Our eyes meet from across the breakfast hall, and I realise that of all the hotels in all of America, I chose the one that Jonny B and his freakish clan are staying in. A mistake, a mistake, a foolish mistake.
"You!" he shouts, charging at me from across the room.
"Arrrrghhhh," he bellows, launching himself headlong at my midriff. We crash into a unusually positioned lorry of grit, he gets up and, showing inhuman strength, picks me up by the throat and shakes me like a naughty baby.
"I feel a little violated," I say, as he slams me down directly on to a salt shaker.
"Damn your violation," he says, "you have been stalking me! Via the internet!"
It appears I have been busted. I decide to plead ignorance. He has long believed me to be unskilled in the ways of technology - little does he know I have a CSE in the use of the ZX Spectrum.
"What? I don't even know what the internet is! I booked this holiday on Ceefax! You know that that is as close to modern technology as I get? I'm just here, minding my own business, eating these waffles and syrup, consuming over 2000 calories before 9am. This is surely why America is so great?"
"And the free coffee," he says.
"Yes, that too. The free coffee is a bonus. But I don't know what you're talking about with all this internet business. Remember you showed me that video of that fat kid on that rollercoaster, and I didn't like it because I thought it was like, cruel, and you said I didn't understand the internet, and I said 'you're right', and you said 'you must never use the internet again,' and I said, 'yes, you are right, I will never use the internet again'?"
He pauses momentarily.
"It wasn't you then? It definitely wasn’t you?”
“No. I’d have needed to ask what buttons to press and all that.”
This seems to appease him. He settles like a silverback after a good dump.
"Oh. What are you doing here then?"
"I came to see Graceland," I say. "Uh huh." (This was my impression of Elvis. It was the best I could do at short notice.)
"Oh. I have come to see Dollywood, and see if I could find some good banjo music."
"Yes. You like banjo music. Banjo music makes you happy. You will be happy if you find some good banjo music. I guess I'll see you back in England then."
"Right."
He wanders off, looking slightly dazed, surely with a very suspicious mind. I throw my gear in the Hummer and burn out of town.
Monday 9 November 2009
Friday 6 November 2009
Cherokee
Tennessee turns out to be a lot like Norfolk, only with bigger hills, and sillier place names.
We were given a full security briefing at the airport, by a friendly trooper in a big hat. He told us to look out for the Sugarland Mountain Massive, but there is no sign of them as we pass through Grandfather, no clues in Boone, and no redemption in Bethlehem. Gang activity is relatively light back home in rural Norfolk - although you do get the occasional defacement of the wall behind the Village Pub - so maybe I am just not looking in the right places. We move on to Cherokee, (named after the Jeep), and settle down for the night.
I do not know why Jonny has led us to this place. What is there in Tennessee? To our West lies Memphis, the home of the King (Elvis). For those of you unfamiliar with his work, he was the one who inspired the costumes in the late-seventies science fiction programme Blake's Seven. I learnt about Graceland from Paul Simon - who was the fellow from Simon and Garfunkel who did not have the big hair. I am not sure quite where Art Garfunkel is involved in all this, but he has always struck me as a bit of a strange character. I will keep him at the back of my mind for now.
Maybe tomorrow we will make the pilgrimage to Graceland. Maybe we will be forced to track Jonny as he scouts potential terrorist targets. Whatever. As the sun goes down over the beautiful Smoky Mountains, I fall asleep listening to the sounds of silence.
We were given a full security briefing at the airport, by a friendly trooper in a big hat. He told us to look out for the Sugarland Mountain Massive, but there is no sign of them as we pass through Grandfather, no clues in Boone, and no redemption in Bethlehem. Gang activity is relatively light back home in rural Norfolk - although you do get the occasional defacement of the wall behind the Village Pub - so maybe I am just not looking in the right places. We move on to Cherokee, (named after the Jeep), and settle down for the night.
I do not know why Jonny has led us to this place. What is there in Tennessee? To our West lies Memphis, the home of the King (Elvis). For those of you unfamiliar with his work, he was the one who inspired the costumes in the late-seventies science fiction programme Blake's Seven. I learnt about Graceland from Paul Simon - who was the fellow from Simon and Garfunkel who did not have the big hair. I am not sure quite where Art Garfunkel is involved in all this, but he has always struck me as a bit of a strange character. I will keep him at the back of my mind for now.
Maybe tomorrow we will make the pilgrimage to Graceland. Maybe we will be forced to track Jonny as he scouts potential terrorist targets. Whatever. As the sun goes down over the beautiful Smoky Mountains, I fall asleep listening to the sounds of silence.
Monday 2 November 2009
Tennessee
As the old saying goes, boys go for looks, girls go for status. I flash my badge at the dolly behind the check-in desk, and bingo, I'm upgraded to first-class. It's the only way to fly. Champagne on boarding, spacious legroom, food and snacks all the way to America.
Later, as the stewardess delicately fondles my nuts, I stretch out in the full-reclining chair and ponder the perils that lie ahead. What nefarious activities does Jonny have planned for our trip the States? We have alerted the ground crew to his presence, and they have delayed the plane long enough to search the baggage hold for explosive materials. Apart from some dubious-looking pants, which may form the basis of a targeted chemical strike, Jonny B's luggage is clean.
I take another sip of champagne and regard my fellow passengers. Kirsty Allsopp is touching up her make-up in the seat to my right, whilst the entire cast of the Leningrad Cowboys are discussing their favourite tractors to my rear. I close my eyes and settle down for a few hours shut-eye, and before I know it we are touching down. I awake feeling refreshed, ready for the challenges before me.
Those good sorts at the FBI have layed on a top-of-the-range Hummer for us. This thing is so good it pretty much drives itself. I watch from my leather-clad nest as Jonny B enters his Kia Dinky Donk - a nondescript car if there ever was one. Thankfully, we have managed to delay him long enough at the car-hire desk to plant a microphone in the Kia, and we can hear every word he utters. We follow him at a safe distance, the sounds of a deeply discontented man ringing in our ears.
Later, as the stewardess delicately fondles my nuts, I stretch out in the full-reclining chair and ponder the perils that lie ahead. What nefarious activities does Jonny have planned for our trip the States? We have alerted the ground crew to his presence, and they have delayed the plane long enough to search the baggage hold for explosive materials. Apart from some dubious-looking pants, which may form the basis of a targeted chemical strike, Jonny B's luggage is clean.
I take another sip of champagne and regard my fellow passengers. Kirsty Allsopp is touching up her make-up in the seat to my right, whilst the entire cast of the Leningrad Cowboys are discussing their favourite tractors to my rear. I close my eyes and settle down for a few hours shut-eye, and before I know it we are touching down. I awake feeling refreshed, ready for the challenges before me.
Those good sorts at the FBI have layed on a top-of-the-range Hummer for us. This thing is so good it pretty much drives itself. I watch from my leather-clad nest as Jonny B enters his Kia Dinky Donk - a nondescript car if there ever was one. Thankfully, we have managed to delay him long enough at the car-hire desk to plant a microphone in the Kia, and we can hear every word he utters. We follow him at a safe distance, the sounds of a deeply discontented man ringing in our ears.
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