Chapter 4.

Chapter 4

Chapter Four. The German on the mount.

Day three was a driving day. This meant that we were in the car from the morning until well into the evening. Our mission was to reach Boulder, Colorado by the end of the day. Boulder, for us, held promise of a good hearty meal or two and the possibility of a triple S, shit, shower and shave. Our Colorado connection was a young lady we had met earlier in the year in Pennsylvania, who shall henceforth be known as Miss A. She would be expected to provide the food, drink and toiletting facilities for the ensuing stay. The day in the car was pretty uneventful, with sleeping, drinking and chess playing being on the menu for 3/5ths of the party. Mr. Pink and Mr. C spent the day glued to the benches at the back of the van playing chess and consuming potato chips and beer. Mr. S and Mr. T were still bearing the brunt of the driving while my wrist was in less than good shape. I would split my activities between drinking and navigating, sometimes doing both at once. The job of navigator on our journey was never really one that required too much effort from the man with the map, despite Mr. Pinks claims that he wasn’t able to do it. It merely involved sitting down and glancing at the map every hour to check how far along the interstate we had come. It would only be at the end of the day that some more advanced spatial awareness would be needed. The chess games of Christopher and Matt were perhaps the most interesting things occurring at any given moment. Every 20 minutes or so there would be an eruption, with a lengthily discussion about the finer points of chess consuming another 10. Fast food was ingested at an alarming rate, as was gasoline.

4:45 p.m.
We required fuel every 6 hours or so when driving constantly. Any excuse to exit the vehicle was a welcome break from chess wars. Every time we stopped, we went to the nearest garbage can to scavenge food, whichever of the major fast food chains was there. I tried to think of ever more ingenious ways of relieving the boredom of the poor drivers. Perhaps I could initiate football style chants from the stands (or comfortable back seats,) “Come on Mr. T, come on Mr. T” or such old favourites as “Mr. S. (clap clap clap) Mr. S (clap clap clap.)” But on further reflection, I wasn’t confident that they would have the required uplifting effect. 

6:00 p.m.
By evening, we had arrived at our destination, or close enough. 
“Hi, Miss A. we think we’re pretty close to you now, we’re at a gas station on…some road, when can you come and fetch us?” I confidently proceeded to spew out my directions, and she accepted them, confident in my confidence, and confided in me that she would arrive in 10 minutes. I confidently strolled over to my four confidants and informed them of the situation, and with that in mind, we waited patiently in the car. “How Fucking long have we been waiting now?” inquired Mr. Pink eloquently. We had been waiting 40 minutes. We were all getting impatient, and so Mr. T phoned up Miss A on her cell phone. 
“Yeah, Hi guys…” began Miss A gingerly, “Look, I don’t know where you thought you were, but You are a lot further away than we thought, you’re not even in Boulder!”
From The brief phone conversation we ascertained that we were in fact “just” outside of Boulder, in the same way that Indianapolis is “just” outside of Chicago. I sat back and received the torrents of abuse like a true Englishman. Except for Mr. C’s references to farmyard buggary, which I thought were unnecessary and frankly disturbing. “Besides,” I offered, “Mr. T parked there,” My last minute heroics temporarily deflected the abuse in the direction of Mr. T and allowed me 20 minutes restbit 

8:30 p.m.
After waiting somewhere close to an hour, Miss A arrived. After initial reunions, we were instructed to follow her, not to her house for the expected shower and hot meal, but to a party at a friends house. This would indeed turn out to be a real treat, a vast house owned by a well to do Colorado family, and to their credit, very neat and tidy. At least to begin with.

9:00 p.m.
The beer was plentiful and the company was interesting. Mostly rich kids rebelling against their upbringing by wearing expensive clothes made with no expense spared to look inexpensive. The discussions revolved around pricey cars, which I assume either they or their parents owned, and gossip from the area. At one point, the conversation threatened to turn to more universally interesting matters such as the upcoming elections, but quickly moved on to more important areas like cars and clothes. 

11:30 p.m.
As the night grew old and our blood-alcohol levels grew dangerously high, the fun continued. One poor kid drank so much that he fell asleep on the sofa, the poor fool. Pens were immediately produced by more than one party, and they proceeded to decorate. By the time they had finished there were various designs and words adorning his once pristine face, including one rather fetching, expertly drawn toothbrush moustache. 

12:14 a.m.
After the facial art episode, business progressed to more important matters, drunken games. It is my belief, and the belief of others, that beer pong should henceforth be made an Olympic sport, and I shall be completing the various forms and mailing them to the Olympic council as soon as I finish this book. Mr. Pink was a spectacular beer pong player who rarely missed a shot, despite Mr. S’s amazing inability to score a single point. As a team, they were victorious and taught the rich young scalywags some important lessons in life. Perhaps in light of everyones thorough enjoyment of the game, a moment or two should be taken to briefly describe the intricacies of this pending Olympic sport. Below, for your ocular consumption and enjoyment, a foray through the world of professional beer pong has been prepared. 

Beer Pong, The Sport Of Champions.

1. The Athlete(s) are required to be inebriated. 
2. Each team presides over one side of the table only.
3. Adorning the table are 20 cups, 10 for each team, placed in an attractive stepped formation, much like the balls on a pool table.
4. Each cup is required to be half filled with Beer, and/or whatever alcoholic beverage is at hand.
5. Team One proceeds to launch the first ping pong ball, aiming toward the opponents cups. Should the ball miss all targets, the turn is over.
6. Should the ball hit a target, the conquered cup should be removed from the field of play and consumed by the loser. Further to this, the remaining cups should be repositioned so as to recreate the previous format of the gradated balls which was so pleasing to the eye.
7. Play should continue until one team has no cups remaining on the table, and the other emerges victorious. The winning team should celebrate by drinking even more and whooping and jumping up and down like an inebriated American. The losing team should remove themselves from the sight of the victors and stop offending their vision with their pitiful crying and homage paying.

4:00 a.m.
Play continued long into the night, creating mighty champions and making and breaking men. By 4 o’ clock, the party was beginning to wind down, and the last remaining stragglers were leaving, including one disgracefully drunk kid who spent the night drinking too much, waking the neighbours and smashing expensive (probably) plant pots. While it was 4 o’ clock in Colorado it pays to remember that the road trippers were still working on Eastern standard time, two time zones ahead, so technically, for us, it was still 6 am. We had collectively consumed three large boxes of Hershey’s brownies and drank too much to remember. We had even smoked an apple, an apple I tell you! I just wanted to go to bed, and so I did along with a couple of others.

5:00 a.m.
At around five o’ clock we were rudely awakened by a knock on the van door. Miss A and a friend invited us into the Jacuzzi for further drinking and cavorting. Of course, I usually wouldn’t be one to refuse such an irresistible offer, but I was really fucking drunk and tired, so I respectfully declined, if you can call shouting “close the fucking door, I’m trying to sleep!” respectful. 
All things considered (as they so often are not,) the party was brilliant. It is not often that any gathering of people drinking and smoking toxic substances can really hold my attention for more than two hours. This particular gathering however, managed to hold me until the wee hours. I have not drank or smoked as much for a long time before or since. At the end of the night, the previously tidy house looked like a bomb-site, the site of a shite bomb, or a bomb of shite if you will. Broken plant pots adorned the ex-pristine floor, Sofas finished the night with spidering ink stains and drunk rich kids sprawled across them. Mr. C decided to take advantage of the free beds, and at one point, (I am reliably informed,) he “accidentally” wandered into the room of our female host, although this is all mere speculation. I am also informed that he swiftly removed himself (or was removed by said host,) from the vacinity whereby he made his way to a vacant bedroom to his final resting place, but again this is pure conjecture.

Chapter three

Chapter three

Chapter Three- Jazz and liquor.


9:30 p.m.
“ Stop the car, I have to vomit!” I spoke the words with an amazing calmness, or so I was later told, I was too busy trying not to be sick at the time. Outside I was a rock, Inside, my stomach churned like an overly expensive truck stop washing machine. Mr. T pulled the car over to the hard shoulder, and I jumped out, my calm exterior shattering. I proceeded to decorate the bland hard shoulder of interstate route 80 in a pleasant multicoloured motif. Mr. T took a photograph, and then we were off. 
The plan was to drive up to Chicago and spend the day in the city before getting back on the road again for a solid evening’s traveling. The road into the city was what you would expect from such a bustling metropolis, but no less shocking when experienced first hand. Every lane was jam packed with vast American machines, from the smallest, tank like SUV to the largest Behemoth trucks. This called for some expert driving. So it was lucky that my wrist was still healing, and that Mr. S was still asleep. Mr. T nudged and budged his way through the throng like a highly efficient German machine, or even an impatient, rude and arrogant New York taxi driver. After 20 minutes or so we were clean through, and into the city that gave us liquor and Jazz in copious amounts, and the original high-rise skyline. We had reached the Windy City. What did we expect? If I’m being honest, expectations were not particularly high. I had nightmarish visions of trash ridden streets, filthy bars with corrupt bouncers, even more trash, and trash covered corrupt bouncers. Chicago, Illinois was none of the above. 

12:00 p.m.
The first call of business, after parking our car at an inner city car lot for a reasonable price, was sustenance. All were in favour of pizza we agreed. Surprisingly one of the few times in the entire trip where that would happen. We strolled around the corner, directly into little Italy, the hub of Italiana in Chicago, so that was a stroke of luck. Surprisingly one of the few times in the entire trip where that would happen. We quickly found a restaurant, as is invariably the case in a “little Italy” in the United States, and we walked in. We all stood for a few minutes, eyeing the menu with a sense of want. Not wanting the menu you understand, but merely what was advertised upon it. We all looked incredibly tourist like, with back-packs, and cameras adorning our Anglo-Saxon figures, standing in the middle of the room, deciding on our preferred choice of topping until, 
“I’ll take that one please” I said, pointing at the menu, “Not the menu you understand, but merely what is advertised upon it” I clarified. 
“ Sorry boys, we don’t-a sell-a pizza here-a. Go a couple-a blocks down-a and then one-a right.” Explained Luigi infuriatingly. 
Of course they did not sell pizza here. How foolish of us to assume that an Italian restaurant, in the district designated as little Italy, with the word Pizza, written in medium to large lettering upon their main billboard, would sell pizza. We all stood, disgusted, and very unhappy, telling the manager in no uncertain terms what we thought of his establishment. After we had muttered this under our breaths, we turned around and walked out of the building. After 15 minutes of stupidly following the exact directions given to us by Mario, we stopped to re-group and ask for fresh directions, now bordering on the point of starvation, and bordering on the point of Chinatown.
“ Gino gave us bad directions guys.” I stated quite matter of factly, “We just need to stop the next person we see and ask for a decent restaurant that sells pizza.” 
After a further 15 minutes of hiking in the sweltering Chicago heat we came upon a pizza joint. Despite the price and the awful mock Italian décor, the food was absolutely delicious, almost worth the wait. I only wish I remembered the name for the purpose of recommending it to people. Once we had finished our meals, which could easily have fed an entire village in the Sudan, we refilled our refillable soda cups and left to explore the city. 

2:30 p.m.
The next stop would be, as in any area of civilisation, the public library, to take advantage of the free internet access. The Chicago library was certainly big and respectably clean. The escalators that adorned the centre of each level, kept the human traffic chugging along at a good pace. While internet ready computers were readily available on each floor, there tended to be large queues, so our group ventured up to the ninth floor and signed in with a reasonable waiting time of 20 minutes. Perfect. Plenty of time to take advantage of the conveniently placed conveniences. While road-tripping in the United States, one key piece of advice from a seasoned pro (Myself) would be to work out fast which bathrooms to use and which to avoid. So now, I present to you my patented (well, not quite patented, but the office said…Well not actually, the stamp cost too much, but don’t steal it you animals!) bathroom guide of America. To avoid Gonorrhea, tapeworm or any other waterborne or airborne diseases that devour your intestinal tracts and bowels, or any such illnesses easily contracted in public facilities, follow these handy tips. Write them on a piece of paper and stick them in your pocket, or even rip this page out. Write it on your hand, I really don’t care, as long as you make sure you wash them once you have used the bathroom! 

Bathroom Guide of America. Version 1.1.

Tip One: If a disposable seat cover is provided, use it, and then dispose of it. Do not take it with you for use in the next restroom in some hair-brained scheme to save a bit of money. It won’t work, you’ll contract Amoebic Dysentery.
Tip Two: If there is no toilet paper, do not use the restroom. An obvious tip you may be murmuring to yourself, but in desperate situations, you go a bit crazy okay? Stop harassing me there was no other choice!
Tip Three: Avoid bathrooms in second rate gas stations, especially those requiring a key. Although the key gives an illusion of cleanliness, it is false. They are generally Shitty.
Tip Four: Fast food restaurants provide the best sanitary service in general, being cleaned every hour or so. But you should always be careful. 
Tip Five: Public Libraries are also generally very sanitary.
Tip Six: Come to think of it, so are book shops and large record stores.
Tip Seven: Bars and pubs, as a rule of thumb, are pissy, shitty, arse festivals that should be avoided at all cost! Yes, even those in swanky rich districts, the walls are still covered in piss, just the by-product of high priced champagne rather than cheep plonk.
Tip Eight: When nature calls in nature, go as far away from people and water sources as possible out of respect for fellow travelers. That means you Mr. Shit, who took a shit right next to the river in the Grand Teton mountains when you thought no-one was watching.
Tip Nine: Always keep clear of perverted Germans with Cameras.

3:30 p.m.
After our emailing sessions were finished, Thomas split from the rest of the group to seek a building he had seen in a postcard. Once. Everybody else went in search of culture, and the Buckingham fountains. My expectations of lake Michigan had been high. I expected an expansive view of beautiful, glittering, unspoiled waters. What I got was a limited view, a lake full of boats that obscured, and copious amounts of bird shit. I am sure that lake Michigan is beautiful, when viewed at the right time, and from the right place, but I did not have that luxury. Lake Michigan was my first and only disappointment with Chicago.
Millennium park. It is an absolute joy to walk through. Perhaps people who have not seen it or a single minded nature freak would condemn it as a monstrosity or an eyesore. I could not dare to be so arrogant. Millennium park was the highlight of my visit to Chicago. A triumph of modern architecture, that bolsters Chicago’s position as a cultural leader in the U.S. Huge metallic bridges span the area, and large ambitious sculptures surround, but do not choke. The water fountain and video screens are incredibly interesting for adults, while entertaining the children like Ronald Macdonald only wishes he could do. The cherry on top of Millennium parks icing is the huge stage and concert area. A vast, shining cocoon, that delicately surrounds the audience, and winds down towards the acoustically designed, aesthetically pleasing stage area. A well rigged PA system and a beautiful lawn ensure maximum enjoyment for the audience. My lasting impression of Chicago will be these huge adventurous steel creations, the cleanliness of the streets and the friendliness of the people. I loved Chicago and I thoroughly recommend it. 

5:25 p.m.
By five O’ clock we were on our way out of Chicago and back on the road. We drove for a couple of hours on route 80, once again heading West toward the mountains, the lights of Vegas and the streets of San Francisco.

7:30 p.m.
The evening came around, and men being men, we were all hungry, and decided against every fibre of our beings to forgo the fast food for a night. Mr. C cooked up some of the pasta we appropriated from our village, and heated up a lovely Tomato sauce. The meal was not special but it was delicious and we enjoyed it under the steadily setting sun at a large service station, built to cater for large truck drivers with their large trucks. TV, showers, Launderette and Internet, a type of facility we would be thankful for on the rest of our trip. Before we left again, there were a few van- related errands we needed to run. We needed propane for the cooker and gasoline for the Behemoth. Both needs were catered for by the flying J service station. The gas attendant who was given the task of feeding our baby was a real character. He told us a great story about a truck driver the previous week who was driven out of the station by a posse of angry drivers, for peering under the stalls in the ladies bathrooms. That wasn’t all the fun we had from our new friend. While he and myself were filling up the propane tank, a huge Winnebago pulled in next to us, and he spotted what he thought was a beautiful young lady. He proceeded to make all manner of facial expressions and signals designed to alert me (a fellow male) to the presence of a beauty. Well, she was young alright, about 14 years young, by my reckoning. I barely concealed a laugh while the poor gas attendant turned a bright red and walked off muttering. 

2:30 a.m.
The sun had finished its late evening task, blotting out the remaining landscape and forcing us to regroup in the van. We left the flying J station with high spirits and full stomachs, and we drove well into the night before finally stopping at a gas station to sleep.

chapter two

chapter two

Chapter Two. California here we come.

“California here we come, right back where we started from!” we all blurted out in unison like a Male Welsh voice choir gone horribly, horribly wrong. This was the third round and the novelty was already wearing thin. We were not yet out of Glenmoore, and already the song was already tearing at my nerves. Mr. T. took drastic action and made the bold move of hiding the song. Every further request for “that California one” over the course of the day was greeted by an oblivious look from Mr. T. and a feigned attempt to recover the “missing” object. 
Luckily for us, the route we had chosen over the many nights of deliberation, cut through rural Pennsylvania, and the beautiful forest-lands of West Virginia. As far as you could look was how far the tree covered rolling hills and quasi-mountains stretched. It was clear which mountains were to be used for skiing come winter, each of them had a vast scar down one side, where trees once stood. Field after field of corn filled our vision as we moved on, perhaps rivaling those of Kansas or Nebraska. Grazing animals completed the idyllic scene, free roaming sheep and cows grazed on the pasture, while I laid back and released a sigh of satisfaction. This was just the beginning, and there were plenty more beautiful views where they came from. No road trip would be complete without funny photographs of poor defenseless, sleeping passengers. Mr. Pink had fallen asleep. Amateur. Mr. C proceeded to remove his big shiny digital camera from its sheath, while I stealthily reached for a handy copy of the Karma-Sutra. We managed to photograph his enjoyment of the 69 and the human crab, not to mention a delightful selection of instructions on the art of fellatio before he stirred from his costly slumber. 
The bathroom logistics were an unknown factor before we began our oddessy. We did in fact have a toilet facility on-board, but this was sacrificed for storage space as we decided no-one would benefit from a chemical toilet in the back of the van. Besides, who wanted someone heaving and gurning with nothing but a small curtain to protect their modesty and the nasal integrity of the others. Mid-way through the first day, on a motorway, too far from any gas station or rest stop, we all needed to piss. I’m sure the sight of five men on the side of a, interstate, all neatly lined up, urinating in unison was quite a memorable one for any unfortunate observers, especially those with a heart condition. This was a sight that was going to be repeated on many occasions, and upon many roads throughout our journey. Oh how lucky those nameless Americans were. 
French Rap Music. Is it the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard? Probably not. Did it sound awful? Of course it did. Yes, the French do produce rap music, and a testament to its quality is probably the fact that it has never left continental Europe, and, God willing, it never will. This was Mr. T’s interesting choice of music and, to be fair, if I understood a word of French, I probably would have appreciated it a lot more. No, sorry that was a lie, it still would have sounded diabolical. However, since I was brought up on roast beef and potatoes, and not escargot and frogs legs, it sounded like Barry Humphreys unclogging a drain, in a very, very shitty French toilet. Images of plastic Bertrand flashed up in my head, in sparkling eighties spandex, and awful French hairdos. I was scared. 

5:00 p.m.
Occasionally I look out of the window to catch up on our progress. The problem with driving on a large inter-state in Pennsylvania is that everywhere looks pretty much the same until you come to a large city with a towering skyline and you can pin-point your position. The carpet of concrete stretched out ominously in front of us, dotted with SUV’s and trucks. Trucks owned the road. They knew it, and they made damned sure that everyone else knew it. Everybody saw the signs which requested that trucks drive no faster than 55 miles and hour, but the truckers laughed at such restrictions and continued on their merry way, overtaking everyone at 75 miles an hour, endangering all in their path. Fucking truckers.

10:46 p.m.
The end of the first day was fast approaching. We had made good progress, driving all the way from Philadelphia to Indianapolis, Indiana. Mr. T and myself decided we didn’t really wish to go into Indianapolis, and would prefer to find a service station to stop at, so we could eat and sleep. Alas, we were out-voted. All other members of the trip decided it would be a good idea to nip into the city and have a quick look around, in the dark, in a strange place. Did we get lost that night in Indianapolis? Does Saddam Hussein shit in a solid gold toilet? (yes.) We drove around for an hour, first looking for a pizza place, then a Burger joint, yes we were desperate! This thoroughly agitating situation lasted for well over an hour. We drove past countless fast food dispensaries and semi-posh restaurants, each time raising our hopes for a fleeting minute before neon signs permanently burned the word “closed” onto our retinas. At one point Mr. S, a notoriously poor driver, took the wheel, cueing the seatbelts around the vehicle with a flurry and a whir. After two near misses, Mr. T took back control of the vehicle with a mental note to all being filed, with the header “Mr. S is an even worse driver at night.” With some skilful navigation from myself and not a little luck, Mr. T managed to drive us out of Indianapolis. 

12:00 p.m.
It was at this point in the journey, at the end of the first night, that we made an interesting and fruitful discovery. We were allowed to park up in gas stations, draw our curtains and sleep for the night. It was only after we nearly decided to park in a clearly populated area that we drove on a little further to the nearest gas stations and made inquiries. With this stroke of good fortune, we nestled down for the night, pulling down the benches to form the only bed, and selecting our uncomfortable positions for the night. Five men and their van on the outskirts of Indianapolis curling up at two o clock. Two louts, two krauts and a sprout.

The first in a series documenting my summer 2003 road trip.chapter one louts krauts and sprouts

 The first in a series documenting my summer 2003 road trip.
chapter one louts krauts and sprouts

Chapter One- Louts, sprouts and Krauts.

“What do you mean the f*****g car won’t start?” I gave Mr. S a look of disbelief, half expecting him to laugh and tell me he was joking, but he didn’t. “The f*****g car won’t start! I turned it over a few times and it sounded like a dying giraffe. Having sex. With an elephant.” 
“Why don’t you say a half dead giraffe?” enquired my father, peering over at the screen. “what?” I replied wondering at his logic. “well, if he’s half dead at least he’s got some hope!” Well, I couldn’t argue with that. “Besides, if you say that, you can do the classic joke!” he exclaimed, “Which one is that then?” “The one about the difference between the Giraffe and the fork lift truck, ones got hydraulics and ones got high bollocks!” 
“Great! Can I use that one in the book?” “Yeah no problem, plus, when the German guys don’t get the joke you can do something about sauerkraut.” 
“I’m not bloody paying you for this stuff you know!” I told him, quite sternly, putting him in his place. Besides, I have to get back to the book, I was going to write the first chapter in real time weaving the illusion in the readers mind that they were there, but that’s gone out of the window now. Anyway, back to the story.
“Shit” I said, “well, let me go back in the house and get my bags together and then we can go and sort it out.” So I did. Once I had acquired my luggage, I joined Mr. S in the car and we drove down the hill to where our brand spanking new second hand car was parked. I had said my tearful good-byes the previous day, hugging each person in turn, promising and requesting continued friendships via email and other such bastions of the modern world. I had lived and worked in this village for nearly a year and made some good friends, it was a tough place to leave but I always had the idea in the back of my mind that I would be returning. 
“Bill says its probably the battery, he gave us this.” At this point, a grinning Mr. S presented a portable jump starting kit, the technical term for which escapes me, so, for prudence, it will be called a PJK. It was now 10 am Eastern standard time, our initial intended time of departure, which meant that we were now behind schedule, a point which angered the incredibly anally retentive Mr. S no end. Mr. S and myself exited the vehicle and made our way to the van. I grabbed the PJK (in loving memory of prudence,) and hooked it up to the car battery, crossing my fingers and toes and hoping for the best. The Ghastly smokers cough of our beautiful 92’ Chevy roared out loud and woke up all within range, and an outstanding display of manly noise making ensued from the soon to be departing intrepid road trippers. We were on top of the world and at the starting line of our trip of a life time. With the luggage slotted firmly in place in the former toilet area of the Van, we set off, taking one final drive through the village we had called home for the past year, honking the horn and shouting at the top of our voices. I can even say quite comfortably that I may have shed a man-like tear or two. With a quick stop at the maintenance building to drop off a respectable supply of beer and a thank-you note to Bill the van man, we were on our way.

Mr. T fired up the CD player and deposited within a song which would turn out to be our road trip anthem, or theme song if you’re a picky bastard. “California here we come!” by the Phantom Planet was a stonking great tune and quickly got us all in the mood and had us all acting like we were in a bad American teen movie, cracking open beers with our heads and yelling “road trip!” out of the windows. We were on the road and loving it, and in the extravagant linguistic tongue of Mr. T, “ I Love it, I fucking love it guys!” Sheer poetry. 

Let us take a quick break at this point, and in the meantime, you are invited on a journey through time, back to the beginning, I promise it will be relevant to the story. Besides, I say invite, you pretty much have to read it, if not you can all just piss off and buy the fucking lonely planet guide and do it yourselves. 
In the beginning God created the universe in seven days, and it was this exact amount of time we had left when our God, Bill the van man delivered our salvation. Since Christmas 2003, a small core group of men consisting of Mr. T, Mr. Pink and myself had been dedicated to cruising the American dream. Visions of Drinking, smoking and general cavorting had danced in our heads for months. We wanted it all coast to coast, route 66, culminating in a mammoth party week in California. Within a month, Mr. C was on board and eventually Mr. S in the closing weeks. We had purchased a shiny beautiful Chevy Van with our pooled money, bedecked with resplendent furniture and completely indulgent accessories such as a Nintendo and a CB radio so we could annoy passing truck drivers. Mr. C had been to the dealers to take a number of photographs, which we all drooled over for weeks, and displayed to our fellow co-workers. We had even developed a friendly rivalry with another group of prospective road-trippers from our community who, incidentally, were already in material possession of their van, which we mocked on countless occasions. We had paid good money to ensure our baby would be fit for a journey across the vast expanses of the United States, and back again. And even paid extra money to have a newer engine fitted, which would practically guarantee the safe return of our van and its remaining occupants. The alarm bells never rang. Even with mere weeks to go, we sat back and planned the route and pilfered provisions, safe in our own little bubble, wherein everybody in the world was reliable and trustworthy. Mr. T had gone to pick up the van on no less than fifty occasions! (Well okay, maybe a little closer to 4 occasions, but the point still stands that it was outrageous.) Each time he was told that the engine was going to be fitted within a week or a few days, and he’d come home and told the rest of the group. By the end of June, most of the group would be leaving the community to co-ordinate summer camp groups with the children under our care, and the whole nasty business was left in the capable hands of Mr. T, who, for his part, handled it all admirably. Finally, after the fiftieth time we’d been turned down (or there abouts,) Thomas stormed up to the shifty car dealer and told him a few home truths, shouted the odds a bit, and probably said a few other downright nasty things for which the similes escape me at present. To cut long story short, our money was returned to us by the dealer, much to our relief, and we were back to square one. No fuck it! we were no longer even at square one. We were at a place where squares no longer had any meaning, some other dimension or parallel universe of shit where squares didn’t exist. We were at shit one. 
I returned to the village after two sunny weeks at the beech in Delaware, home of tax free shopping and the funniest fourth of July fireworks display ever put on, where the blinding, beautiful sparks of the pyrotechnics were masked by their own smoke! Trust me, you couldn’t see a thing! I nearly pissed myself with laughter. I hoped and prayed as we pulled into the village, hoped that we had a van, as yet uniformed of our dire straits, prayed that our van was in good, working order. Boy was I in for a surprise. That night, the night of my return, Mr. T found me enjoying a magazine in the social room, waiting in line to use the slowest internet computers in the world. 
“We are fucked! I went to pick up the van and it still wasn’t ready. I just fucking lost it man, I told him it wasn’t good enough and that I was a paying customer, and that I wanted my money back. The dealer looked pretty upset. I saw he had a fucking baseball bat on the desk behind him, it was fucking scary man!” 
“ So do we have a van now?” I asked nervously, “No we don’t. You and Simon have got to find one now, I have to go off on summer camp for a week, good luck.” And that was that, we had no van and I had all the money and no idea where to start. Shit. 
“ Bill is going to take me out this lunch time, we’re going to check out that green Plymouth in Pottstown. It isn’t very big but if its in good shape I’ll have to buy it.”
Simon sounded a little worried on the other end of the line. “Besides,” I said, “ If Bill is coming along and he says it is good then we’re sorted.” With that I put the phone down triumphantly, ending our conversation, not wanting to hear anymore of his negativity and worrying, I had enough of my own without all that. 

You’ve got to pick a pocket or two boyyyyyy!

“Do you get what I’m saying?”
Of course I did! I was a man. A man of the world no less. I understood his complicated system of winks and nods.
“ I just can’t take you to go and see the vehicle while he’s here.” 
He indicated my companion, a young man under my care who I thought would love the outing, as he was a big fan of SUV’s. I was confident now in our back and forth banter, and felt quite “cool” as Mr. Fagin continued his system of winking and jerking his head to the side. He was clearly indicating his wish for us to step around the back of the shop and do some under the counter dealings, and he didn’t want any witness’s. With my friend safely in out of the way and the keys in his hand, Bill proceeded to give the van a thorough looking over, while I stood back and admired the man at work, still high off of my Dodgy dealings with Fagin. “No way,” he said, ”Shit!” I replied, “are you sure?” I enquired, 
“Well, the tyres are in pretty bad condition so they won’t get you far outside of Pennsylvania if the police don’t catch you first. And then there is the engine, it doesn’t look too hot either. If I were you, I wouldn’t drive to the mall in this.” 
During our conversation, Fagin had begun to limp over, spotting my handy mechanic and cursing silently to himself. I deposited the key in his sweaty callused palm as he began, 
“So, what do you thing then my darlings? Is it worth a bob or two?” He wandered back a few paces and started to dance as we burst into song about the promising life of pick-pocketing. Well, at least that is what he would have done, if he were even a convincing thief, which he was not. Instead, we concluded our dealings and Bill and myself got back into the car after I made a vague mention of returning later in the week. We drove off back down the road while Fagin kind of limped off, back to his office cursing and jerking his head to the side.

It was only after a minute or two of being back on the road that I realised the extent of my stupidity. Fagin wasn’t a happy go lucky, loveable rogue who was trying to communicate his dark intentions to me in signals, he had a nervous tick. At the moment of realisation, I sat with my head in my hands, wallowing in my own ridiculousness and the fact that we still had no van. I was a failure. While I sat banging my head on the door-frame, Bill had the grand idea of nipping into a car lot we had spotted on the way, that we had dismissed as to dear for us and well out of our price range. As we drove in, we were greeted by a line of chevy vans, dazzling in the mid-day sun, the glint on the head-lamps taunting me, winking like my old friend Fagin. They were saying to me “Piss off you loser, you can’t afford us, go back and buy the shitty Plymouth.” The limp-free dealer emerged from his castle, bedecked in robes of silk, and diamond encrusted underwear (probably,) looking far too important to sell a van to us. He walked over, no, he swaggered over, as if to accentuate his limp free gait, and casually lent upon the van that took our fancy. “Howdy!” He spoke to us! I naturally let Bill take it from here, while I stood naturally, inspecting the van, pretending to know what I was doing. “Well,” he said, grasping his solid gold belt buckle, “I couldn’t let it go for any less than 3000.” My countenance fell considerably. “That’s a shame,” I said. “I was looking for something a little more in my price-range.” Bill nodded in agreement. “Well, like I said,” continued the savvy dealer, “I Can’t let it go for any less that 2500 to 3000.” 
“2500!!!!!!!!!!” 
I exclaimed, like a complete moron. “Well, 2500 at the least,” he replied as a smile crept across his face. I lowered my stupid head and let Bill take it from there.
“It’s fucking sweet!” I shouted to Mr. T over the phone, “ It’s huge, bigger than Lucas’s van, it pisses all over them! It has a TV, Oven, Fridge, CB radio. It even has a bloody toilet in the back, a toilet!”
“Dude, when I get back I am going to kiss you!”
The whole business was now out of my hands, Mr. T and Mr. S were going to deal with the insurance papers and all other necessary mumbo-jumbo, while I sat back, relaxed and reveled in the fact that we now owned a van.

So Good they named it twice?

US Correspondent Young Jerk, graces the delights of New York

Contrary to popular belief, New York, New York was not named twice due its degree of excellence in any particular field. If you check your history books Poindexter, you will find that New York City used to be called New Amsterdam. That’s right, When you sort the wheat from the chaff (I’m looking at you, New Jersey,) you get to the heart of it all. I have summed up the situation below for you limeys. New York was named twice due to:

1. The fine figure it cuts as a bustling metropolis requires a certain recognition by way of a repetitiveness of name.

2. The fact that New York City resides within the state of New York, also demands a certain two-namedness.

3. Most importantly, due to it’s affinity to all things Dutch, and to it’s Jolly good thrashing and subsequent renaming, provided by those plucky English Huzzars, and that marcher of men, the Duke of York. Yes, you read correctly. That very same grand old duke, who forever imprinted into our minds, the upward mobility of his armies (and downward,) provided the unshakable foundations for the name of the city.

So, now we have traversed the pleasantries, we can get down to the real substance. That substance I am talking about is ecto-plasm. A research project conducted during the late 1980’s concluded that a conspicuous river of luminous sludge sloshing its way through the ancient pipes that lie deep under the modern city, is in fact all of the negativity, bad feelings and Starbucks franchise owners produced by the cities residents. Dr Peter Wenkman Et Al further concluded that the only surefire way to combat such a substance was to cheer up the miserable Buggars.

The City of New York, New York (which will henceforth be refered to by second name only, as I am not quite so familiar with it to be on first name terms,) is also known by certain other aliases that aid the reader in gaining a fuller understanding of what really makes New York what it is. The Big Apple, the city that never sleeps. This conjures up in the readers mind, an image of a common fruit with insomnia, although I am sure that even then it doesn’t quite adequately do justice to the majesty of the city, I am sure it clears up some of the mystery surrounding the place.

Not being a stranger to the city myself, did I approach its magnificence, from the crapulence of New Jersey. It’s nothing personal that I hold against New Jersey, it’s just unfortunate that I find New Jersey to be such a concrete Jungle. So much is my antipathy in fact, that I have to proclaim it from the highest rooftop (the empire state building, being the highest one that is handy).

For the duration of my stay in the big city, I was lucky enough to have room and board in a flat, or apartment as we call it, in Brooklyn, care of a charming couple, who are friends of mine. They cooked us supper, and provided us with an excellent bottle of wine!

My travel companion was really my cultural program co-ordinator. He had wonderful plans for us to visit museums, poetry readings, and restaraunts. The first such stop on our cultural adventure was PS1. PS1 is a gallery with swanky modern art. Not usually being a modern art consure did I step warily into this converted school building, and I was greeted by conceptual videos, beautiful but weird sculptures and vibrant paintings. I won’t bore you with too many details, as I am not What a Corker!'s art critic.

Just like an apple briefly sweetens at the coming of the first frost, this much is true of large polluted, metaphorical apples. The cold north wind blows a certain magic over New York City. Possessed by the spirit of this magic, my friend wanted to take me to re-live a moment of his youth. You’ve all seen the movies where the people dance up and down the novelty keyboard on the floor, playing chopsticks to the adoring crowd. The actual original is in F.A.O Schwartz toy store in Manhattan. As we walked through the entrance, we were saluted by a soldier, regailed in full uniform, who opened the door to us. I dutifully returned his salute like the true gentleman soldier, Richard Sharpe. I am sure that when I left he gave me a somewhat similar salute, although it seems that the American soldier does not use all of his fingers In the process of saluting

One of the highlights of my time in the city was going to a poetry reading in a trendy hotspot in the village, called the KGB bar. As I entered the building, I was overwhelmed with Russian flags, oxidized bronze statuettes of Joseph Stalin, and busts of Lenin. You could very well imagine Vladimir Putin drinking his cares away, plotting his domination of mother Russia in such a bar. Not usually connecting to any kind of poetry that isn’t a rude limerick, I found myself pleasantly surprised by the energy and the beauty of the readings that were given. The poetry at the KGB bar gave me a flaming shot of life, the kind you try to impress your friends by drinking, and end up embarrassed and singed, dowsing the flames you couldn’t handle.

No visit to New York would be complete without a trip to the world Trade Centre. Every time I visit, I like to see how the project is progressing. I spent a large part of my time at the site, marveling at the sheer size of the endevour, wondering how long it would take to compete the “Freedom Tower.”

2010, apparently, is the date set for completion.

Further to the above, no trip to New York would be complete without good ethnic food. Unfortunately, we were too far away from the British Quarter, so we had to make do with Chinese. My friend wanted to find some good Dim Sum. He had heard rumours that it could be found cheap, and delicious if only you made an effort. Well, this intrepid reporter wouldn’t have such exertions ruining his holiday, so I nourished myself instead with taking a photograph of a humorously named restaraunt, and made do with mediocre food.

The entire trip was a welcome break, and the subsequent family thanksgiving meal in New Jersey was purely wonderful. I will have memories for a long time to come, of walking down 5th Avenue in the freezing cold, getting splashed by a taxi as it careered past, of excellent bagels and terrible coffee, of searching for parking in the busiest city in the country, of being accosted by attractive celebrities, bundled into limozines with blacked out windows, and making front page news in the Times. Granted, they wont be my personal memories, but those of Lindsay Lohan, who we happened to rub shoulders with. Well, she was in a resteraunt, and we could see her through the window, but the memories will endure regardless.

Thanksgiving

US Correspondent young jerk talks Thanksgiving, turkeys, Bernard Matthews and Norwich City.

 America loves to eat. This we know. But, did you know that one of the major American holidays has its foundations in food? Food is one of the pillars of the American way of life; that and screaming out “WOOO!” when something pleasurable occurs.

Thanksgiving day is celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November every year. Believe it or not, Thanksgiving is even sometimes called “turkey day.” Eccentric time-travelling turkey millionaire Bernard Matthews is suspected (by me) to have played a large role in popularising the consumption of the turkey at thanksgiving time, as is a mysterious player, who has yet to reveal himself on the world stage - the surprisingly affluent cranberry sauce magnate. Such suspicions cast a looming shadow over an otherwise pheasant affair; and repeated emails from myself to Mr. Matthews have met with what some would call, over the top protests. Getting back however, to the meat of the conversation - if you pardon the pun - the early American settlers were so very grateful to local Indians for showing them how to catch the native animals and to grow native crops, that they invited them all along to a feast! And what a jolly time they had; feasting and cavorting, laughing heartily, and transferring seemingly non-lethal, virulent bacterium to their savage hosts. Eventually killing many. Over the following three hundred years, the American settlers systematically seized all of their land and marched them westward.

 

To their Doom.

I don’t want to dwell on the above situation for too long but, it strikes me as enormously ironic that it was by helping the pilgrims to survive, that Bernard Mathews inaugurated the decline of the Indian way of life, and of the downright theft of their sacred land, and of the killing of many, many Indians by marching them across huge distances to arid, barren lands. If that doesn’t sum up the mean-heartedness of “Big Turkey” or the meat processing industry in general, then I don’t know what would.

You may scoff at the sheer amount of food consumed by America, but it is difficult to compare to any other nation. The physical constitution of the average American is more capable of accepting and breaking down a greater variety of fats than any other nation on earth. In fact, in America, nutritional science is so unique that the food pyramid just doesn’t exist! They just skipped over an entire cultural epoch and joined higher up the scale, in Ancient Greece. Pillar supported structures are the rich man's pyramid (and I mean rich like a chocolate mousse). Not only do pillars look more impressive, imply strength and hold up ceilings (or hold up floors if you’re a pessimist) but, well, they are just not as architecturally limiting as a pyramid.

So let us re-cap, we have the pillar of food, consisting of grease in its various mutations, and you have the pillar of “Wooo!” consisting of over-exuberant Americans at football games. Obviously, such an unstable construction could only really support a two dimensional structure, or an ornamental arch at best. Damn you The French! Your arch de triumph may be more physically imposing than London’s marble arch, but only the Queen and select soldiers can walk under ours! Can your queen walk under yours? Oh I forgot, you chopped her head off! Therefore it becomes clear to even the casual observer that there must be more to Thanksgiving than just turkey. Actually, the pumpkin pie is quite delicious, with a pinch of cinnamon sugar.

If you the reader, want to get a clearer picture of just how deeply this love for fast food sits in the constitution of the average American, then look no further than the constitution of America, further proof of the clandestine activities of turkey entrepreneur Bernard Matthews can be found in the constitution. If you look closely, it becomes clear how deeply mired in the history of America Bernard Matthews actually is:

To bring these proceedings to a close, it only needs to be briefly mentioned that I will have the privilege of joining a genuine American family in their Thanksgiving celebrations this year, up in New Jersey. I imagine that I will be enjoying myself immensely, drinking beers, watching the football, and passing on the turkey; While Turkey conglomerista Bernard Matthews will be having a miserable Thanksgiving in Norwich for a number of reasons:

1 There is no Thanksgiving holiday in England


2 He will be spending time in Norwich


3 Norwich are doing incredibly poorly in the football


4 He is a miserable sod anyway


5 He lost most of his stock of horrendously abused turkeys


6 See above.

 

 

Take me out to the ball game.

*(The first of a series of articles written for Whatacorker.com online magazine)

US Correspondent: gives an account of Baseball

A finer family day out could not be found in the entire United States. The national sport of baseball draws crowds in the region of 25 gazillion (metric,) every year.

“But why pay good green to watch a couple of dozen men smack a ball and jog around in a diamond formation!” I hear you cry.

But, little do you know, when you considered baseball, you forgot to count the myriad snack selection, and pre-game entertainment. You rash English! Perhaps you should listen for a moment before crying out of turn.

Have you ever been to a game of soccer that has a 35-millimeter cannon shooting t-shirts at you? Have you ever been to a game of tennis where a man, mounted on a novelty ostrich throws hot-dogs in your general direction? Have you ever been to a game of rugby where fireworks whoosh into the air every time there is a try? Well? Have you? Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to the knee-slapping world of Semi-professional baseball!

 

The Reading Phillies are a “farm team.” No. I do not mean that they play on a farm. They play in a stadium, but the team “sows” players, that are “harvested” by the Philadelphia Phillies, and swapped back and forth in the cutthroat world of Pro-Baseball. My family was privileged enough to accompany me to a game one evening, and I think it was a life changing event for them. Suffice it to say, I caught my dad on more than one occasion mumbling under his breath about wasted lives and opportunities in the new world, whittling down lumber to craft high-quality baseball bats.

“Oh say can you see!!! By the dawns early light!!!” Warbled a young girl scout (or a girly boy-scout with a frightening soprano). The national anthem of the United States of Whatever, echoed through the cavernous stadium, and through the standing crowd, (hats to chests). I chanced a sneaky peek at my mother, who shed a tear at the emotionally charged song. I chanced a peek, that is, and then pointed this out to my father and brother, and we quite rightly mocked her for it.

At times I could not help but get caught up in the jovial nature of the game, by smacking my youngest brother on the sides and top of his face in a gesture that mingled brotherly love, and manly camaraderie. With low level bullying and borderline psychosis. Oh the great American game.

The aim of the game is (much like rounders, a strikingly similar game from that bastion of sport creating excellence, England) to score as many runs as possible. As an interesting aside, baseball shares another similarity to rounders; the players must run around in a diamond. As another interesting aside, three strikes and you're out can also trace its origins to the fine art of rounders. In fact, instead of beating around the bush, this writer will just jolly well go out on a limb and say it. Rounders is a complete and utter rip off of baseball! I mean it, really! The sports are just too similar to ignore. Great Britain (yes, the entire nation,) must have travelled forward in time to the relatively recent period of the 19th century, stolen the American national past-time in its germinal state, and returned with it to 16th century England. I further suggest that they then knowingly and spitefully chopped half the length from the bat.

That, Gentleman, is just not Cricket.

 

Mostly Farmless.

  Ten minutes from my community something has arisen. They're just houses, they are not awful houses. People call them awful houses in their attempts to vocalize a feeling that such un-human objects are not satisfying. There is something not right about them.

  

 However, allowing each other the grace of attaching human qualities to inanimate objects is a slippery slope. After all, Slopes can be slippery but they cannot be naughty. They can be inclined, but cannot be inclined toward an end. The slope does not intend me to slip upon it, the slope merely is. A house is not awful, it simply is not conscious, it just is. The God awful people that design them are those worthy of such a title.

  They are the physical manifestations of the death of architecture, of the lack of imaginative capacities, of the precipice of materialism from which humanity has been teetering for the last 100 years. Of the scourge of an arrogant scientific community that is convinced that "particles" and their interactions can account for human qualities. And when a world is built on these principles that simply do. Not. Fit...

  These "Houses" or units, pull you headlong into a world where any trace of humanity has been cast aside. Yet no matter how often you bemoan their existence or curse their manifest crappiness they still stand. You're like the big bad wolf huffing and puffing at a shit brick house.

 

  The damned things went up fast. Used to be farmland you know. Most of the land around here did. bastard developers love to get their hands on our farmland, making farmers offers they cannot refuse, building a boat load of identical living units, hoping that there will be enough people to buy them!

 We buy a lot of food in now, as a country in general, something is always coming from somewhere else. Of course, we've much more important things to do with our valuable land than to grow food in it. We attach a monetary value to our own life support, this soil that is priceless. We replace every strip of land with identical shopping malls, that stock the food that used to grow on this very land. They hawk the leather jackets that come from cows that used to graze on that very spot! 

  

  A hellish future presents itself to me, where there is no land left in North America to grow our own food, it has all be petrified by concrete. As far as the nose can smell, Macdonald's hamburgers. As far as the ear can hear, Christmas jingles from early October. As far as my eyes can see, Smog and eerie neon lights. This is not a vision conjured up by myself alone. It is a frightful nightmare that others share, that such a terrifying prophecy could one day be the fate of a once, Twice, Thrice great nation. 

   human beings will retreat into the safety of their identical living units, drifting around the world wide web, living out their lives in a virtual paradise that harkens back to, well, better times.

 

  We should not let it happen you know.