The Further Adventures of an Idiot Abroad (38 page)

It was the weirdest party I’d ever been to. Some people were in corners hugging each other as they cried. Some were hugging while laughing hysterically. I used to think it was odd when
people in the 1980s held Tupperware parties where they would gather at other people’s houses to buy plastic sandwich boxes and beakers and the like, but this was another level. I’d had
enough, so I told them I had to leave, as I wanted to beat the traffic – which, looking back, wasn’t the most convincing excuse with the tumbleweed blowing by outside.

The problem I had with driving Route 66 was the way I was continually thinking about getting to the end of it, instead of just enjoying being on it. I was treating it like I was running the
London Marathon. I said at the time, it’s the same approach I have to eating an orange – I’m so busy trying not to splurt it down my T-shirt or to stop the juice running down my
arm, I’m not giving any thought as to whether I’m actually enjoying eating the bloody thing. The only time I can really enjoy eating an orange is when I’m in the bath, but I
don’t get to do that very often because the boiler overheats if I try to run a bath, and eating an orange in the shower isn’t easy either. So, I’ve ended up opting for tangerines
that tend to have a skin they’re happy to get out of. But, looking back on it, I did enjoy driving through miles and miles of nothingness. It gave me a chance to ponder things without having
to worry that I was going to run someone over, or drive through a red light, or get stuck in traffic, because there was nothing around apart from a random shack here and there.

I stopped off at the occasional tourist attraction, mostly to stretch my legs, but there was one that has stuck in my mind – the bottle tree ranch. Like the giraffes at London Zoo, I could
see the bottles without entering. Once in though, you really start to get a sense of how eerie the place is. I shouted hello, but no one replied, which was a shame because it was the sort of place
that needs a tour guide.

The trees were made from scaffolding with metal branches welded on, and then bottles had been placed like leaves on each branch. The bottles were all different colours and shapes, and they were
everywhere. In fact they had too many, so there were loads of bottles just scattered around on the ground. There weren’t just bottles though. There were old shopping trolleys, broken toys, a
sewing machine, a kids’ go-kart, road signs, metal bed frames, broken clocks and watering cans. It was all these other things that raised my suspicions. Was this the home of an artist, or
just a scruffy sod? Maybe he just got bored of waiting for the bottle recycling van to turn up.

Whenever the wind picked up, so did the noise. The metal clanked, and each bottle whistled and clinked. No wonder the fella was out. He’d probably nipped to the chemist to get some aspirin
for his headache. It’s odd how some people like to have some noise. Even though he’d chosen to live in the middle of nowhere where there was plenty of peace and quiet, he’d ended
up creating noise. My mam did the same when she moved from Manchester to Wales. She couldn’t handle the silence, so she bought a wind chime. But that drove my dad mental, so she replaced it
with a rubber wind chime. I know – who knows where she finds these things. She has more shit in her house than this bottle guy had in his garden.

Was this art? Maybe. It did make me stop and look, and it was interesting walking around seeing old toys I’d also had as a kid. It felt a bit like walking round a car boot sale –
something to do, something to look at, but I had no intention of wanting to take anything home with me. I came to the conclusion that he wasn’t harming anyone. No weirder than people who
collect thimbles. Maybe it was just his way of trying to meet people – getting them to stop and wander in and start a conversation. I can’t say I’ve ever done something to my flat
that expresses me like he has at the bottle ranch. I always decorate it and keep it simple, so it’s easy to sell on. But this guy is doing what he wants. He’s expressing himself, which
is fine by me, just as long as he doesn’t move next door to my flat in London.

I got a call from Ricky telling me to go and visit a country fair a little further down the road. He said I’d get to travel in something a bit bigger than my Smart car for a while. The
last country fair I went to was at Heaton Park in Manchester a few years ago. I remember it was a really hot day and I had to be careful eating my jam doughnut, as wasps kept landing on it. The
highlight was a fella who walked around a field carrying a Mini on his head. The crowd booed when they heard the engine had been taken out. Tough crowd.

It turned out I was going to drive a monster truck, owned by a bloke called Ronnie. He was a tough-looking fella with a shaved head and stubble and tattoos on his arms and legs. I’d seen
these monster trucks on TV, but I’d never really understood the concept. Why have such massive wheels? It reminded me of the oversized shoes Elton John wore when he sang ‘Pinball
Wizard’. It just isn’t practical to have such big wheels. Where do you keep a spare? Plus, you can’t nip into Kwik Fit and get them replaced.

Ronnie’s monster truck was called Nasty Boy. I climbed up from underneath, balancing carefully on its frame and hooked my arms in through the window. As I clung on, trying to hold my
entire body weight, I realised there was one seat and Ronnie had beaten me to it. What’s the point of that? A truck this big and only one seat? Ronnie started it up, and the noise was
unbelievable. And then, as I was about to swing back down to the ground, Ronnie pulled away at speed. I almost shat myself. I thought he was about to do a circuit of the track and jump a ramp with
me on it, so I was yelling at him to stop, but I was pretty sure he couldn’t hear me under the noise of the engine. Finally, Ronnie put the truck in a spin and came to a halt, and I got out
as quick as I could.

I reckon he must’ve used a few gallons of fuel in the 30 seconds I was in the truck. That’s another reason I wouldn’t want one – the amount it would cost to run would be
mental. I stayed on for the show and watched Ronnie demolish a few vans. He drove at the ramp at high speed, jumped twenty feet, and landed on them. The crowd were loving it. People say Americans
like coming to England to see the old stuff ’cos they haven’t got any old things in their own country, but they would if they stopped crushing it or blowing shit up.

Next day I went to meet Joe. He was going to take me on the hunt for gold, which would be perfect, as I needed to find Suzanne a gift. I normally get her some sort of token of my trip. She likes
necklaces and rings, but I very rarely buy her jewellery ’cos I don’t see the point of it. It’s just showing off, and another thing to lose. Plus, she’s already got a few
rings, which in my eyes are more than enough for the amount of fingers she has. So, I tend to buy her things that are a bit more practical. I bought her a bread machine for Christmas, which I think
is far more useful and gives more satisfaction than a bit of metal. And it’s cheaper. But if I could find some gold myself it would be a nice surprise for her, and it would mean more
’cos I personally found it. Plus, it’s free.