimes”

Cool. But you also sometimes floss and sometimes answer texts. Doesn’t mean your teeth—or your skin—are safe.

Most skin cancer shows up on the predictable spots: face, scalp, neck, ears, upper chest, hands. Basically anywhere that’s been kissed by the sun so many times it filed for a restraining order.

But here’s the part no one wants to talk about:

Skin cancer can pop up in places you didn’t even know had skin.

We’re talking palms, soles, genitals, butt cheeks, eyelids, under your nails, even inside your nose and mouth. That’s right. Your uvula might be plotting against you. Dermatologists have seen it all. You? Probably haven’t even checked.

TL;DR: The Sun Doesn’t Care Where You Tan

Look, this isn’t just another fear-mongering article trying to get you to live inside a cave or buy SPF 9,000 sunscreen made from baby pandas. It’s a public service announcement from your fellow meatbags who are tired of watching people treat their skin like it’s invincible just because it grew back after that one time they wiped out on a skateboard in 2003.

So What Now?

• Put on some sunscreen like it’s war paint.
• Schedule a skin check like an adult.
• And maybe stop roasting your body in the name of “looking healthy.”

You can be hot and not have your dermatologist on speed dial, okay?

We love you. But if your moles start growing legs and quoting Shakespeare, don’t say we didn’t warn you

Ah, Utah. The land of mountains, modesty, and minivans. A place where fry sauce is a sacrament garnish, soda shops are holy ground, and every Sunday, the meeting houses are packed tighter than a Costco parking lot at 10:01 a.m.

Among the faithful Latter-day Saints of the Beehive State, there exist two curious subgroups who despite their shared commitment to sacrament attendance and the blessing of partaking, have developed vastly different strategies for managing that whole “keep the Sabbath day holy” thing.

Let’s meet our two saints:

⸻

1. The Procrastinating Penitents

These saints operate under a specific spiritual framework: sin now, serve later.

They remember the Lord’s counsel in Doctrine & Covenants 59:9, which boldly declares:

“And that thou mayest more fully keep thyself unspotted from the world, thou shalt go to the house of prayer and offer up thy sacraments upon my holy day.”

So, naturally, they interpret this as: “Get the worldly spottedness done before church.” You’ll see them sprinting through Walmart at 8:37 a.m., grabbing essential items like deli meats, a CTR ring for their toddler who keeps biting during nursery, and maybe a box of mints to prepare for reverent breath.

They know that as long as they make it to the sacrament in time, they’re spiritually reset. Like hitting “undo” on divine Google Docs.

⸻

2. The Proactive Sinners

These are the overachievers of transgression timing. They attend sacrament with perfect punctuality and intentional piety, fully planning to break the Sabbath, but only after they’ve secured celestial forgiveness in advance.

They lean into D&C 59:13, which says:

“And on this day thou shalt do none other thing, only let thy food be prepared with singleness of heart…”

But they read it like a divine loophole. After all, the mall has food courts, and they aresingularly focused on that BOGO deal at Jamba Juice.

And lest you forget, they often cite D&C 58:26:

“For behold, it is not meet that I should command in all things…”

Ah yes, the classic “agency clause.” The proactive saints interpret this as divine encouragement to make their own decisions—including deciding that they need to “gather” at Target as much as they gather at church.

⸻

3. A House of Order… With a Shopping List

Let’s not forget D&C 88:119, which urges saints to establish a:

“house of order, a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of learning…”

But in Utah, many households have interpreted this to mean: “Make sure the house is stocked with snacks, clean laundry, and enough Capri Suns to survive a Primary class.”

And what better way to ensure that than a quick Sabbath day stock-up?

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The Eternal Balance

In the great cosmic spreadsheet of heaven, who’s doing it better?

Hard to say.

The Procrastinators? They sin under pressure. The Proactives? They’re just “anxiously engaged in a good cause” (D&C 58:27)—especially if that cause is a post-church clearance sale.

And both are sure to be back next week, ready to repent and repeat.

⸻

Final Thoughts

So whether you’re buying a roast at 9:47 a.m. or hitting the mall at 12:23 p.m., just remember this:

D&C 64:10 reminds us:

“I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.”

…Even if they’re the ones who took the last pack of Hawaiian rolls on a Sunday morning.

So let us judge not, but love greatly. Zion is made up of many kinds—those who sin before the closing prayer, and those who sin shortly after the closing hymn. But all of us are trying. Mostly.

And maybe that’s what matters most.

Amen. And pass the fry sauce

A 4th of July Dispatch from the British Founder of DeathJuice, Trapped Somewhere in Utah

Here we are again — July 4th — the day Americans gather to celebrate breaking up with Britain by launching small-scale explosions into the sky and shouting “WOO” with enough conviction to scare livestock.

As a proud Brit — currently exiled in the Utah desert — I’ve had the rare pleasure of observing this sacred event from within the belly of the beast. And I must say:

There is no celebration of freedom quite like wrapping yourself in a flag, eating 19 hot dogs, and then burning down your neighbor’s lawn with a rogue Roman candle.

🧨 America: Where Everything Is Legal Except DeathJuice

Let’s cut to the core hypocrisy, shall we?

In this nation of so-called “freedom”, I can legally:

• Open-carry an AR-15 into a Cracker Barrel
• Deep fry an entire turkey in a bucket of motor oil
• Buy prescription narcotics and a 64oz Pepsi at the same gas station
• Drive a lifted truck that runs on dreams and diesel fumes

But can I, the literal founder of DeathJuice, sell a can of the world’s most unhinged beverage here?

Absolutely not.

It’s banned.

Too unstable.

Too edgy.

Too much actual flavor, apparently.

This country trusts you with a flamethrower and a college education you’ll never pay off —

but not a neon blackcurrant energy drink that kicks your soul in the teeth.

🎇 The Great American Contradiction

You call it freedom.

But from where I’m sitting — sweating in a lawn chair in Utah, listening to someone explain why they put bacon in their apple pie — it looks more like a freedom-shaped costume stitched together with denial, Red #40, and suburban rage.

“We’re free!”

(But our food has warning labels in 4 languages.)

“We beat the British!”

(But still use Imperial measurements and spell colour wrong.)

“This is the greatest country on Earth!”

(Except, apparently, for the part where we’re not allowed to sell DeathJuice.)

🥤Let Them Have Pepsi

So here’s to you, America.

Enjoy your fireworks, your propane, your plastic flags and your idea of liberty.

Drink your flat, lukewarm Pepsi and call it a revolution.

Sing about freedom while being watched by six different agencies because you Googled how to make bread from scratch.

Meanwhile, I’ll be here — sunburnt, slightly bitter, and sipping DeathJuice from a smuggled can while the neighbors accidentally blow up a kiddie pool.

Because freedom — real freedom — tastes like artificial berry rage and comes in a can so illegal it might as well be a war crime.

Yours in sarcasm,

Still British,

Still Banned,

And Still More Free Than Most of the Free World

#DeathJuice

#BannedInTheUSA

#IndependunceDay

#FreedomButMakeItCorporate

#LetThemHavePepsi

#StuckInUtahWithMyFaceMelted

So we’ve now driven 9,000 glorious, silent, drama-free miles in our Hyundai Ioniq 6, and guess what?

It hasn’t needed a drop of gas, an oil change, or a roadside exorcism. Just pure, unfiltered electricity — and sometimes not even that, because we charge for free half the time.

Let’s talk numbers so cold they’d make your gas-powered uncle cry:

The Electric Truth

• 4.8 miles per kWh
• $0.10 per kWh
• 9,000 ÷ 4.8 = 1,875 kWh used
• $0.10 x 1,875 = $187.50
• BUT, we only pay for about half our charging, so…

🎉 Real cost: $93.75

Ninety. Three. Dollars. For 9,000 miles. That’s less than one tank in some trucks that rhyme with “Ram.”

Meanwhile… the Ford Explorer

We still have it. Still love it. It’s a beast — reliable, comfy, good for road trips and Costco missions. But let’s be honest:

Driving it feels like lighting money on fire while blasting classic rock.

• 22 MPG
• 9,000 ÷ 22 = 409 gallons
• 409 x $3.50 = $1,431.82

Yeah. Over fourteen hundred bucks just to move the thing around. That’s not a car — it’s a subscription to disappointment.

Let’s Do the Math:

💰 Savings: $1,338.07

That’s basically a vacation. Or 150 coffees. Or all the snacks your kids claim they’ll eat and absolutely won’t.

Final Thought:

We’re not ditching the Explorer — but these days it’s more of a weekend warrior while the Ioniq 6 does the daily domination.

So yeah, we drive an EV.

Not because we’re better than you.

Okay, maybe a little because we’re better than you. 😉

Charge it. Drive it. Flex it.

The future called — and it’s whispering, “gas is for boomers.”

#EVLife #Ioniq6 #FordYoureExpensive #GasIsTheNewCigarettes #ChargedUpAndPetty

Ah, Docks Beers, the glittering jewel in the reclaimed-industrial-crown of Grimsby-that-isn’t-Grimsby. Nestled just far enough from the actual docks to avoid any real sense of danger or authenticity, this polished concrete cathedral to craft beer offers a safe space for the modern man to wear rolled-up jeans and pretend his beard is a personality.

Let’s be honest: Docks Beers isn’t just a brewery. It’s a rehab centre for men who once bought a rusted-out Vespa and thought, “I’ll restore it one day.” That day never came. But what did come? A whole new identity based on buying obscure Polish lagers with pineapple infusions and pretending they enjoy the taste.

You’ll find them there, leaning on reclaimed wood bars, sipping “Hop Hustle” or “CryoClash 3000” like they’re drinking the blood of rockstars—while talking about that one time they nearly started a podcast about music and fatherhood.

These are the heroes of mediocrity, the warriors of warm IPAs, the men who peaked when someone on Reddit said, “That shelf you made out of scaffolding poles is sick, mate.” Their pints are as overpriced as their self-worth, and both are brewed with a hint of nostalgia and a strong aftertaste of “should’ve stuck with IT.”

The bar is so full of mismatched chairs and faux-industrial fixtures that you’d be forgiven for thinking you were at an IKEA display titled: “Gentrification: The Experience.” The urinals smell like freshly printed CVs and broken dreams. Honestly, the toilets are so clean you could cry into your career change, but you won’t—because someone might think it’s artistic.

Let’s not forget: despite the name, Docks Beers is not on the docks—just like Grimsby Town FC isn’t in Grimsby. (That’s Cleethorpes, love. We all know it.) It’s like naming a restaurant “The Forest Grill” and sticking it in the middle of a Tesco car park. But that’s the charm, innit? Authenticity is for people without Instagram.

Now, as for the beer: brewed with the kind of care and precision usually reserved for skincare routines, every drop is crafted by men who once worked in digital marketing but now wear aprons and talk about “mouthfeel.” Their hands are softer than the back of your nan’s neck, and they haven’t lifted anything heavier than a flight paddle in years.

You’ll overhear conversations like:

“Yeah, I’m brewing my own saison at home. It’s fermented with yeast harvested from Himalayan peach bark.”

“I just sold my NFT of a vape cloud to buy a second-hand record player from a bloke in Barton.”

No one laughs, but everyone nods. Respectfully. Because they all know: this isn’t a pub. This is a sanctuary for people who were never cool, trying to look like they were once interesting.

So if you find yourself at Docks Beers, clutching your man bag, sipping something called “Molten Anvil Ferment #7”, just remember—you’re not drinking beer. You’re cosplaying the version of yourself that you told someone you were on Tinder.

Now do yourself a favour:

Put down the micro-fermented mango saison, untie the flannel from your waist, and go get a real pint in a real pub. Somewhere with dart boards, broken jukeboxes, and men named Keith who smell faintly of chimney smoke and Bovril.

Because Docks Beers?

It’s not on the docks.

And it’s not a beer.

It’s a lifestyle subscription for midlife regret.

Cheers

There’s something magical about Cleethorpes. Maybe it’s the sea air, maybe it’s the suspiciously sticky arcade carpets, or maybe it’s the fact that no matter where you go, someone is eating fish and chips.

But not all chippies are created equal. Some are divine vessels of battered glory. Others serve you cod so dry it could be used as insulation in a 1970s council flat.

Let’s sort the seagull bait from the seaside saints.

1. 

Papa’s Fish & Chips – The Vatican of Vinegar

Situated on the pier like Neptune’s own fast-food cathedral, Papa’s is massive, ostentatious, and somehow always has a queue longer than a royal funeral.

🧂 The fish? Crispy. Moist. Textbook.

🍟 The chips? Thick-cut and fluffy, like little golden clouds from a carbohydrate heaven.

🪑 The decor? Somewhere between Titanic dining room and Brexit-themed wedding.

They serve it with mushy peas in actual ceramic pots like you’re dining at Downton Abbey if it was located inside a theme park.

✨ Verdict: The gold standard. Bring your nan and your Instagram followers.

2. 

Ernie Beckett’s – The Grease That Time Forgot

This is what people mean when they say “proper chip shop.” The signage hasn’t changed since 1983 and neither has the oil.

⚙️ You can taste the heritage (and possibly the radiator fluid).

The batter clings to the fish like a childhood trauma. The chips? Burnt on the ends and raw in the middle—just how granddad liked ’em.

🍽️ It’s £7.50 for a full portion and a side of existential doubt. But it’s cash only, so prepare to time-travel to 2004.

✨ Verdict: Perfect if you like your fish fried and your arteries challenged.

3. 

Ocean Fish Bar – “We’re Open!” (But Should They Be?)

Some call this a “hidden gem.”

Others call it “the place where I got food poisoning on prom night.”

🐟 The fish is suspiciously uniform, like it was 3D-printed in a factory in Wigan.

The chips come in a polystyrene coffin and smell faintly of sadness and Febreze.

To be fair, they do offer gluten-free options, which is nice, because at least one thing on the menu will definitely disagree with your digestive tract.

✨ Verdict: A culinary coin toss. You might love it. Or you might hallucinate your great-aunt Sheila on the bus home.

4. 

The Chip Box – The Late Night Gamble

You go here when:

• You’ve had six pints at The Studio Bar
• It’s after 10 p.m.
• You’ve temporarily forgotten what dignity is

It’s all served hot, fast, and aggressively wrapped in enough paper to decimate a small forest. The fish is… technically fish. The chips are angry, crunchy things that may or may not have ever seen a potato.

But at 11:45 p.m. with curry sauce dripping down your wrist, it’ll taste like salvation.

✨ Verdict: A spiritual experience best enjoyed while drunk and barefoot.

5. 

Steels Corner House – For When You Want To Eat With Cutlery

This is not just a chip shop. This is an institution.

White tablecloths. Real plates. People who chew with their mouths closed.

⚓ The portions are hefty. The peas come in a ramekin. The haddock is so fresh it could slap you and demand better treatment.

It’s the place your parents go when they want to “make a day of it.” It’s calm, respectable, and there’s a 40% chance someone in there is named Mavis.

✨ Verdict: The Queen’s choice (if she ever fancied Cleethorpes).

Final Thoughts: In Cod We Trust, But Bring Wet Wipes

Cleethorpes might be cold, windy, and slightly haunted—but by God, they know how to fry things.

Whether you’re chasing nostalgia, heartburn, or a side of regret with your salt and vinegar, there’s a chip shop here waiting to serve you.

Just follow the scent of deep-fried hope… and the screaming of seagulls stealing someone’s sausage.

📢 Bonus challenge:

Tag us in your next fish & chip feast and tell us:

Did you achieve culinary enlightenment…

or just pay £11.95 to be betrayed by a soggy batter slab and warm Tango

Let’s take a spiritual journey—no, not to Zion, but to the psychological Zion that is being suckered into Utah’s finest tourist traps. A place where the air is thin, the prices are thick, and the souvenirs are handcrafted by a guy named Elijha in a warehouse in Phoenix.

1. 

Hole N” The Rock

 A Home Carved in Sandstone and Regret

Somewhere outside Moab, where the rocks are red and your cell signal dies a noble death, you’ll find this fever dream of roadside Americana: a 5,000 sq. ft. home blasted into a cliff face.

It’s part museum, part gift shop, and part cry for help. For $7, you can wander through what feels like a Flintstones panic room filled with taxidermy and unrelated presidential memorabilia.

They’ll tell you it’s “historic.”

They won’t tell you it smells like your grandpa’s attic had a baby with a thrift store on fire.

📸 Photo Ops:

• You, standing next to a carved-out Jesus face on a boulder.
• Your soul, slowly exiting your body in the parking lot.

2. 

Mystic Hot Springs

 – Like Burning Man, but Sponsored by Rust

It sounds healing. Mystic. Springs. Sounds like a place elves would bathe.

Instead, imagine soaking in lukewarm mineral water inside a clawfoot tub that looks like it was rescued from the Titanic wreck.

You’re paying $25 to marinate in vaguely warm soup next to a drum circle and a school bus painted like a Bob Ross fever dream.

🛁 Pros:

• You can say “I went to a natural spring in Utah.”
  👎 Cons:
• You can’t unsmell the experience.

3. 

The Big Rock Candy Mountain

 – A Sweet Name for a Sour Trap

Spoiler: there is no candy.

There is a mountain. It’s yellow. Possibly jaundiced. Definitely not delicious.

But thanks to an old folk song and some brave marketing, they’ve turned it into a full-fledged tourist pit: mini-golf, zip lines, and a restaurant with the ambience of a middle school cafeteria during a power outage.

🍬 It’s like Disneyland, if Walt had a strict $17 budget and a lifelong grudge against fun.

4. 

Zion Shuttle System

 – A Line to Stand in While Dreaming of Nature

Welcome to the majestic gates of Zion National Park—where you’ll experience the beauty of nature… through the window of a government-issued bus.

Instead of hiking, you’ll be:

• Standing in line to board a shuttle
• Standing on the shuttle
• Standing in a different line to board another shuttle

This is the Circle of Life, brought to you by the National Park Service and mild heatstroke.

🎟️ Pro tip: if you close your eyes and breathe deeply, you might convince yourself you’re in nature. Until a toddler screams “IS THIS THE GRAND CANYON?”

5. 

Alien Jerky in Baker

 (Not Utah, but spiritually Utah)

Yes, it’s in Nevada. But you’ll pass it on your Utah road trip, and you’ll stop. You always stop.

Because there’s an 18-foot alien statue and a promise of “space jerky.”

It’s not jerky from space. It’s just dry meat next to novelty lube and shot glasses shaped like little green men. You’ll leave $38 lighter and somehow greasier.

🛸 And yet… you’ll post it on Instagram.

We all do.

You’re not immune.

Final Thoughts: Welcome to Utah, Please Lower Your Expectations

Utah is stunning. The landscapes? God-tier. The skiing? Divine.

But for every majestic canyon, there’s a haunted gift shop selling petrified wood and trauma.

So pack your sunscreen, bring your debit card, and prepare to stand in line next to a guy wearing Tevas and eating $14 fry sauce.

Remember: it’s not about avoiding the tourist traps.

It’s about surviving them…

with stories to tell,

and $3 alien jerky in your glove box