…and the humidity’s so bad I can barely use the touchpad. I can’t even come up with a workable analogy for New York, so I’ll just say: it’s dirty, dangerous, frequently bad-smelling, unpleasant, aggressive, nasty - but all these things pale into insignificance because it is the most exciting city in the whole damn world. I was coming back on the train from Newark Airport, not exactly looking forward to coming back to NYC (for the first time ever), but then I came out of Penn Station and was just completely bowled over by the sheer energy of 7th and 34th, the giant Borders, the street performers, the hot dog carts, the cops, the tourists, the locals, the taxicabs… Again. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed it, and now I’m going home again.

Probably catch a movie tonight, do a little shopping tomorrow, and then head home. I read an obituary of some old BBC journalist in a newspaper over here, and it really depressed me. It had some line like, “He worked with the BBC into his old age before disputes over a 24-hour news channel, which he described as ‘the stupidest idea ever come up with’.” It depressed me because this, in a nutshell, is Britain. Aging farts and pointless objectioning. This is where I am returning to.

Oh, the receptionist at the hostel recognised me from two weeks ago, which was nice.

Anyway, here is the Kentucky Report. It’s long, so take your time. Don’t feel you have to read it straightaway. Make a note. Get some tea. Please excuse the initial style, I think I was going a tiny bit insane.

Monday 1st

Boy, I feel like a regular Peter Petrelli, to tell you the truth. It feels like every time I read a novel, I end up absorbing that author’s style. It kills me, it really does.
Anyhow, I ended up getting to O’Hare three hours early, so what I did, I killed some time walking up and down the concourse, checking out all the restaurants. They all looked pretty phony, though, and they were pretty busy, too. I’m not going to go in a crumby-looking restaurant if it’s empty, so I’m not standing in line to get in. Anyway, you can’t be stone cold sober in a crumby place like that, and I didn’t want to chance buying liquor. I can’t stand the sorts of phonies who line up to go to crumby places like that, either.
The plane was one of those tiny Embraer ones, the little Brazilian twinjets which are all the rage these days. The interior goddam killed me, it really did. I’m telling you, there wasn’t enough room to swing a cat. I’m not kidding. One row of seats on the left, two on the right, and a tiny washroom right at the back. I goddam near banged my head on the ceiling. You could fit three of those planes in a big old Boeing, I’m not kidding.
So what happened then was, I spent most of the flight just reading. I get a real kick, just reading on a flight when you’ve got a cup of orange juice and the view out of the window to look at. It knocks me out, it really does.
We nearly got delayed coming in, but we ended up being pretty much on time. I feel sorry for anyone who’s coming to Cleveland, though. I don’t want to say it’s a crumby place just from my first impressions, but it has a real crumby, middle-of-nowhere feel. I feel sorry if you’re coming to stay in Cleveland and you have to walk through the rain across a crumby expressway to get into the city. It’s terrible, it really is.
I didn’t know whether to pick up my baggage for the connecting flight to Louisville, so I went up to ask the guy at the Continental desk. You could tell he was a real phony, chatting with the passengers and acting like he was the big guy. It killed me, it really did. The guy he was talking to was a phony, too. He was an oldish guy, maybe 60 or something, wearing a crumby US Army cap. What kind of phony wears an Army hat?
The Continental guy and the crumby Army guy kept on talking so, what I did then was, I talked to this woman at the desk instead. She was pretty old, but she looked pretty friendly. “Hey,” I said, “I’m real sorry to be a bother, but I just got off the flight from Chicago, and I’m changing planes here, and I don’t know whether I need to pick up my baggage. Could you help me out, ma’am?” I admit it, I can be a real phony sometimes. It turned out that my baggage was going to Louisville, so I didn’t need to pick it up. That was a relief, I can tell you. I don’t think I could stand going to pick up my baggage and haul it all the way to be checked again. It’s not like it’s that big of an issue, but the idea of it was a real pain in the ass, I’m not kidding.

Monday 1st/Tuesday 2nd/Wednesday 3rd

Anyway, long story short, ended up nearly missing the flight (I was on Central Time, Cleveland is Eastern, and the gate didn’t say the right flight). Got into Louisville, phoned Sarah up, and eventually got picked up outside by her and her bro Morgan, who turned out to be older than I expected (about a year younger than me, I think.)
Many u-turns later, we ended up in Owensboro, a smallish town about two hours away, and I was introduced to her mom and pop, Pat and Roger, both likeable folk with a good sense of humour. We went to a local restaurant, Colby’s, for dinner, and I was struck by the sheer friendliness of the staff. Oh, and the “y’alls”, which really are common in the South. Y’all.

Tuesday – spent most of Tuesday planning the rest of the week, but Roger took us out on a bike ride round the surrounding countryside, which was fun, and we walked the dog, a big old Corgi called Padfoot. Later went for barbeque ribs/beans/chopped meat, which was good (and so it should be: Owensboro hails itself as the BBQ capital of the world).

So today, we travelled to Mammoth Cave National Park. As the name suggests, it’s got a lot of cave (the longest cave system in the world, in fact), but there’s also plenty of surface park. Sarah, Morgan, their cousins Clay and Taylor, and I went kayaking down the Green River.
Which, you know, was fun. It took me a while to get the hang of paddling, but eventually I got to the point where I could go at quite a good pace without too much effort. And then it happened. Morgan and Clay had outpaced us, so Sarah, Taylor and I were meandering leisurely down the river, going for all the shallow parts with trees and strong currents because it was more fun there. We got to one part, and – honestly I don’t remember going into it. I just remember seeing a lot of turbulent water, and thinking maybe I should avoid it, but also wanting to go straight through it. I saw Taylor get into some difficulty. Then the next few events happened in about three seconds, but it both felt a lot quicker and a lot longer.

1) The kayak got caught up in a strong current and swung around to the side.
2) I started to sense it might be tipping over. You know that feeling when you so don’t want something to happen that you almost deliberately make it happen, just to get it over with?
3) Literally the next thing I know is that I’m underwater. I mean, fully under, with a nice view of the weeds and my flailing arms.
4) I quickly take inventory. Camera round my neck: probably dead. Bottle of water in my right pocket: undrinkable. Ziploc bag with my phone and wallet in my left pocket: might be alright. Gloves in my lap: no idea.
5) Only then do I wonder about personal safety.
6) Luckily, my life jacket brings me up to the surface with a bump.
7) My first instinct is to fish my camera out, which sends me under again, but then I get it above water and try it. Doesn’t work. Crap.
8 My gloves are floating on the surface, so I grab them.
9) I find I can wade to a nearby island quite easily.
10)The island is covered in spiders.
11)Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Taylor is a little way down the river and is sinking rather rapidly. His paddle, meanwhile, is floating off for a little trip of its own.

So, after about ten minutes of wailing and teeth gnashing, we get underway and make it to the finish in time to limp wetly back to Mammoth Cave for the 4pm New Entrance Tour. It’s called the New Entrance because it was new in 1921.
Mammoth Cave – at least the tiny fraction we saw of it – is pretty stunning. Jaw-dropping heights await you as you squeeze along the tiny metal walkway down huge subterranean canyons. You get rooms with perfectly flat ceilings thanks to the layer of sandstone above the limestone in which the caves were eroded. I’d have loved to have taken one of the more advanced caving tours, because it would be a real experience to uncover some of the lesser visited, deeper, darker parts of the cave.

Friday 4th/Saturday 5th

On July 4th, 1776, a group of disgruntled colonists decided, as a tax evasion measure, to declare themselves independent of Britain. Two hundred and thirty two years later, the citizens of this little-known country decide to celebrate this thriftiness with guns, fireworks, and food.

Naturally, it kicks any British holiday into the ground. And then smacks its head with a rusty shovel. And then buries it in an unmarked grave somewhere deep in the woods.

So we went to a fireworks warehouse to pick up some fireworks.

Wait.
Just think about that.

A fireworks warehouse.

In Britain, you can pick up about three titchy bottle rockets from your newsagents and that’s your lot. In America, they have a warehouse full of mortars, rockets, pinwheels, big bumper fun packs of explosives, smoke bombs, smoke grenades, firecrackers, and roman candles. If it has gunpowder, you can probably get it here.

And the place was packed with scrawny peroxide blondes with their butch, tattooed husbands hefting shopping carts of fireworks to their Ford pickups while the kids toddled along behind them.

The fireworks themselves had great names like “Loyal To None” or “One Nation Under God,” replete with imagery of eagles and waving American flags. The best thing, however, was the fact that they were all made in China, and hence this was a twisted, Chinese view of American patriotism. It was all fantastically decadent.

We ended up with about $400’s worth of low-grade explosives. The family and I proceeded onwards to Aunt Mackie’s spacious country house, out in Henderson, where the Humphrey clan was staging a 4th of July get-together.

It’s a great house, by the way. A great big pond out front – perhaps I should say lake – trees, rolling expanses, a swimming pool, and a view out across the corn fields to the distant railroad. It doesn’t get more American South than this. (And it is the south. Don’t believe what the guidebooks tell you: Kentucky is firmly and resolutely part of the South.)

So I swam a few lengths and did a few dives with Taylor and Clay out in the pool, while everyone else crowded around the barbecue. Having feasted upon “hot dogs” and “hamburg-ers”, Roger asked me: “Would you like to try a little shooting?”

Now, hey. I’m as leftie liberal anti-gun as the next guy. Guns are bad and dangerous. Guns kill. People who like guns are a little weird, yeah? People who buy Guns And Ammo magazines and collect shotguns and rifles and pistols and debate the merits of 9mm over .45 and know what a receiver is and can clean an M16 are people I’d normally think to stay away from. Guns are for right-wingers and weirdos. You’d never find me firing a gun. Guns should be tightly controlled. Banned. The Second Amendment is a crock. Boo to the NRA.

But, hell. When you’ve got a big old 20 gauge clasped in your hands, when you slip in a shell, hit the button, pull the bolt back and load it into the chamber, when you raise it to your shoulder, rest your cheek against the stock, hit the safety with your thumb, put the dot on your target, and – pull the trigger, make that damn clay pigeon disappear in a puff of smoke, feel that recoil smack against your shoulder, stumble backwards a few steps – it is divine. I was hooked.

I shot stationary clay pigeons. I shot boxes. I shot mud. I shot flying clay pigeons (and hit a couple). I used the Winchester 20 gauge, the 12 gauge, the Ruger .22 pistol.

It was like the very brain slugs I’d been running from had latched on to my brain and convinced me of the error of my ways. Suddenly the Second Amendment seemed like the best idea since – well, the first one. Suddenly gun ownership seemed like a natural and sane thing. Suddenly I realised why the 4th of July is such a big deal, why anti-federalists are always banging on about state freedom, why the American South regards itself with such swagger and conceit.

So, naturally, what do you do after firing a few guns around? Fire a few rockets around. At dusk, the men wheeled up the cart of fireworks and we began shooting rockets off over (and into) the lake. If you angled it right, you could get them to bounce repeatedly off the lake surface, leaving crazy trails of smoke hanging on the water. Sometimes they would go under, emitting green-white chemical bubbles in their wake before exploding with a tiny pop. I threw a smoke grenade, which lasted so long I picked it up and ran around with it for a bit. Then we moved on to the mortar shells, all 36 of them, which we fired off at random before uniting to fire six at once, which was quite a show. The fireworks lasted for ages, which I guess you’d expect from $400’s worth.

The Fourth of July. Decadent, depraved, everything that is wrong with America – and everything that is right.

Saturday, Sarah, Roger and I went to a resort in Indiana called French Lick. It was built in 1912 with a gloriously huge central dome which the critics said wouldn’t hold up – so the architect stood on top of the roof as the last of the support structure was knocked away and, true to his design, it held and has held for 96 years. After the Depression it became a Jesuit seminary, before falling into disrepair and being restored as a casino and holiday resort.

The main lobby is simply stunning. Underneath the famed dome is a massive expanse of carpet, surrounded by six stories of hotel in a ring around it. The interiors are decorated in gold leaf and Roman columns and stained glass windows, with impeccably-dressed staff.

Our destination, however, was a little further away, at the stables. Inside we were met by a gentleman with a cowboy hat, handlebar moustache, and red, white and blue bandana around his neck, who led us through to the horses.
Now, I vaguely recall going on a horse in a tiny circle at some circus or other years ago, but disregarding that, I’m a complete beginner. Roger (more experienced than us) and Sarah got on theirs first. My horse was Star, of the distinguished… small and light brown breed. Swinging my leg over and into the stirrup, it briefly felt like climbing onto a bike or into a kayak, before the horse moved and I realised that my vehicle had a mind of its own.
And so off we went, led by a guide from the stables around their lengthy track through pasture and forest. The thing to realise about riding a horse is that unlike a bike, you have no direct control – it’s more a case of trying to influence your steed in the right direction, if you’re lucky. For the most part Star moved on autopilot, taking the corners, getting surer footing on steep climbs and descents, stopping up when one of the other horses stopped to pee. I guess the horses have done this trail countless times before, so they know it like the back of their hand. Hoof.

From there we went back to Mary-Anne’s, where there was more shooting and swimming. Roger, Morgan and I went back at 9ish to watch a documentary on Hunter S Thompson, his life and times. I’ve been reading Fear and Loathing in America, a collection of his letters.

I take exception to 99% of the cheap goddamn garbage you put on the air. Your scheduling is a monument to everything rotten in America … and you have the gall to sit there and call my July 3 letter “profane.” You ignorant freak; from now on I’ll address you on your own level.

And I never realised he was from Louisville, you know. I’d built up an image of him as Raoul Duke, this larger-than-life, drug-taking, alcohol-abusing, authority-smashing uber-journalist, the fast-talking-yet-calm-sounding freak as portrayed by Johnny Depp, so it was quite a surprise to see footage of him from the 90s and 00s where he’s just a guy in his 60s wearing a hat in his messy kitchen in Aspen. Oh, he was still brilliant into his old age – his legions of friends and frequent guests attest to that – but it was a real eye-opener to the fact that even your heroes are still ordinary people, and they aren’t Raoul Duke 24/7. (In fact, it’s something he complains about in a 70s interview: when people booked him for talks they were booking the larger-than-life Duke, not the real Thompson.)

So he killed himself: a shot to the head in front of his typewriter. As happens far too often, I only really got into him after he died, though I knew what he was all about from Warren Ellis’s fictional homage, Spider Jerusalem. But unlike when other great legends have kicked the bucket I didn’t really feel sad when he died. It feels like this is exactly how it should have happened.

67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt

Sunday 6th

Roger said to me: “When you go back to England, and they ask you: “What are those Yanks like?” – tell ‘em you met a shotgun-shootin’, cigar-smokin’, Hunter S Thompson-readin’ general surgeon, and he was pretty strange.”

Monday 7th

Smell that sweet magnolia bloomin’
See the ghosts of slavery ships

So I said my goodbyes and reluctantly left Owensboro with Sarah, headed for the lazy Southern opulence of Louisville. My jaw dropped as we entered the country club where we were to meet her Uncle Rick – My God! The place is like walking into the Great Gatsby, only built for small blonde children, dashing about the shimmering pool as their tall, dashing blonde fathers play golf and stand about in polo shirts, swimming trunks and sandals, and introduce themselves with hearty, strong handshakes: “Hi. I’m Jack Allen. Pleased to meet you. I just spent a year in Bermuda selling insurance. Say, you play golf much?” Meanwhile, the Botoxed blonde women with impossibly wide sparkling white smiles are ever-present, watching over their spawn. It is gloriously decadent. I feel as if my very presence, with dishevelled black hair and hopeless disregard for fashion is somehow anathema to these polished, flawless lives.

Rick seemed a good sort, though, and after dinner at a Chinese restaurant we retired to his elegant suburban Louisville home: as pretty as you’d expect from a former architect. In the morning, Sarah and I arrived, after some GPS navigation woe, at the Mohammad Ali Museum. Old Ali is, of course, a Louisville son, and I confess to visiting not so much to pay homage but to find out exactly why he is feted as a hero by so many. Two hours through the informative and engaging museum, and I think I had my answer: not only was he the best sportsman of his generation, and a joy to watch: he knew it and was refreshingly unashamed about saying it. But what really elevates him above the rest is his personal spirit: his ability to be a philosopher and a campaigner as well as a fighter and an icon.
The occasional frankness of the exhibits impressed me: it would be easy, in these times, to gloss over Ali’s devout Islamic faith; ignore his relationship with the objectionable Nation of Islam; cover up his questionable remarks about women. The exhibits don’t hide from this: they don’t condone it, and it’s refreshing that the museum doesn’t just present Ali as perfect and infallible. (No one is.)

So we said our goodbyes outside the airport, and I was a sole traveller again. Security posed a bit of trouble: I felt that sick thump of stupidity realised when the guard pulled my two highly deadly and pointy Swiss Army knives out of my carry-on – I’d completely forgotten they were in there. That’s a cool $25 to have them posted home, thanks.

The flight was delayed by two hours, so I did a little reading. No less than 11 subscription forms tumbled from the pages of Wired and Atlantic magazine (I counted), which I carefully gathered up, folded into two, and placed directly in the bin. Back to NYC, then.