Red Highways

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As I have mentioned before, I believe American politics to be one of the most entertaining issues in the world. Nothing else offers you so much showmanship, so much blatant hypocrisy, idiocy and dashed idealism, so my library of books on this particular issue seems to growing exponentially. After finishing ‘Game Change‘ (or ‘race of a lifetime’ for the citizens of Great Britain), I was on the market for more political non-fiction, and that’s when I heard about ‘Red Highways: A Liberal’s Journey Into the Heartland‘ on the BBC’s World Service.  ‘Why the world service?’, I hear you yell? ‘Aren’t the only two radio stations you listen to BBC Radio 4 and 100% Generation Disco Funk?’ Well, yes. But on Sundays between 10 and 11:15 there’s ‘The Archers’ omnibus session, and I just can’t listen to that drivel, so I switch to the World Service. That specific sunday they featured a San Francisco based journalist called Rose Aguilar as one of their analysts who was allowed to plug her above named book. Intrigued, I got hold of a copy and read the whole thing in a day (it’s not very onerous).

The narrative is as follows: San Francisco based vegan political blogger and host of a progressive radio station gets terribly frustrated when Bush II gets re-elected and takes political activist boyfriend on a trip to fly-over country to meet those people who actually voted for the bloke. Queue a string of highly repetitive vignettes with always the same structure:

Rose: ‘Oh hello, I am a journalist from San Francisco with a ‘Happy Vegan’ T-shirt and want to find out why you’re a republican.’

Other person (likely a veteran/priest/hunter/arms dealer/RV driver/church goer): ‘I like guns, God, the war on terror and hate liberals and homosexuality’

Rose: ‘Oh really. What made you become the person that you are?’

Other person (probably wearing a Stetson/USA T-shirt/Gun/’Support our Troups’ sticker): ‘We have always voted that way. Have you let Jesus in your heart?’

…and so on. Then they likely have to flee the scene, because boyfriend has caused outrage by annoying the locals with his political T-shirts or revolutionary flyers. There are a couple of welcome exceptions to the scheme (e.g. when they visit a pro-choice women’s clinic in Missouri), but it gets boring quickly, as the responses are just too depressingly similar. One can literally feel Rose’s background in radio, as most of the book features one short, transcribed interview after the other and she very rarely attempts to reflect on her encounters.

From a European perspective, ‘Red Highways’ completely misfires. Instead of attempting to break through the stereotypes, she just displays them again and again. They are all there: the religious nutters, the gay bashers, the gun toters on the right hand side and the leftie hippies from the East Coast with their van full of beans and soy milk and little animals on the dashboard on the other. So instead of demystifying them, she actually reenforces the images that we have of Americans.

This doesn’t mean that this book isn’t actually entertaining. Me and my friends chuckled about this collection of naive and misinformed humans from a country where you get your news from Fox and Rush, but the good guys were (while slightly more literate) just as naive. Nevertheless, an entertaining romp through the American heartland.

I would stay away, though.

My first time. At Arsenal.

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Yesterday I experienced my first Premier League match: Arsenal against West Ham United. A gift for a friend of mine, this had been planned for some time, but even the meticulous planning did not stop me from being quite apprehensive about the whole experience, as British footie fans aren’t particularly known for their friendliness. I shouldn’t have worried, as the whole shindig went down without any hitch. With some current mobility probs, my mate and I didn’t want to do the whole trip via the tube with numerous changes and trips through tunnels, so we drove to Walthamstow Central and took the Victoria line to Finsbury park and walked the last kilometer. This turned out to be an inspired choice, but more about this later. On our arrival at the club level of the Emirates stadium we were not only impressed with the spontaneous helpfulness of the staff, but also with the general relaxed atmosphere within the whole level. No queues for beer, no queues for the loo. It was a bit like being in a football supporters wet dream.

picture by Wonker on Flickr

Now I am not your average football supporter. First of all, I actually don’t like football that much. There’s just not that much computers involved, the supporters are quiten often rather disagreeable and violent chaps, and going to an actual stadium often involves being possibly beaten up. If at all, I am likely to watch the European and World Cup finals every two years and then have my fill. I do follow the harrowing travails of that most idiotic of all German clubs for foolish patriotic and sentimental reasons beyond my comprehension and am sure that this caused me to acquire male pattern baldness by the age of 25, but this is the only club I have any interest in. That and Leyton Orient, Dumbarton FC and Otago United. But I wouldn’t go so far and actually go and see a game there. I’d rather skim the results in the Guardian’s sport section and be done with it.

Anyway, that present had to be converted into reality and so I acquired said club level tickets and found myself in the Emirates stadium. And what a handsome place it is. Much nicer than the rather functional German stadiums of my university years, this was rather delectable to look at and sit in and didn’t feel claustrophobic. The punters were delightfully multicultural and of all colours and creed, united in their wish to see their team to win. Without much swearing, to my surprise.

After the game was finished it took us ten minutes past good natured police men and women to get to Finsbury Park station were we got the first train without having to queue, with other words: perfect.

Conclusion: I’ll take some of the things I’ve said about English footie back, although I suspect that most of the good time I had was due to the perfect storm of Arsenal’s pleasant fans, perfect stadium and easy access.

Nice one, nevertheless.

Amália Rodrigues: Casa Portuguesa

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And now for something completely different: I have been a Fado afficionado since my first ventures into the Portuguese heartland in the early nineties, and since then my Amalia Rodrigues collection has never been far away. So here she is, with one of my favourite songs. Thanks to youtube, of all places.

Masterchef: the prime minister’s spouse decision

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With the United Kingdom again being in Masterchef and general election fever, I thought it might be a good idea to combine the two. Why not let John Torode and Gregg Wallace (T/W) decide who will be the next prime minister on the merits of the presenting skills of the prime ministerial spouses? At least we wouldn’t get a hung parliament

It could go like this:

T/W: Why do you want to be prime minister’s spouse, Samantha?

Samantha Cameron: I am really passionate about this, Gregg. I’ve never been competitive in my life, but this competition really has fired me up.

T/W: What do you want us to know about your future career choice, Sarah?

Sarah Brown: I have never ever wanted anything like this in my life, John! Becoming a prime minister’s spouse is what I wanted to do since meeting my husband.

—

Gregg: ‘John, we are in the presence of two really strong contenders, but who will have the skill and the determination to deliver one perfect  husband?’

—

Female voice from the off: “Will Samantha be able to convince the judges with her composition off a pasty, mediocre chinwag with a shadow cabinet of neoliberal liabilities?”

T/W: ‘Samantha, while the presentation looks lovely, I am getting no taste whatsoever. This is as bland as a piece of white toast from Aldi. Disappointing.’

—

Female voice from the off: ‘Sarah is hoping that her mixture of Scottish dourness, vulcanic temper (tempura. ha!), grandiose ideas about saving the world with a cabinet full of tired, grey men and women with a competency deficit will win the judges hearts.”

T/W: ‘Sarah, I am getting the kick from the anger, the sharpness of the intellect, the bitterness of the character, but the presentation lacks completely in finesse. This looks like a mess.”

–

John: ‘Gregg, this is a disaster. None of the contenders has delivered anything remotely appetising. We might have to call Lembit Opik and the Cheeky Girls to save the series.

Bibi Without Books. Baffling!

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Bibi van der Zee writes books and in The Guardian about the environment and food. She has written articles supporting herbalism and charting the best of Patrick Swayze (no, really).

In today’s Guardian, she describes her successful attempt to go without books for a week. Riveting stuff, I know, but she starts of like this:

Going to the loo without a book! It is a profound shock. Instead of reading, I stare at the walls and notice that there are still two empty nails on which I meant – a year ago – to hang pictures. Also, I notice the dust on the floor and the cobwebs on the ceiling. I sense that I will be doing a lot more housework than usual this week.

In situations like these, I recommend a good laxative.

Though maybe not a herbal one.