Today, I realised I am getting old.
Of course I am aware that time is moving on, that when I say how old I am it is a scarily large number now. I know in a 'years lived' kind of way that I am heading towards old age. What I meant by that word "realised" though, is something deeper, something more spiritual than the incontrovertible, clinical ticking of the clock we all hear. It is not the fact that my body is starting to refuse to work in the smooth, efficient manner that it always did, the aches and pains that used to last a day now lingering on, debilitating and griping. No, it is not a physical reminder that prompted this. Nor is it technology that has defeated me signalling my imminent demise. I am still able to buy tech gadgets and operate them to pretty good effect. Granted, I tend to refer to the manual rather more than I used to: gone are the days when the instructions for a device would lay in a drawer, unread throughout its lifetime. It is possible that I am not the early adopter that I once was, preferring now for others to grapple with the foibles of the latest must-have device so that I, the latecomer to the party, can make use of all the online forum discussions to get answers when even the manual can't help. And talking of online, it is not that cesspit/paradise that makes me feel old. I can still recognise and even use memes appropriately, most of the language is still relatable (well, on the sites I use it is) and I am still genuinely thrilled when I alight upon a site that has content that is thought-provoking or beautiful or funny in some way. It is definitely not the internet that makes me feel old.
I have not yet felt the need to go on a cruise. Staying in a single hotel, whether floating or securely attached to the land, for a couple of weeks just does not excite me in any way. In my mind, I associate them, rightly or wrongly, with old people and, until very recently as I am explaining, I didn't feel old. Full disclosure here: we have twice been on a holiday where we travelled around countries by coach. In both cases - India and Namibia - we just felt that putting together our own holiday online by renting a car and booking flights and hotels might prove difficult: in Namibia, we were unsure where the hotels were and what we wanted to see and in the case of India, having looked at videos of Indian city driving, Elaine said no way would we be driving ourselves! No, in the main, we still like to 'do our own thing', putting together itineraries ourselves and sharing the adventure between the two of us. So I am not feeling old enough to delegate picking where we go to others just yet. My wardrobe is still largely beige free. Someone noted in a Facebook post recently how the uniform of the older gentleman tends towards the non-colour that is beige: shirt, windcheater (look it up kids!) and 'slacks' all in beige with, maybe, a beige cap to top it off. My wardrobe still contains colour, pretty eye-scorching colour in some cases, and I hope it will continue always to so so. Similarly, I have no shoes with velcro fastenings and my slippers are not made of a fuzzy man-made fabric in tartan but bright red, sanzzy German things, so it is not my wardrobe that made me feel old.
The reason I thought I am getting old is that I have found myself dipping back into my past more than I ever used to. When I say "the past", I mean the properly distant past, back when I was a child. A couple of weeks ago, I found myself imagining in great detail, the house where my great aunt and uncle lived. They were the only living relatives of my mum (well, the only ones she kept in contact with), so we used to visit them on a fairly regular basis. We lived in London at the time and they lived near Witchurch in Shropshire so it used to be a bit of a trek via coach to go and see them. I recall the pantry off the kitchen with the cold shelf and the meat safe with its mesh metal sides and I remember them getting their first fridge. They never used the front door: that was for visitors they didn't know, the 'official' entrance so to speak. Everyone else used the side entrance, just beyond which was the WC, a sort of semi-outdoor loo. It was inside so far as it was inside the building and using it did not involve putting on boots to traipse to the bottom of the garden. But it was 'outside' in temperature terms. The house had no central heating and relied on the heat from the range in the kitchen and an open fire in the living room (also kept for 'special' use such as a particular TV program they might want to watch) so that the loo was freezing cold in winter. I can still recall the smell of the little paraffin heater that my uncle kept lit in winter to make 'using the facilities' a bearable action. I remember those occasions when I was lucky enough to get to sleep in the room with the iron bedstead. As a child, it was practically a mountaineering feat to climb up, the mattress was so far off the ground. Once up and between the sheets, the weight of the multiple blankets and the eiderdown quilt seems almost to crush me - in a comforting, cuddly manner - into the deepest of sleeps. In the small room next door was where I discovered that Santa didn't exist. I was opening my presents that Christmas Day and I saw the 'St Michael' label in my Xmas jumper. I just somehow knew that Santa didn't shop at M&S...
That house and those memories are just one example: there have been quite a few more recently, recollections that have popped up before my mind's eye with amazing clarity. Rightly or wrongly, I always associated this dwelling on the past, the rummaging through memories as being something that 'old' people did. Younger people are too busy with actual life to spend a great deal of time looking backwards but at a certain point, we have the time to reflect and remember. Perhaps it is natural as we get towards the 'wrong' end of our lives that we rake over the past to sift out the good (and the bad) memories. I don't believe this to be a bad thing, to spend some time in the past. Yes, there are regrets that surface along the way and, perhaps, at some remove from the events, we can see now why we did what we did or didn't do what we should have. Whatever, this critical reflection is something I have not really indulged in before and, whether it is due to the actual passage of time or just late-onset adulthood, I don't know. I am sure, however, that it is the first time I have felt like I'm getting old.
Thursday, 3 October 2019
Friday, 19 October 2018
Driving the Mother Road: Route 66 at Age 60 - Part 4
Communities
One of my reasons for wanting to drive Route 66 was to experience something of what the US looks like away from big cities or well-developed towns. Although we have driven a lot in holidays in the past, it was usually with a purpose in mind - moving from one attraction/sight to another. The brief in those cases is usually to get there as soon as possible, so the interstates or major highways are the best bet to achieve that and, as I've said, also effectively blocks out properly small 'small town USA'. This is something I need to explain a little. Town size in the States is very different to how it is viewed in the UK. Consider where I live, in Ramsbottom, Lancashire. It is a town of around 18,000 people with several places to eat, quite a few pubs and bars, one petrol station, one main CofE charch and one Catholic church as well as three supermarkets. It is pretty solidly the definition of a 'town' this side of the Pond. In the US, we have driven through places that call themselves a 'city' that have a population of less than 6,000 and only one or two bars yet have a proper police station, a multi-screen movie theatre, a couple of car dealerships and a choice of several gas stations. 'Small', population-wise does not mean lacking in amenities. The major highways (our A-road equivalents, if you will) connect this size of towns and we have seen many of them. This time I wanted to go smaller still...
Driving the old 66, in Oklahoma and Missouri especially, is often about driving the backroads, the routes now little travelled, save for the folk who live in the communities that dot the path of the old highway. Here, communities often consist of collections of very large static caravans. To call them that is to do them an injustice because a) they are about 50% bigger than the biggest static vans in the UK and b) it gives the impression of a trailer park which these groupings certainly are not. I think of then as modern-day log cabins, a way to get into the property market when bricks and mortar might prove too expensive, but just like houses despite the lack of foundations: gardens are laid out, the BBQ is on the patio and roads run between the homes. Over and over again we passed through communities where 75% or more of the homes were of this kind with, every so often, a newer, stone-chimneyed residence. Often though, the only 'solid' construction in these towns would be the church or chapel, always immaculate, single storey and, invariably, Baptist of some sort. The impression left was always of a proper, tight-knit community centred around a meeting place (in this case, the church), the archetype of settlements for millennia. It was, somehow, a comforting sight.
We're still here!
Route 66 also provides an inventory of the strange and the downright bizarre roadside attractions that range from relatively straightforward such as the beautifully preserved 1930s gas stations and the Route 66 museums that dot the road at fairly regular intervals to the absolutely bat-shit crazy, "What ia that all about?" items that, in some ways, are more fun to not find out the story behind it and just accept it for what it is. The latter type of attractions are, of course, some of the most memorable. Some of the best included a giant, green tiki head ('headicus giganticus') apropos of nothing - the next door diner is not remotely South Sea island in theme, the "World's Second Biggest Rocking Chair" - it was the biggest, until fairly recently when some other town built one bigger. Fanning, Missouri still reckons there's mileage in being No 2, so their rocker still sits proudly by the side of the road. The general store next to it had an amazing selection of sodas - no Pepsi or Coke. The ones we tried - a cola for me and a limeade for Elaine were...interesting, I'd say. Then, there were the giants - these were all over the place. Apparently starting life as statues of Paul Bunyon, they have been converted from being bearded and carrying an axe to being clean-shaven and carrying, a rocket, a massive hot dog and...er, nothing in the case of the one done up to look like a cowboy and standing tall over a used car lot. One town had a water tower built so that it looked as if it was collapsing. The comparison with the slightly more famous leaning tower in another city, although attempted, was probably a little out of reach of this modern homage. The Cadillac Ranch (over-painted and a dumping ground for hundreds of empty aerosols but still interesting), the Bug Ranch (a tongue-in-cheek nod to the Caddy Ranch and, given that there is an abandoned diner, garage and gas station on site, rather more atmospheric) and the Blue Whale model (don't ask) were all srange and good, but the crowning glory of the weird was Elmer's Bottle Tree Ranch. Fun, amazing, an enigma, just stunning. I appreciate your work, Elmer and dfinitely worth a picture to give you a flavour of its strangeness.
Two more places are worthy of a mention, one quirky in an almost disturbing manner and the other an unexpected gem. The first is the town of Seligman in Arizona. It has the standard things you find on Old Rooute 66 towns: old gas station (check), old cars parked at the gas station (check), various shops selling Route 66 memorabilia (check), loads of mannequins sitting outside and on the roof of said shops (che....er, what the heck?). I have no idea what this is about: one shop having them might be seen as a bit quirky, but several shops sporting them looks a bit like a scene from a B-movie where the tourists go missing in the middle of nowhere when the mannequins come to life! The second attraction is the Round Barn at Arcadia, Oklahoma. This is a true curiosity: downstairs, it is an eclectic mix of standard tourist tat and hand-written/hand-drawn histories of the barn, the town and the surrounding area, folder after folder of this labour of love. Upstairs, however, the domed roof of interlaced wooden laths is like standing under a giant woven whicker basket. The wooden floor, installed in return for dances and social gathering being hosted in the space, has been polished by the thousands of steps of those who have gathered here over its lifetime. The barn is, in a way, a reflection of the history of Route 66 itself. In the 1920's, with the newly commissioned Route 66 running through Arcadia, the barn became the most photographed attraction on the Mother Road. With the development of the interstates, the traffic along 66 declined and the barn fell into disrepair, the roof eventually collapsing. The roof was restored in 1992 and, with the Old Route 66 becoming a tourist 'must-do', the barn is once again a destination spot on 66. If ever you do "plan to motor west" as the song goes, the beauty of the upper floor of the Round Barn is definitely worth stopping for.
Done!
So, it's over. Two-and-a-half thousand miles (plus a few extra for side trips) clocked up, most of it in fantastic sunshine and ridiculous temperatures. I've seen the sublime (the Grand Canyon) and the ridiculous (take your pick - there's a lot to choose from) and I've had a great time. There were times - probably once a day, in fact - when I felt great pleasure in just driving. Being off the interstates and on backroads, doing 55 mph instead of 80 and not having to worry about other cars (there were't that many) allowed me to feel just like those using Route 66 must have felt back in the 1920s: liberation, the freedom of the open road and a car to experience it. Those moments literally sent a shiver down my spine and I fell in love with driving again. We travelled on Route 66 as an interstate, where the modern, soulless six lane highway has overlaid the original; as a dual carriageway, the first in the US; as a single track road, no longer the first choice to move between cities but still linking rural communities; and also as a dirt track, the tarmac long since gone and 66 now a memory scored into the network of fields under a huge, open sky. Two-and-a-half thousand miles of history, of joy, of America.
There is one final thing to mention. I have to be so, so grateful to Elaine for being with me throughout this adventure. She is the world's best sat nav and juggled between our Route 66 guidebook and a phone app to a) keep us on route throughout and b) guide us to the sights and attractions along the way. I know she enjoyed it and I want to say a big thank you to her for facilitating my huge enjoyment over two-and-a-half weeks. Thanks chick!
One of my reasons for wanting to drive Route 66 was to experience something of what the US looks like away from big cities or well-developed towns. Although we have driven a lot in holidays in the past, it was usually with a purpose in mind - moving from one attraction/sight to another. The brief in those cases is usually to get there as soon as possible, so the interstates or major highways are the best bet to achieve that and, as I've said, also effectively blocks out properly small 'small town USA'. This is something I need to explain a little. Town size in the States is very different to how it is viewed in the UK. Consider where I live, in Ramsbottom, Lancashire. It is a town of around 18,000 people with several places to eat, quite a few pubs and bars, one petrol station, one main CofE charch and one Catholic church as well as three supermarkets. It is pretty solidly the definition of a 'town' this side of the Pond. In the US, we have driven through places that call themselves a 'city' that have a population of less than 6,000 and only one or two bars yet have a proper police station, a multi-screen movie theatre, a couple of car dealerships and a choice of several gas stations. 'Small', population-wise does not mean lacking in amenities. The major highways (our A-road equivalents, if you will) connect this size of towns and we have seen many of them. This time I wanted to go smaller still...
Driving the old 66, in Oklahoma and Missouri especially, is often about driving the backroads, the routes now little travelled, save for the folk who live in the communities that dot the path of the old highway. Here, communities often consist of collections of very large static caravans. To call them that is to do them an injustice because a) they are about 50% bigger than the biggest static vans in the UK and b) it gives the impression of a trailer park which these groupings certainly are not. I think of then as modern-day log cabins, a way to get into the property market when bricks and mortar might prove too expensive, but just like houses despite the lack of foundations: gardens are laid out, the BBQ is on the patio and roads run between the homes. Over and over again we passed through communities where 75% or more of the homes were of this kind with, every so often, a newer, stone-chimneyed residence. Often though, the only 'solid' construction in these towns would be the church or chapel, always immaculate, single storey and, invariably, Baptist of some sort. The impression left was always of a proper, tight-knit community centred around a meeting place (in this case, the church), the archetype of settlements for millennia. It was, somehow, a comforting sight.
We're still here!
Route 66 also provides an inventory of the strange and the downright bizarre roadside attractions that range from relatively straightforward such as the beautifully preserved 1930s gas stations and the Route 66 museums that dot the road at fairly regular intervals to the absolutely bat-shit crazy, "What ia that all about?" items that, in some ways, are more fun to not find out the story behind it and just accept it for what it is. The latter type of attractions are, of course, some of the most memorable. Some of the best included a giant, green tiki head ('headicus giganticus') apropos of nothing - the next door diner is not remotely South Sea island in theme, the "World's Second Biggest Rocking Chair" - it was the biggest, until fairly recently when some other town built one bigger. Fanning, Missouri still reckons there's mileage in being No 2, so their rocker still sits proudly by the side of the road. The general store next to it had an amazing selection of sodas - no Pepsi or Coke. The ones we tried - a cola for me and a limeade for Elaine were...interesting, I'd say. Then, there were the giants - these were all over the place. Apparently starting life as statues of Paul Bunyon, they have been converted from being bearded and carrying an axe to being clean-shaven and carrying, a rocket, a massive hot dog and...er, nothing in the case of the one done up to look like a cowboy and standing tall over a used car lot. One town had a water tower built so that it looked as if it was collapsing. The comparison with the slightly more famous leaning tower in another city, although attempted, was probably a little out of reach of this modern homage. The Cadillac Ranch (over-painted and a dumping ground for hundreds of empty aerosols but still interesting), the Bug Ranch (a tongue-in-cheek nod to the Caddy Ranch and, given that there is an abandoned diner, garage and gas station on site, rather more atmospheric) and the Blue Whale model (don't ask) were all srange and good, but the crowning glory of the weird was Elmer's Bottle Tree Ranch. Fun, amazing, an enigma, just stunning. I appreciate your work, Elmer and dfinitely worth a picture to give you a flavour of its strangeness.
Two more places are worthy of a mention, one quirky in an almost disturbing manner and the other an unexpected gem. The first is the town of Seligman in Arizona. It has the standard things you find on Old Rooute 66 towns: old gas station (check), old cars parked at the gas station (check), various shops selling Route 66 memorabilia (check), loads of mannequins sitting outside and on the roof of said shops (che....er, what the heck?). I have no idea what this is about: one shop having them might be seen as a bit quirky, but several shops sporting them looks a bit like a scene from a B-movie where the tourists go missing in the middle of nowhere when the mannequins come to life! The second attraction is the Round Barn at Arcadia, Oklahoma. This is a true curiosity: downstairs, it is an eclectic mix of standard tourist tat and hand-written/hand-drawn histories of the barn, the town and the surrounding area, folder after folder of this labour of love. Upstairs, however, the domed roof of interlaced wooden laths is like standing under a giant woven whicker basket. The wooden floor, installed in return for dances and social gathering being hosted in the space, has been polished by the thousands of steps of those who have gathered here over its lifetime. The barn is, in a way, a reflection of the history of Route 66 itself. In the 1920's, with the newly commissioned Route 66 running through Arcadia, the barn became the most photographed attraction on the Mother Road. With the development of the interstates, the traffic along 66 declined and the barn fell into disrepair, the roof eventually collapsing. The roof was restored in 1992 and, with the Old Route 66 becoming a tourist 'must-do', the barn is once again a destination spot on 66. If ever you do "plan to motor west" as the song goes, the beauty of the upper floor of the Round Barn is definitely worth stopping for.
Done!
So, it's over. Two-and-a-half thousand miles (plus a few extra for side trips) clocked up, most of it in fantastic sunshine and ridiculous temperatures. I've seen the sublime (the Grand Canyon) and the ridiculous (take your pick - there's a lot to choose from) and I've had a great time. There were times - probably once a day, in fact - when I felt great pleasure in just driving. Being off the interstates and on backroads, doing 55 mph instead of 80 and not having to worry about other cars (there were't that many) allowed me to feel just like those using Route 66 must have felt back in the 1920s: liberation, the freedom of the open road and a car to experience it. Those moments literally sent a shiver down my spine and I fell in love with driving again. We travelled on Route 66 as an interstate, where the modern, soulless six lane highway has overlaid the original; as a dual carriageway, the first in the US; as a single track road, no longer the first choice to move between cities but still linking rural communities; and also as a dirt track, the tarmac long since gone and 66 now a memory scored into the network of fields under a huge, open sky. Two-and-a-half thousand miles of history, of joy, of America.
There is one final thing to mention. I have to be so, so grateful to Elaine for being with me throughout this adventure. She is the world's best sat nav and juggled between our Route 66 guidebook and a phone app to a) keep us on route throughout and b) guide us to the sights and attractions along the way. I know she enjoyed it and I want to say a big thank you to her for facilitating my huge enjoyment over two-and-a-half weeks. Thanks chick!
Thursday, 11 October 2018
Driving the Mother Road: Route 66 at age 60 - Part 3
Looking for signs
Advertising - the lifeblood of American economy and a constant companion on Route 66. When I say "looking for", I don't really mean to portray it as a difficult chore to be undertaken only by those with the keenest of eyes. No, Route 66 is crammed full of signage. In fact, it is almost overwhelming at times, especially in the roadside developments that signal one's arrival in each town of any size that actually sits on 66. If the road runs through the town, each side of the road will become cluttered with car dealerships, gas stations, muffler and brake shops, fast food joints and motels. Alongside these will be strip malls and larger malls featuring well-known chains such as Walmart, Target, Walgreens and CVS. If 66 passes close by the town, these strip developments will run the length of the town's limits before fading out and returning the views to lush fields or dusty scrublands. If each sign represents a shout for one's attention, these strips in turn represent advertising as a cacophonous blizzard of sound, colourful trademarks all crammed together, some perched on tall towers in order to escape the crowd and catch the consumers' eye. It is a dizzying array and never ceases to amaze me. However, this is not a new thing: the eye-catching signs may be thicker on thee ground now, the advertising hoardings more high tech and driven by digital displays, but Route 66 has always featured businesses vying for custom from consumers passing by in their cars.
Motel and diner signs are some of my favourites on 66. Many feature neon lighting, something that was widely used in advertising businesses from the 1920s to the 50s - the heyday of Route 66. As such, they look entirely at home alongside the Mother Road: they are both of its time and an integral part of it. Many signs feature arrows that swoop down to point to the establishmeent they want you to be. "This is the motel for you!" they seem to shout, although arrow after arrow all make the same claim. Many of the signs that once looked modern or even futuristic, now look hopelessly dated, albeit in a fitting kind of way since driving Route 66 by trying to stick to its original course is an exercise in living in the past. In this way, the signs are entirely appropriate.
An arrow swoops up, filled with golden lightbulbs while neon is also present: quintessential Route 66
Once out of town, the noise of advertising drops but never to silence. An attraction on or near Route 66 is coming up soon (well, about a hundred miles or so 'soon') and so must be advertised by billboards. Fast food and gas (they belong together!) coming up in 30 miles. And so on...and on. Never mind that palce you just stopped at, the next place is amazing says the advertising all along Route 66. It is a busy commercial enterprise but, you know, I don't mind it. Whereas somewhere like Las Vegas is constucted entirely from neon and lights, it already has your money, guaranteed. If you are in Vegas, you are going to spend and probably spend a fair amount. That city is already rich yet, brazenly, it wants more and more from you. The attractions along the old 66, by contrast, are all fighting to get people passing through to stop: these are businesses that have, literally, been bypassed and now have to work to get their income to survive.
My favourite signs of the trip? The 'Burma-Shave' signs that consist of five small roadside signs, the first four of which each contain the line of a poem related to driving (usually telling you to concentrate on the road, ironically) and the fifth simply stating 'Burma-Shave'. They started in the 30s and have kept going ever since. Again, entirely appropriate for a time-travelling trip down 66. I'm also a sucker for advertising painted on the sides of buildings and there were quite a few good examples along the way. I love how they can vary from those that have been kept pristine by continued repainting over the years to those (my favourites) that have been allowed to fade to near-invisibility, their message like a ghostly echo from Route 66's past.
Advertising - the lifeblood of American economy and a constant companion on Route 66. When I say "looking for", I don't really mean to portray it as a difficult chore to be undertaken only by those with the keenest of eyes. No, Route 66 is crammed full of signage. In fact, it is almost overwhelming at times, especially in the roadside developments that signal one's arrival in each town of any size that actually sits on 66. If the road runs through the town, each side of the road will become cluttered with car dealerships, gas stations, muffler and brake shops, fast food joints and motels. Alongside these will be strip malls and larger malls featuring well-known chains such as Walmart, Target, Walgreens and CVS. If 66 passes close by the town, these strip developments will run the length of the town's limits before fading out and returning the views to lush fields or dusty scrublands. If each sign represents a shout for one's attention, these strips in turn represent advertising as a cacophonous blizzard of sound, colourful trademarks all crammed together, some perched on tall towers in order to escape the crowd and catch the consumers' eye. It is a dizzying array and never ceases to amaze me. However, this is not a new thing: the eye-catching signs may be thicker on thee ground now, the advertising hoardings more high tech and driven by digital displays, but Route 66 has always featured businesses vying for custom from consumers passing by in their cars.
Motel and diner signs are some of my favourites on 66. Many feature neon lighting, something that was widely used in advertising businesses from the 1920s to the 50s - the heyday of Route 66. As such, they look entirely at home alongside the Mother Road: they are both of its time and an integral part of it. Many signs feature arrows that swoop down to point to the establishmeent they want you to be. "This is the motel for you!" they seem to shout, although arrow after arrow all make the same claim. Many of the signs that once looked modern or even futuristic, now look hopelessly dated, albeit in a fitting kind of way since driving Route 66 by trying to stick to its original course is an exercise in living in the past. In this way, the signs are entirely appropriate.
Once out of town, the noise of advertising drops but never to silence. An attraction on or near Route 66 is coming up soon (well, about a hundred miles or so 'soon') and so must be advertised by billboards. Fast food and gas (they belong together!) coming up in 30 miles. And so on...and on. Never mind that palce you just stopped at, the next place is amazing says the advertising all along Route 66. It is a busy commercial enterprise but, you know, I don't mind it. Whereas somewhere like Las Vegas is constucted entirely from neon and lights, it already has your money, guaranteed. If you are in Vegas, you are going to spend and probably spend a fair amount. That city is already rich yet, brazenly, it wants more and more from you. The attractions along the old 66, by contrast, are all fighting to get people passing through to stop: these are businesses that have, literally, been bypassed and now have to work to get their income to survive.
My favourite signs of the trip? The 'Burma-Shave' signs that consist of five small roadside signs, the first four of which each contain the line of a poem related to driving (usually telling you to concentrate on the road, ironically) and the fifth simply stating 'Burma-Shave'. They started in the 30s and have kept going ever since. Again, entirely appropriate for a time-travelling trip down 66. I'm also a sucker for advertising painted on the sides of buildings and there were quite a few good examples along the way. I love how they can vary from those that have been kept pristine by continued repainting over the years to those (my favourites) that have been allowed to fade to near-invisibility, their message like a ghostly echo from Route 66's past.
Tuesday, 9 October 2018
Driving the Mother Road: Route 66 at age 60 - Part 2
I'm not intending these subsequent parts to be a day-by-day, sight-by-sight recreation of our trip. Anyone following me on Facebook pretty much got that during the trip as we uploaded photos and a small journal of the day's events as we went along: our routine each evening was 'arrive at motel, sign on to free wifi and start getting the photos uploaded'. Instead, these are more about impressions and observations, those things that have stuck with me as we travelled 66.
The Winners and The Losers
The towns through which Route 66 ran must have been a sight to behold in the 30s, 40s and 50s. Small, backwater communities benefitted from the boom in car ownership freeing people to explore the US in a way not previously available to the masses. Motels, diners and gas stations - the three essentials for taking on a long trip: places to stay, fuel and food - are all over the palce along 66. However, not all are still trading. As mentioned in Part 1, Route 66 has been largely fragmented both by the re-routes that happened during its heyday and by the imposition of its successor(s), the interstates. These changes have led to some towns remaining within the prosperity zone afforded by a tourist attraction such as 66 while others have become economically stranded, communities that are a heartbeat away from becoming like the ghost towns that blossomed from nothing and just as instantly, died in the economic bubble of the Gold Rush. Many people that drive Route 66 will do so by making use of the interstates that 'mimic' the original route to a great extent. This is good for cities and towns such as Springfield, St Louis, Oklahoma City, Flagstaff and Barstow to name a few. These are places where the route of the original Route 66 is 'easy' and fits in with momentarily dropping off the interstate to have a look round and, more importantly, spend some money. Other, smaller towns on the original route but now bypassed, miss out on the tourist dollar and it shows in the way some of these towns look. The contrast between thriving Flagstaff and the sad remains of Depew, one of the 'marooned' communities when Route 66 bypassed the town in 1939. It is still a town, but only in the sense that it can barely remember what it once had, its population now less than half what it was in 1930. To visit these towns, one must endure a bit of map-reading and a more serious detour and I guess many are not prepared to make that effort.
Apart from having Route 66 run right through your town or next to your attraction, the next best thing is to advertise. And when I say advertise, I mean advertise big! Meramec Caverns, a well-known Route 66 attraction (or, I should say, near Route 66 attraction) starts to be advertised when you are still nearly 100 miles from it and the billboards carry on, mile after mile. As you get closer, they are every 100 yards, practically yelling at you that you would be missing out on a wonder of the world if you don't visit. Somehow, we managed to avoid their lure. We did, however, go to Uranus in Missouri. Now, I guess if your town is called Uranus, there are two ways to go: studiously insist there is nothing funny about it and go around pronouncing it as 'Ooranus' or, you embrace it and and advertise it in a way that plays up to every end-of-pier joke - "There's fun to be had in Uranus!" or "The best fudge comes from Uranus!". The Uranus Fudge Factory and General Store is full of merchandise using any number of double entendres you can think of relating to activities involving the back passage. Well, that is the front of the shop. Step through a doorway, however, and the back portion is given over to selling guns and ammo as well as NRA t-shirts designed to rile liberal snowflakes such as myself. I wasn't sure which was worse: celebrating rabid gun ownership or music hall gags about bums. Either way, it was busy. For me, the tourist traps that tried less hard attracted me more, the best being Jack Rabbit Trading Post. A massive yellow and black billboard whith a silhouette rabbit and the announcement "It's here!" lets you know you are somewhere a bit odd. Apart from selling t-shirts and native jewellery, it also has a collection of Route 66 (and more random) memorabilia in a side room, all topped off with a radiogram that was playing an REO Speedwagon vinyl LP when we were there. That's the kind of detail that keeps you ahead of more soulless traps like Clines Corner.
The empty shells of former gas stations, diners and bars litter the length of Route 66, the former in particularly large numbers. Whereas once there were gas-guzzling cars in numbers sufficient to sustain many, many gas stations, the re-routing of the Mother Road, the soaring price of fuel and (relatively) less thirsty engines has meant the majority have closed. A precious few have been preserved - those of a pretty 1930s vintage. The 1970s and 80s versions are now marked only by a forecourt overgrown with weeds and strewn with junk and a canopy over the spot where the pumps once stood.
The Winners and The Losers
The towns through which Route 66 ran must have been a sight to behold in the 30s, 40s and 50s. Small, backwater communities benefitted from the boom in car ownership freeing people to explore the US in a way not previously available to the masses. Motels, diners and gas stations - the three essentials for taking on a long trip: places to stay, fuel and food - are all over the palce along 66. However, not all are still trading. As mentioned in Part 1, Route 66 has been largely fragmented both by the re-routes that happened during its heyday and by the imposition of its successor(s), the interstates. These changes have led to some towns remaining within the prosperity zone afforded by a tourist attraction such as 66 while others have become economically stranded, communities that are a heartbeat away from becoming like the ghost towns that blossomed from nothing and just as instantly, died in the economic bubble of the Gold Rush. Many people that drive Route 66 will do so by making use of the interstates that 'mimic' the original route to a great extent. This is good for cities and towns such as Springfield, St Louis, Oklahoma City, Flagstaff and Barstow to name a few. These are places where the route of the original Route 66 is 'easy' and fits in with momentarily dropping off the interstate to have a look round and, more importantly, spend some money. Other, smaller towns on the original route but now bypassed, miss out on the tourist dollar and it shows in the way some of these towns look. The contrast between thriving Flagstaff and the sad remains of Depew, one of the 'marooned' communities when Route 66 bypassed the town in 1939. It is still a town, but only in the sense that it can barely remember what it once had, its population now less than half what it was in 1930. To visit these towns, one must endure a bit of map-reading and a more serious detour and I guess many are not prepared to make that effort.
Apart from having Route 66 run right through your town or next to your attraction, the next best thing is to advertise. And when I say advertise, I mean advertise big! Meramec Caverns, a well-known Route 66 attraction (or, I should say, near Route 66 attraction) starts to be advertised when you are still nearly 100 miles from it and the billboards carry on, mile after mile. As you get closer, they are every 100 yards, practically yelling at you that you would be missing out on a wonder of the world if you don't visit. Somehow, we managed to avoid their lure. We did, however, go to Uranus in Missouri. Now, I guess if your town is called Uranus, there are two ways to go: studiously insist there is nothing funny about it and go around pronouncing it as 'Ooranus' or, you embrace it and and advertise it in a way that plays up to every end-of-pier joke - "There's fun to be had in Uranus!" or "The best fudge comes from Uranus!". The Uranus Fudge Factory and General Store is full of merchandise using any number of double entendres you can think of relating to activities involving the back passage. Well, that is the front of the shop. Step through a doorway, however, and the back portion is given over to selling guns and ammo as well as NRA t-shirts designed to rile liberal snowflakes such as myself. I wasn't sure which was worse: celebrating rabid gun ownership or music hall gags about bums. Either way, it was busy. For me, the tourist traps that tried less hard attracted me more, the best being Jack Rabbit Trading Post. A massive yellow and black billboard whith a silhouette rabbit and the announcement "It's here!" lets you know you are somewhere a bit odd. Apart from selling t-shirts and native jewellery, it also has a collection of Route 66 (and more random) memorabilia in a side room, all topped off with a radiogram that was playing an REO Speedwagon vinyl LP when we were there. That's the kind of detail that keeps you ahead of more soulless traps like Clines Corner.
The empty shells of former gas stations, diners and bars litter the length of Route 66, the former in particularly large numbers. Whereas once there were gas-guzzling cars in numbers sufficient to sustain many, many gas stations, the re-routing of the Mother Road, the soaring price of fuel and (relatively) less thirsty engines has meant the majority have closed. A precious few have been preserved - those of a pretty 1930s vintage. The 1970s and 80s versions are now marked only by a forecourt overgrown with weeds and strewn with junk and a canopy over the spot where the pumps once stood.
Monday, 8 October 2018
Driving the Mother Road: Route 66 at age 60 - Part 1
I can't recall when I first decided that the thing I needed to do as a fitting way to mark my turning 60 was to drive the entire length of Route 66. We'd experienced parts of it before - seeking out Ted Drewe's famous frozen custard in St Louis, having coffee and a slice of pie in Williams, Arizona on our way between Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon, having a great Italian meal in Flagstaff - so maybe those happy memories had played into my need to see it all, not just in a piecemeal manner. On top of this was a feeling that the 'old' small town USA is being erased as interstates take drivers from city to city without the need to stop of in the roadside joints that used to service the traffic in the 30s, 40s and 50s. A few years ago, we drove from Los Angeles to Washington DC in the space of a few days, thus necessitating the use of interstates. There is just mile after mile of blacktop, no interruptions, no soul. They are efficient in getting you from A to B without allowing you to experience anything of the land they cross. The only time I felt 'right' during those days was when we got off the interstate and found a small town to grab some lunch. I said then that I wanted my next long distance drive to be on the backroads to allow us to see some small town life. Finally, there was also my dad's fascination with the US. He wasn't a great reader but when he did read a book, it was invariably about the old west - classic cowboys and indians stuff. He admired much about the US but, as far as I know, he never 'went west' as all his travel with the RAF sent him east to South Africa and the Far East. I sometimes wonder if my love of travel to the states is somehow related to fulfilling his desire. Perhaps, perhaps not.
For anyone who has no interest in all things American or who has lived in a cave their entire life, Route 66 was once a highway that connected Chicago in Illinois with Santa Monica, Los Angeles in California, around 2,500 miles of road. 'Was' is the important word to note there because it no longer exists as a single, easily definable entity: over the years it was re-routed, some bits closed entirely and other parts were absorbed into the super-roads that succeeded the highways, the interstates. To follow Route 66 these days is nothing like being the sat-nav guided zombies that we have all become whenever we undertake a new journey. No, driving Route 66 is a bit like being transported back to the not-so distant days when road maps were king and an eagle-eyed monitoring of road signs was a must. In short, back to the days when you need a navigator, a co-pilot, to allow the driver to focus on driving in a strange land, on the 'wrong' side of the road without breaking the speed limit (having been stopped three times without getting a ticket - I think I have used my luck up) and all in a car the size of Rhode Island. Route 66 probably could be done as a solo effort, but even the myriad foreign bikers who opt to do the trip on a Harley ride as a group and frequently stop as a group to discuss the route. I am happy to do journeys on my own, but this always had to be a two person undertaking. I just knew I needed soemone there to share my wonder, even if it was not their first choice for a way to spend a couple of weeks in the US!
We started the trip with three nights in Chicago, just enough time to make us realise that we would have to come back at a later date to see more. The rain put a bit of a dampener (ha!) on things but didn't stop us seeing some of the sights. The one big disappointment the weather caused was not going up the Willis Tower to see Chicago and Lake Superior laid out below. Unfortunately, the poor weather meant that cloud covered the top quarter of the building making a trip to the top pointless. It was little consolation to be told by a fellow tourist that he'd been up the day before we arrived and the views had been "magnificent". Yeah, cheers for that buddy! While we missed out on that, there was an unexpected surprise in our trip to the Windy City. A chance conversation with a couple from New York in the hotel bar on our first night revealed that 'Hamilton', a show we would love to see in London if tickets were available and affordable, was on in Chicago and we would probably get tickets online. The next morning, I booked a pair of tickets for that evening's performance and it cost around the the price of one ticket in London. It was a brilliant experience and the show's soundtrack became the backdrop for much of our journey. A very American musical for a quintessentially American trip seems to be a perfect match. Hence our taking in a baseball game: there is nothing more American than going to the ball game. Friday night saw us watch the White Sox get beaten by the LA Angels, another beautiful piece of serendipity that Chicago should be playing a team from the other end of the Mother Road!
Saturday morning and we went to the car rental place to pick up the 'third amigo' in our adventure, our vehicle for the next two weeks. I say "vehicle" because a mere 'car' it wasn't. We'd booked a regular SUV as some of the road surfaces on old 66 are a little...challenging, and not set up for a glamourous ride like a classic/retro car or a convertible. Once the guy in the garage heard where we were driving, he upped our ride to a Chevvy Suburban - 19 feet long, a 5.7 litre engine and all the bells and whistles anyone could ever need. It was so big, I literally lost a coat in it! My very first piece of driving the monster was having to reverse it down a tightly curving slope, back into the garage when I met a car coming down the slope. The garage guy said I handled it like a pro and, ego boosted sufficiently, we exited onto the streets of Chicago and manoeuvred across town to the start of Route 66.
For anyone who has no interest in all things American or who has lived in a cave their entire life, Route 66 was once a highway that connected Chicago in Illinois with Santa Monica, Los Angeles in California, around 2,500 miles of road. 'Was' is the important word to note there because it no longer exists as a single, easily definable entity: over the years it was re-routed, some bits closed entirely and other parts were absorbed into the super-roads that succeeded the highways, the interstates. To follow Route 66 these days is nothing like being the sat-nav guided zombies that we have all become whenever we undertake a new journey. No, driving Route 66 is a bit like being transported back to the not-so distant days when road maps were king and an eagle-eyed monitoring of road signs was a must. In short, back to the days when you need a navigator, a co-pilot, to allow the driver to focus on driving in a strange land, on the 'wrong' side of the road without breaking the speed limit (having been stopped three times without getting a ticket - I think I have used my luck up) and all in a car the size of Rhode Island. Route 66 probably could be done as a solo effort, but even the myriad foreign bikers who opt to do the trip on a Harley ride as a group and frequently stop as a group to discuss the route. I am happy to do journeys on my own, but this always had to be a two person undertaking. I just knew I needed soemone there to share my wonder, even if it was not their first choice for a way to spend a couple of weeks in the US!
We started the trip with three nights in Chicago, just enough time to make us realise that we would have to come back at a later date to see more. The rain put a bit of a dampener (ha!) on things but didn't stop us seeing some of the sights. The one big disappointment the weather caused was not going up the Willis Tower to see Chicago and Lake Superior laid out below. Unfortunately, the poor weather meant that cloud covered the top quarter of the building making a trip to the top pointless. It was little consolation to be told by a fellow tourist that he'd been up the day before we arrived and the views had been "magnificent". Yeah, cheers for that buddy! While we missed out on that, there was an unexpected surprise in our trip to the Windy City. A chance conversation with a couple from New York in the hotel bar on our first night revealed that 'Hamilton', a show we would love to see in London if tickets were available and affordable, was on in Chicago and we would probably get tickets online. The next morning, I booked a pair of tickets for that evening's performance and it cost around the the price of one ticket in London. It was a brilliant experience and the show's soundtrack became the backdrop for much of our journey. A very American musical for a quintessentially American trip seems to be a perfect match. Hence our taking in a baseball game: there is nothing more American than going to the ball game. Friday night saw us watch the White Sox get beaten by the LA Angels, another beautiful piece of serendipity that Chicago should be playing a team from the other end of the Mother Road!
Saturday morning and we went to the car rental place to pick up the 'third amigo' in our adventure, our vehicle for the next two weeks. I say "vehicle" because a mere 'car' it wasn't. We'd booked a regular SUV as some of the road surfaces on old 66 are a little...challenging, and not set up for a glamourous ride like a classic/retro car or a convertible. Once the guy in the garage heard where we were driving, he upped our ride to a Chevvy Suburban - 19 feet long, a 5.7 litre engine and all the bells and whistles anyone could ever need. It was so big, I literally lost a coat in it! My very first piece of driving the monster was having to reverse it down a tightly curving slope, back into the garage when I met a car coming down the slope. The garage guy said I handled it like a pro and, ego boosted sufficiently, we exited onto the streets of Chicago and manoeuvred across town to the start of Route 66.
Monday, 11 June 2018
Agent Provocateur
Lots (and lots and lots) has been written, both in the MSM and on social media, about the recent jailing of Islamophobe and founder of the EDL, Stephen Yaxley Lennon, better known as the self-styled 'Tommy Robinson'. For the most part, the deriders of Yaxley Lennon (YL from now on) have said he got what he deserved when he broke the terms of his suspended sentence, a judgement handed down for committing the same act, namely live-streaming a 'news story' outside a court in contravention of specific reporting restrictions. His supporters have, pretty much to a man, focused on conspiracy theory-like aspects of the case: was the court already set up in anticipation of his breaking the law? How can someone be arrested, convicted and jailed in a matter of a few hours? Is this all some Deep State plot to protect child molesters in high places? Most of this can be dismissed as the wild speculation it is. The Secret Barrister, a real life barrister with actual law training has written a good piece explaining what YL's supporters see as 'anomalies" (find it here). The bottom line to it all is that YL pleaded guilty to the charge and was, therefore, jailed.
I thought about this for a while. Why would a relentless self-publicist such as YL who is forever publishing pieces on YouTube and elsewhere about his martyrdom at the hands of the State not wish to have his day in court where he would have a chance for real journalists to report his every word? This seems rather perverse to say the least. Then I realised: his previous court appearance did very little in terms of garnering publicity: there is no cause celèbre for the 'masses' to get behind if YL walks from court a free man with only a suspended sentence. However, get actual jail time and suddenly, #FreeTommy is trending all over Twitter and Facebook. Clever. More insidious is that, by specifically surrendering your 'right' to free speech (although he can still write letters from jail), you can portray that surrender as having your right to voice your opinions *taken* from you. Very clever.
A sizeable minority of the people who marched in support of the #FreeTommy campaign in London at the weekend turned on the police and started throwing barriers, traffic cones and anything else they could get their hands on. The irony of people who supposedly 'love' their country and want to respect all things British doing this was almost too much. That and the nazi-saluting idiots make me think that there is still a large contingent of 'old school' BNP/NF/EDL adherents involved who, true to their fetishising of 70s and 80s football culture (the Football Lad Culture group being a case in point), like nothing more than a good ruck at the weekend. So far, so obvious: former football thug closely associated with the extreme right is supported by extreme right wing wannabe football thugs. But there is something else going on which is not as straightforward anymore. YL's support has suddenly gone international with social media commentators in Europe and, especially, the US all jumping on the 'free speech'/#FreeTommy bandwagon. Suddenly, people like Roseanne Barr (surely too busy to worry about a small-time convicted thug in the UK) are using the #FreeTommy tagline. Many, many alt-right figures in the US are suddenly tweeting about his 'plight' and weighing in on the supposed 'wrongful' conviction. None of them seem to have a clue about UK law, but the fact that they have bothered to take up his case in *any* way is slightly strange.
Which brings me to the big question: is it YL being suddenly very clever or is someone else pulling the strings and guiding the tactics in this case? For YL's case to make the jump across the pond would, at the very least, seem to imply the networking of the right across social media is worryingly strong right now. However, further than that, is someone funding and co-ordinating far right groups in the UK (and Europe) and by this I mean *seriously* bankrolling these groups, not justy passing collecting buckets round at events? Generation Identity patches, jackets and banners are not amateurish creations by individual members. They are factory-produced, quality products. The stewards' jackets at the march at the weekend were all professionally-produced and, in addition, there would have been all sorts of expenses to pick up in the organisation of such a march. Who is paying?
The right would seem to be properly organising and using little sparking points such as #FreeTommy that could develop out of control if they get the framing of such incidents right (e.g. 'denial of free speech' rather than 'man stupidly breaks law a second time and goes to jail'). YL has accepted his role as agent provocateur and it has produced a response out of proportion to his actual crime. When he is freed, I have no doubt he will continue down the self-same path hoping any judicial response to his next act of stupidity will keep that ball of hate rolling and growing.
I thought about this for a while. Why would a relentless self-publicist such as YL who is forever publishing pieces on YouTube and elsewhere about his martyrdom at the hands of the State not wish to have his day in court where he would have a chance for real journalists to report his every word? This seems rather perverse to say the least. Then I realised: his previous court appearance did very little in terms of garnering publicity: there is no cause celèbre for the 'masses' to get behind if YL walks from court a free man with only a suspended sentence. However, get actual jail time and suddenly, #FreeTommy is trending all over Twitter and Facebook. Clever. More insidious is that, by specifically surrendering your 'right' to free speech (although he can still write letters from jail), you can portray that surrender as having your right to voice your opinions *taken* from you. Very clever.
A sizeable minority of the people who marched in support of the #FreeTommy campaign in London at the weekend turned on the police and started throwing barriers, traffic cones and anything else they could get their hands on. The irony of people who supposedly 'love' their country and want to respect all things British doing this was almost too much. That and the nazi-saluting idiots make me think that there is still a large contingent of 'old school' BNP/NF/EDL adherents involved who, true to their fetishising of 70s and 80s football culture (the Football Lad Culture group being a case in point), like nothing more than a good ruck at the weekend. So far, so obvious: former football thug closely associated with the extreme right is supported by extreme right wing wannabe football thugs. But there is something else going on which is not as straightforward anymore. YL's support has suddenly gone international with social media commentators in Europe and, especially, the US all jumping on the 'free speech'/#FreeTommy bandwagon. Suddenly, people like Roseanne Barr (surely too busy to worry about a small-time convicted thug in the UK) are using the #FreeTommy tagline. Many, many alt-right figures in the US are suddenly tweeting about his 'plight' and weighing in on the supposed 'wrongful' conviction. None of them seem to have a clue about UK law, but the fact that they have bothered to take up his case in *any* way is slightly strange.
Which brings me to the big question: is it YL being suddenly very clever or is someone else pulling the strings and guiding the tactics in this case? For YL's case to make the jump across the pond would, at the very least, seem to imply the networking of the right across social media is worryingly strong right now. However, further than that, is someone funding and co-ordinating far right groups in the UK (and Europe) and by this I mean *seriously* bankrolling these groups, not justy passing collecting buckets round at events? Generation Identity patches, jackets and banners are not amateurish creations by individual members. They are factory-produced, quality products. The stewards' jackets at the march at the weekend were all professionally-produced and, in addition, there would have been all sorts of expenses to pick up in the organisation of such a march. Who is paying?
The right would seem to be properly organising and using little sparking points such as #FreeTommy that could develop out of control if they get the framing of such incidents right (e.g. 'denial of free speech' rather than 'man stupidly breaks law a second time and goes to jail'). YL has accepted his role as agent provocateur and it has produced a response out of proportion to his actual crime. When he is freed, I have no doubt he will continue down the self-same path hoping any judicial response to his next act of stupidity will keep that ball of hate rolling and growing.
Monday, 6 March 2017
The beautiful game and the ugly truth
On Saturday, I went to watch a football match. I used to go regularly - I was a season ticket-holder at Bury for several years - but the constant drip,drip, drip of stories from the Premiership have all served to taint the game and diminish my connection to it: salaries of £300K per week; managers being sacked after five minutes because success (i.e. income) has to be instantaneous and sustained in the Murdoch-polluted pond that is football today; and general acts of awful behaviour by a bunch of overpaid prima donnas. Still, a good game can still inspire me and get the blood pumping a bit. I guess I'm not anti-football, just not as into it in the way I once was. This Saturday's game made me question whether I want to attend another match and, if I do, made me think very carefully where I choose to sit.
The match was a League One fixture between Bolton and AFC Wimbledon at the Macron Stadium. I have no particularly strong feelings for either team: I worked in Bolton for 23 or more years and had attended a few games over the years and I had seen Wimbledon at Plough Lane during the years of miraculous rise up the football league as The Crazy Gang and, subsequently, over the years at various fixtures in the North West. The main reason for my being there was the same reason that I have watched Wimbledon over the years: my friend E who is fanatical about The Wombles. He followed them during the non-league years and all the way through the divisions to the top flight. We were at Wembley in 1988 when they miraculously beat Liverpool in the FA Cup final, E and I sitting in the Liverpool end while my wife and her dad sat in the Wimbledon end (don't ask!). When the Dons scored, E was unable to contain his joy and leapt into the air, not caring about the hundreds of pairs of eyes that turned to watch his celebration, all filled with a mixture of disbelief and menace. At the end, I think the Liverpool fans didn't care about the short guy celebrating in their midst, still unable to comprehend how the sporting thoroughbreds had been beaten over five furlongs by the brewery dray horse. When the team upped sticks and moved to Milton Keynes, E stuck resolutely with the new team formed in the vacuum. E refused to support 'the Franchise', a name he still uses for MK Dons. So, you get the picture: E is fanatical, I am more neutral and just looking to be entertained.
As it was E's team playing, we sat in the end with the away supporters. During the second half, somewhere to our right, the stewards moved up into the crowd. We couldn't see what had occurred/was occurring as many people chose to stand throughout the match. After a while, the stewards re-emerged from the crowd and were escorting out two Wimbledon supporters, neither of whom looked happy to be leaving. As I say, I cannot comment on the appropriateness of the stewards actions as I could not see. However, the five twenty-something blokes on the row behind us started to shout abuse at the stewards. In the main this consisted of "Fuck off!" repeated over and over. They had been fairly vocal throughout the game to that point, singing Wimbledon songs (of which there are many) and generally indulging in blokeish but harmless banter. Their transformation on seeing a fellow fan (who, from their comments, I am pretty certain they did not know) led out of the ground because of unknown transgressions (again, they do not seem to have seen the cause of the incident) was pretty shocking. What truly shocked, however, was the naked misogyny of their invective because one of the stewards was a woman. She was subjected to 'special' abuse: "Look at her, fat cunt" and "Fucking bitch" were two of the yells directed at her. The overweight male steward was not singled out, the balding male steward was not singled out, the steward in glasses was not singled out. Three other, uniquely identifiable stewards were not singled out for abuse, but the woman was.
Sitting directly in front of the lads was a father with his two sons aged 11 or 12. All around, young women were sitting, wanting to see the match and drawn to football as a live experience that is now supposedly 'safer' than it was in the bad old days of hooliganism and racism. Was no-one saying anything because the lads were 'their' supporters, passionate about 'their' team? Should I have said something? Much as I don't want language such as "fucking bitch" to become normalised ways to talk about women for 11 and 12 year olds, how would I have fared against five or six rather tanked-up lads? The truth is, I should have said something as I was the neutral and they weren't 'my' supporters to upset. I think the fact that no-one - including me - said anything to counter such awful language, was what really took the edge off the day for me.
The match was a League One fixture between Bolton and AFC Wimbledon at the Macron Stadium. I have no particularly strong feelings for either team: I worked in Bolton for 23 or more years and had attended a few games over the years and I had seen Wimbledon at Plough Lane during the years of miraculous rise up the football league as The Crazy Gang and, subsequently, over the years at various fixtures in the North West. The main reason for my being there was the same reason that I have watched Wimbledon over the years: my friend E who is fanatical about The Wombles. He followed them during the non-league years and all the way through the divisions to the top flight. We were at Wembley in 1988 when they miraculously beat Liverpool in the FA Cup final, E and I sitting in the Liverpool end while my wife and her dad sat in the Wimbledon end (don't ask!). When the Dons scored, E was unable to contain his joy and leapt into the air, not caring about the hundreds of pairs of eyes that turned to watch his celebration, all filled with a mixture of disbelief and menace. At the end, I think the Liverpool fans didn't care about the short guy celebrating in their midst, still unable to comprehend how the sporting thoroughbreds had been beaten over five furlongs by the brewery dray horse. When the team upped sticks and moved to Milton Keynes, E stuck resolutely with the new team formed in the vacuum. E refused to support 'the Franchise', a name he still uses for MK Dons. So, you get the picture: E is fanatical, I am more neutral and just looking to be entertained.
As it was E's team playing, we sat in the end with the away supporters. During the second half, somewhere to our right, the stewards moved up into the crowd. We couldn't see what had occurred/was occurring as many people chose to stand throughout the match. After a while, the stewards re-emerged from the crowd and were escorting out two Wimbledon supporters, neither of whom looked happy to be leaving. As I say, I cannot comment on the appropriateness of the stewards actions as I could not see. However, the five twenty-something blokes on the row behind us started to shout abuse at the stewards. In the main this consisted of "Fuck off!" repeated over and over. They had been fairly vocal throughout the game to that point, singing Wimbledon songs (of which there are many) and generally indulging in blokeish but harmless banter. Their transformation on seeing a fellow fan (who, from their comments, I am pretty certain they did not know) led out of the ground because of unknown transgressions (again, they do not seem to have seen the cause of the incident) was pretty shocking. What truly shocked, however, was the naked misogyny of their invective because one of the stewards was a woman. She was subjected to 'special' abuse: "Look at her, fat cunt" and "Fucking bitch" were two of the yells directed at her. The overweight male steward was not singled out, the balding male steward was not singled out, the steward in glasses was not singled out. Three other, uniquely identifiable stewards were not singled out for abuse, but the woman was.
Sitting directly in front of the lads was a father with his two sons aged 11 or 12. All around, young women were sitting, wanting to see the match and drawn to football as a live experience that is now supposedly 'safer' than it was in the bad old days of hooliganism and racism. Was no-one saying anything because the lads were 'their' supporters, passionate about 'their' team? Should I have said something? Much as I don't want language such as "fucking bitch" to become normalised ways to talk about women for 11 and 12 year olds, how would I have fared against five or six rather tanked-up lads? The truth is, I should have said something as I was the neutral and they weren't 'my' supporters to upset. I think the fact that no-one - including me - said anything to counter such awful language, was what really took the edge off the day for me.
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