The next day, still rubbing our eyes, we made for Santa Barbara, a relaxing boutique of a town, clean to the point of artificial, with miles of beach. It’s what you imagine California is like in your head when you’re 12. Accommodation isn’t cheap, but it’s the perfect place to unwind – particularly if you enjoy sunbathing, which I don’t. Disturbing sight of the day: a bikini-clad Paris Hilton-style beach bunny sitting on a towel with the words ‘WHITE PRIDE’ tattooed in gothic script across her lower back. Aisleyne had to be talked out of walking over and lamping her.
Next stop: Los Angeles. Sadly, the hotel we’d booked turned out to be (a) next to the airport, (b) a 40-minute drive from anywhere interesting, and (c) a self-consciously trendy hangout apparently designed to personally annoy me. The lifts played canned laughter when you arrived at your floor. That’s not a metaphor: that’s what they actually did. And the mini-bar didn’t include cold drinks, but did have a packet of radish seeds and one of those little table-tennis bats with a rubber ball hanging off a bit of elastic. Q: What’s the difference between quirky irony and infuriating ‘You Don’t Have to Be Mad to Work Here But it Helps!’ wackiness? A: None.
Sadly, I had work to do in LA. Not high-powered meetings with movie execs. No. Just my usual Guardian writing duties. So I had to sit in the hotel room, tapping at a laptop, while the girls went off and swanned around. At one point I had a break and took a cab to an outdoor mall. Sinatra was being piped in from invisible speakers somewhere in the trees, and everyone was far slimmer than the last time I was here. Suddenly I felt like scum. It made me want to smoke. I quit smoking in February, and now the sheer Tupperware mock-pleasantness of everything surrounding me was threatening to undo my resolve. I bought a pack, lit one, and immediately extinguished it. No. No.
I was happy to leave LA. I was less happy with Cat’s driving. We were heading for Vegas, and she appeared to be in a hurry. Perhaps she’d robbed a bank while I wasn’t looking. Either way, she was hell-bent on squeezing a four-hour drive into 10 minutes. But when you can’t drive, you’re robbed of the ability to complain. Instead I distracted myself by selecting our driving soundtrack from an MP3 player. At least that way I’d be able to listen to the Beatles while the fire crew cut us from the wreckage.
Fortunately it didn’t come to that and we arrived in one piece. Then things instantly turned strange. Knowing I was going to be staying in Vegas, the Guardian had sent out feelers to see if anyone was prepared to offer free, interesting accommodation to one of its writers. I’d get a nice place to stay, they’d get some publicity (good or bad, it’s all publicity). That’s how it works.
The Planet Hollywood Resort and Casino said yes. And because I would be covering it for this piece, they pulled out all the stops. I wasn’t quite prepared for what happened. First, we were introduced to our own personal butler, the instantly charming Bisrat. He took us to our suite, which turned out to comprise four huge individual rooms branching off a massive lounge the size of a fashionable London bar. It had a pool table, a bar, a table football machine, a plasma screen on every available surface, some wacky sculptures, a breathtaking view of the strip, and – right there in the lounge – a free-standing shower with a lap-dancing pole in the middle of it.
Bisrat immediately uncorked a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass. I needed it. Drop me in the middle of opulence like this and I automatically feel like a burglar.
No matter how often I looked round the place, I couldn’t get used to it. It looked like a set. You could film an entire aspirational drama series about hard-partying city hotshots in there, if you were an arsehole. Suddenly I wondered: what appalling scenes has this place witnessed in the past? How many hookers have twirled round that pole? Did housekeeping routinely wipe it clean each morning? Brrr.
Urmee and Cat flew home. Kelly flew in, followed shortly by Ben. I was talked, somehow, into going to a club. It was called Tryst, and was situated in the middle of the Wynn casino, a horrible slab of money and pretension designed to appeal squarely to absolute wankers. The club was rammed with beautiful women and hideous men. It had a waterfall, expensive drinks, and a dancefloor full of whooping twats throwing banknotes in the air. Good, I thought. The economy is tanking. This looks like the last days of Rome. Then another thought struck me: here I was, with two improbably glamorous women, in Vegas. Everyone thought I’d paid for them. Because that makes sense in Vegas.
Furthermore, going round Vegas with these two was like escorting two female models through a prison. The foul, hollow, forced party vibe I found bleakly amusing on previous trips now felt sickly and threatening. It’s like a permanent New Year’s Eve, my worst night of the year. Everyone pretending to let go and enjoy themselves. All of it fake, as fake as the replica Eiffel tower dominating Paris, the fake French casino. It’s an atmosphere in which idiots thrive. The next day, by the pool, I saw a trio of muscled-up body-fascist lunkheads loudly haranguing an out-of-shape middle-aged man with lots of body hair. ‘Hey dude, you’re totally rocking that mohair sweater,’ they yelled, again and again. They stood right over him. ‘Seriously, it’s awesome.’ They said it over and over, until he left. Shamefully, I did nothing. They’d have killed me.
A few hours later, a drunk buffoon swiped Aisleyne’s camera and took photos of his own spectacularly ugly testicles in a doomed bid to impress the ladies. The perfect metaphor for Vegas.
Back in the suite, while the Bellagio casino’s multi-million dollar fountain display erupted across the road, every plasma screen was filled with Obama and McCain and red flashing numbers and ECONOMY IN CRISIS. Las Vegas is mad at the best of times. In this context, it seemed downright insane. The trend in recent years has been for swankier and swankier casinos: the Bellagio and the Wynn are essentially Dynasty box sets made flesh. Now the credit crunch has left them looking like big, dumb relics. Towering, empty hangovers. They felt underpopulated compared to the downmarket tack-pits which, comparatively, were overflowing. If gloomy economic predictions are correct, Vegas is going to turn very ugly very quickly.
Not that I spent the whole time scowling. After all, I was in the lap of luxury. The food, the service, the furnishings – it was all one unending blowjob. But it felt like a blowjob taking place seconds before a mushroom cloud appears on the horizon. Stupidly – incredibly stupidly – I started smoking, seduced by the novelty of being able to light up indoors, which felt as exotic as smoking underwater. Argh. By the time you read this, I’ll be in the process of my umpteenth 72-hour quitting process. Thanks, Vegas. Once again, I was glad to leave.
By now we were behind on our itinerary. The next few days consisted of near non-stop driving. Another rule of road trips: allow far more time than you think you’ll need. We sprinted through Monument Valley. Amazing landscape, yes: but when you’re in a hurry it’s essentially just another load of rocks. Then a mammoth drive all the way to Albuquerque.
If you find yourself anywhere near Albuquerque, go on the Sandia Peak aerial tramway. Just do it. It’s the longest mountain cable car in the world, and it’s terrifying and beautiful at once. Half your brain is lulled by the scenery, while the other half screams about death. There’s a bar at the top. I drank a pint with shaking hands.
After Albuquerque, we stopped in a charming town called Truth or Consequences, named after a 1950s radio show that offered to broadcast an episode from the first town prepared to change its name to that of the show. Before that it was called Hot Springs, and with good reason. Because it’s full of hot springs. Most of the motels double as spas. Go there. It’s bloody lovely.
Between Truth or Consequences and the hill country of Texas, there wasn’t much to do but drive, drive, drive, with the occasional overnight stop in a shithole. Thank God we were getting on, because it’s a bit like being stuck in a small air-conditioned cell, albeit one with an interesting view out the window. The sheer amount of space in America can become overwhelming: the road is straight, and it stretches all the way to the horizon, forever.
Finally we made it to Bandera, Texas, for a two-day stay at the Running-R Guest Ranch. This was possibly the best part of the entire trip, and certainly the most relaxing. Stay in a cabin! Fall asleep in a rocking chair! Ride a horse! I’ve never ridden a horse before: fortunately, they’re prepared for greenhorns. You just climb on its back and it follows the other horses, like a software-driven electronic car. I kept forgetting it was a real animal, except every so often it’d stop for a piss or stumble a bit on a rock. That wakes you up. All the staff were impossibly friendly: Kelly and Aisleyne were particularly taken with one of our cowgirl hosts, whose life they envied so hard it almost hurt them.
Our final destination was Houston, of which I saw little more than a soulless shopping mall, some skyscrapers and a thunderstorm. Oh, and a pair of swans, improbably bobbing around in a pool in the hotel lobby. Houston doubtless has far more to offer, but I didn’t have time to see it. I had to fly home.
In summary: not a relaxing holiday, but an insanely eventful one. We tried to cram too much in to the time we had, which is why both the trip itself and this article were full of fleeting snapshots. For the distance we travelled (SF to LA to Vegas to Houston) I’d allow at least an extra week. Otherwise you spend a bit too much time rubbernecking and fiddling with iPods in the passenger seat. Nonetheless, the US is undoubtedly a great place to visit. Friendly people, stunning scenery, and if you pick your motels wisely, it’s cheap, too. Go while it’s still there.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In which the world as we know it comes to an end, Kerry Katona is defended, and the Daily Mail pretends to be outraged by Russell Brand and a butterfly
The end [13 October 2008]
Great. I go on holiday, turn my back for a few weeks, come back and what’s happened? The banks are on fire and we’re at war with Iceland. As I type these words (on a Friday morning, fact fans), Sky News is zooming in on a screen full of red flashing numbers, apparently willing them to fall yet lower. The problem is a lack of confidence, they keep saying, cutting away every so often to show a big plunging downward arrow or a shot of a City trader holding his head in despair.
I’m a bit sick of that whole holding-his-head-in-despair schtick, to be honest. It’s about time they tried something more spectacular. Surely it’s time for a revival of that great cliché of the 1930s, the ruined City whizzkid hurling himself out of the window? The credit crunch high dive. Extra points if you manage to pull a backflip on the way down, or crack your jaw on a window cleaner’s cradle somewhere around floor 35. The ultimate high score goes to the first one who manages to successfully update his Facebook status using an iPhone seconds before slamming into the pavement. ‘Danny is plummeting to his doom.’ Click here to tag him in a photo. Look, there he is. That sort of gritty pink puddle with a few teeth and bits of hair sticking out of it? Next to the bin? Beside the horrified, vomiting pedestrians? That’s Danny, your mate who got a career in the city. That’s what the FTSE did to him. And you thought your job was bad. Who’s laughing now? Not him. He can’t. His windpipe’s in the gutter.
Is this the end of the world? If so, it’s a bit more boring than I’d imagined. So far, it’s been an invisible apocalypse. Poke your head out the window and there’s little evidence of charred debris. Perhaps that’s yet to come. Like I say, I’m writing this on Friday morning. By the time you read it, it’ll be Monday. Maybe we’re already bartering with coloured pebbles or fighting over water or something.
Still, there’s no point in worrying. If we’re going to be plunged into some kind of barbaric medieval dark age, I might as well be philosophical about it, because there’s no way I’ll survive more than a month. I’d be hopeless at fighting over basic resources and don’t have any essential manual skills, such as the ability to hunt and skin rats. Perhaps I can learn the lute and become a minstrel, or perform bawdy jigs in exchange for pennies. Assuming there are any pennies. Hey, maybe just before all currency is finally declared worthless we’ll get to experience the whole wheelbarrows-full-of-worthless-banknotes thing, like they did in Germany just before the war. That’d be a blast.
It all seems particularly bizarre, because just over a week ago I was in Las Vegas, as part of a US road trip I’m writing up for the Travel section. The casino put me up in an outrageous suite the size of a millionaire’s bachelor pad. It had a pool table, a butler, and a shower in the lounge with a lapdancing pole in the middle of it. The windows looked out over the Las Vegas strip; specifically over the multimillion-dollar fountain show at the front of Bellagio. I visited a nightclub full of pricks who danced around tossing banknotes in the air, then returned to the suite, which alongside a pool table and a butler, also came equipped with about six gigantic, wall-mounted HD plasma TVs, every single one of which was screaming bad news about the economy. I felt like I was trapped inside a terrifying satirical sci-fi flick.
And it had to happen, obviously. For years, money was just appearing from nowhere, or so we were told. People bought houses and bragged about how the value kept zooming up, and up, and up. In fact they didn’t seem to be houses at all, but magic coin-shitting machines. It was all a dream, a dream in which you bought a box and lived in it, and all the time it generated money like a cow generates farts. Great big stinking clouds of money. And none of it was real. And now it’s gone. Your house is worth less than your shoes, and your shoes are now, in turn, worth less than your mouth and your arse. Yes, your most valuable possessions are now your mouth and your arse, and you’re going to have to use both of them in all manner of previously unthinkable ways to make ends meet, to pay for that box, the box you live in, the one you mistook for an enchanted, unstoppable cash engine. I hope you’ve got a nice kitchen. Maybe that’ll take your mind off things. And sell that Alessi smoothie maker while you’re about it. You can’t afford fruit any more. It’s tap water at best from now on. It’s good for you! Really, it is.
All of it was a dream. All that crap we bought, all the bottled water and Blu-Ray players and designer shoes and iPod Shuffles and patio heaters; all the jobs we had; all the catchphrases we memorised and the stupid things we thought. Everything we did for the past 10 years – none of it really felt real, did it? Time to snap out of it. Time to grow our own vegetables and learn hand-to-hand combat with staves. And time, perhaps, to really start living.
An election in Narnia [20 October 2008]
Like virtually no one else in the country, I stayed up to watch the final US presidential debate the other night, which started at the user-friendly time of 2 a.m. and lasted 350 hours, if you count all the post-match analysis. All the rolling news channels were covering it live, of course, so my choice of network was largely based on aesthetics. Sky News had the colour turned up to cartoon levels, so that was out. The BBC had a more sober palette, and was showing it in widescreen, but there weren’t enough distracting tickers and graphics to maintain my attention – I know they’re bad, but I just can’t help myself – so before long I started channel-surfing. The moment I alighted on CNN, I knew I was going to stay there. Why? Because they had an animated graph.
It looked like a heart monitor. For a moment, I thought it was displaying the opponents’ pulses. Or maybe it was hooked up to a pad in their seats, and was scrupulously monitoring the amount of arse sweat they’d generate if a tricky question reared its head. But no. Instead it was supposed to be a visual representation of the ever-shifting mind-set of a group of uncommitted Ohio voters.
Rather than shoving electrodes into said voters’ brains, so they looked like miserable cats in an anti-vivisection poster, CNN had taken the humane route and given them some sort of approval-rating widget. So if you were holding one, and Obama said something you didn’t like, you turned the dial down, and if McCain said something you did like, you turned it up. And vice versa. There was one line for women and another for men, so you could see how the different sexes had different reactions. Sadly, that was the full extent of demographic separation. They could’ve broken it down a little furt
her. It would’ve been fascinating to see how, say, overweight ginger-haired postmen felt about the possibility of a new free trade agreement with Colombia, but the lazy bastards at CNN couldn’t be arsed to tell us.
This shocking oversight aside, watching the wobbly line snake up and down as the candidates spoke was mesmerising. So mesmerising you couldn’t really hear what they were saying. In fact, it turned the debate into a video game – like SingStar, the PlayStation karaoke thing where you get drunk and try to belt your way through ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ without hitting too many bum notes.
When the delicate subject of abortion came up, the line became yet more fiddly, and turned into one of those infuriating puzzles where you have to move a metal loop along a twisty-turny electrified wire without touching the sides.
Since it’s impossible not to root for one candidate or another, this meant that you found yourself egging your favourite on in craven and bizarre ways. ‘Shit, the line’s dropping – quick, make a rash promise to the American people! Say you’ll eliminate taxes! Claim to be Christ! Offer free hand-jobs! Anything!’
At one point I found myself thinking it’d be useful if people had those approval-monitor graphs on their faces in real life, so when you were talking to them at parties you could tell, at a glance, just how interested or bored they were. Then I remembered that’s what basic facial expressions are for. Nature always gets there first.
Speaking of facial expressions, during the eight or nine nanoseconds I wasn’t focused intently on the animated line, the lingering reaction shots provided much entertainment. The screen was split in two so you could see their faces while the other was talking. Obama smiled a lot, so much in fact that he started resembling a reality show contestant watching a compilation of his ‘best bits’. McCain’s face didn’t know quite what to do with itself. It kept trying to look furious. Then you’d see him remember that looking furious doesn’t play well, so he’d arrange his face into a tight, eerie grin, while appearing to grow increasingly furious with himself for failing to hide his earlier fury, thereby creating an unfortunate anger-based feedback loop. He should’ve worn a mask. Is the world ready for a masked president? Hell, yeah. How about one in a Sarah Palin mask? Or Chico Marx? Or Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th? That’d really have thrown Obama off his stride, and given the networks something else to debate ad nauseam, thereby putting McCain back at the top of the news agenda. Is this a new maverick strategy, or a mental breakdown? The pundits would be at it for hours.
The Hell of it All Page 25