Why Americans are Fat

Behold, Friday night's dinner. I finished it off for lunch today.

It's a 12oz sirloin steak, breaded and battered and then deep fried.

Yes, FRIED STEAK.

Served with a mountain of chips and 'Texas toast,' which is garlic fried bread for those of us who've never ventured south of the Mason Dixie. Plus an ear of corn dripping in melted butter.

I'll just recap.

Steak. Deep fried. In batter.

But, by God, was it delicious!

Eating in America

One of the most wonderful things about living in America is that Tina and I can afford to eat out. This follows on to one of the OTHER wonderful things about America - the fact that every type of food you could possibly imagine is right here, on your doorstep.

Just yesterday, in Princeton, I had one of the finest Croque Monsieurs I've ever had. It was DELICIOUS - and served in a bistro-cum-deli that also sold every French and English cheese you could possibly ask for. And the best bit? The Comte and Brie was cheaper here than from 'Monsieur Stinky le Cheese Man' - who sold his sweaty cheeses from the back of a Renault van on Middle Brook Street in Winchester.

Three thousand miles further for the cheese to go, but it still cost less and looked a darn sight more appetising.

Living in America, though, the best kind of food has to be American. The burger is one of the most amazing, delicious creations known to man and America is the birthplace of this culinary classic.

The burger is everywhere - not least of all because of the good work of Ronald McDonald and his Mickey D empire - ensuring that a Big Mac and fries is never more than a mile away from you.

But here's the crazy thing. If you're smart and you love burgers, you never need to eat at a McDonald's again.

What is this madness, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.

Here in New Jersey, there are more diners than in any other state in the union. New York, New Jersey and the rest of the northeastern USA has thousands of affordable, fantastic restaurants serving freshly prepared, delicious American classics and - here's the kicker - the food they serve costs what it does in McDonald's.

Let me break this down for you.

Pop into any McDonald's (there are two within walking distance of my house) and you can get a Big Mac, large fries and a drink for roughly $6 or $7 dollars. That's 1,400 calories wrapped in foil and polystyrene and ready to be enjoyed on the go, or sitting on a plastic chair in front of a dirty Formica table.

If you headed into local diner, like any of five within walking distance, you could sit at a corner booth - with proper cutlery, no less - and order a burger and fries from a pretty waitress (warning: attractiveness of your waitress may vary.)

This would be freshly prepared in the kitchen out back and delivered to your table on a proper china plate, steaming and delicious.

And the incredible thing?

That too would only cost $6 or $7 dollars. And might include onion rings, too.

Of course, you need to tip your waitress - so the price edges itself slightly above Chateau McDo unless you're a cheap so-and-so. But it's real food, served on real plates. It's better, plain and simple. I'm dismayed more Americans don't enjoy the wonders of an American Diner.

That's the rub, though. Despite serving better food and lower cost, American Diners are a dying breed. More at home in a nostalgic 'Americana' movie than in a busy American's modern life, these wonderful little restaurants are slowly ceasing to exist.

I think it's sad that a true American classic will soon be driven out of business and the only thing people will have to remind them of the Great American Burger will be the limp replicas McDonald's serve millions of every day.

Tempus Fugit

"To fill the hour - that is happiness." Ralph Waldo Emerson

It's a horrible feeling when you realise your limitations.

Youth is filled with ambition. To be rich. To be famous. To achieve amazing things. Sooner or later, though, youth is somewhat tempered by experience.

We realise that dreams of glory might be beyond our grasp. For every person who is famous - known and loved by many - there are thousands who are famous only to those who already know and love them.

We can't all be film stars or singers or presidents and prime ministers.

We can't even all be best selling novelists!

Sooner or later, you get to a point in life in which you realise that jumping for the stars has left you slightly winded - and still no closer to reaching them.

Like a dog chasing it's tail, ambition can fill you momentarily with energy and purpose - but ultimately it doesn't lead you anywhere.

This is something I've grown acutely aware of - especially when it comes to Adventure Eddy.

I've been writing adventure stories for well over a decade now. As I grow older - and the stories grow richer and better written - I realise that Adventure Eddy's exploits may never hit the bookshelves of Waterstones like I once envisaged they would.

There's the horrific possibility that my writing legacy might be confined to marketing copy and pompous articles on the Internet. I'll never be a bestselling writer!

So what is there to do?

What is a writer if nobody reads what he has written?

Well, I've been very lucky. Friends of mine - and friends of friends of mine - have chosen to read Adventure Eddy. For all the book's current limitations, it's incredibly empowering to know you've shared this make-believe world with somebody.

The question is: Is it worth writing these stories if they'll never be published?

Part of me thinks that it is.

People have hobbies, don't they? They paint, or draw, or do jigsaws and crosswords. Maybe I should consider writing more like that. Something rewarding and worthwhile for it's own reasons - for what it means to me - rather than for what I hope it will achieve.

With the wonders of things like Lulu, it's entirely possible for me to fill a bookshelf with beautifully printed copies of Adventure Eddy's exploits. Even if nobody ever reads them, they'll be there, preserved for as long as the paper lasts and the glue keeps the pages bound.

Maybe I could print a copy and leave it on a bench or a bus, after signing it up to Bookcrossings. With the wonders of the Internet, people who find and read an abandoned book can 'report' picking it up and let the original owner know where it's gone and who's enjoyed it.

Ultimately, isn't it as rewarding for one person to read your book and enjoy it as a hundred? Or a million?

I've very little basis for comparison!

What I do have is a dozen stories tangled up inside my head. I have now come to accept that I might never make my fortune as a novelist - but I would still like to commit these stories to paper. The very act of writing and expressing emotions and memories is rewarding in and of itself. It's like therapy - or more accurately like medieval 'bleeding.' Pouring the thoughts out of your head before they turn stagnant!

I should do it. I should just write for the hell of it. So no crosswords for me. No sudoku. No more sitting in front of whatever crap it is on TV (although I'll make exceptions for The Colbert Report, House and Dr Who.) Just as Tina has her cross stitch and father has his painting, I will embrace my passion without the limitations of ambition.

At least I know I can write. I mean, that's what I do for a living. I get paid for my ability with words. So if my writing career has never taken off, it's not because I'm a bad writer.

And maybe, if I write only for myself instead of trying to appeal to an audience, my books will be interesting - or at least more personal.

It's quite liberating, really.

Here are some stories I want to write:

Bootleg Boys - the Adventure Eddy story about bootlegged beer is nearly finished! I want to write the rest of it so badly!

God Squad - it's like 'Torchwood' - except instead of aliens, my high-tech troubleshooting team deal with 'extra-Biblical cryptozoological entities' like unicorns, vampires and dragons. Oh, and most of them are heavily armed priests. It's basically fantasy/horror/sci-fi comedy for the Di Vinci Code generation.

The Price of Freedom - based on a 'Movies' plot I wrote, it's the story of a British national arrested for 'terrorism' by a corrupt sheriff in the middle of Pennsylvania. The embassy troubleshooter known as 'British Bulldog' must take charge of this 'captive' and get to the bottom of the trumped-up charges. It's basically a western set east of the Mississippi with an interesting take on the whole War on Terror thing.

Kidd Rockson - a crime novel. When a promising African-American student is gunned down by the county police for packing a gun, most people dismiss it as an unfortunate gang-related incident. But even though the cops have been exonerated, the student's girlfriend claims his death was murder. The only man desperate enough to believe her is down-on-his luck private detective Kidd Rockson.

Ginger Jihad - this one will be fun. It's 2046 and Europe is aflame. Fundamentalist Muslims and the Russian army have painted the map red. Fortress America has long abandoned it's foreign adventures in Europe and the middle east, so only Britain stands and - from the look of the besieged island - not for long. Then American astronauts discover an amazing thing. The perfectly preserved body of 1950's test pilot 'Big Ginger' orbiting the earth. This WWII vet is thawed out by the desperate British government. Can a pip-pip, tally-ho fighter pilot really be Britain's last and only hope?

Captain Albion - the world's first superhero is from England! This mysterious crime-fighter has the tabloids in a storm and Britain swept up in a wave of patriotism. But when the superhero's actions clash with the British government's plans, the Prime Minister sets out to deal with this uncooperative menace. Meanwhile, an ambitious young reporter searches to uncover the 'real' identity of Captain Albion herself. The explosive climax features America's own 'nuclear powered' superhero arriving to confront Britain's finest.

The Wedding Story / Black Dog - two previously finished adventure Eddy stories need to be 'retconned' to match Eddy's slightly altered origins.

Operation Mycroft - whatever DID happen to Adventure Eddy's missing brother? When Mi5 and the CIA start demanding answers, Eddy sets out to find out. A good old fashioned adventure story with car chases, romance, beautiful women, a villainous villain and it's all set in France which is AWESOME.

The Widow of Winchester - Winchester's new mayor is making sweeping changes. Are his twenty-first century ambitions linked to a mysterious gang of 'vampires' who are chasing out his political and financial rivals? Adventure Eddy sets out to prove that there are 'no such things as vampires.'

The Silver Relic - I've already written this one about five times. But this time it'll have one of those things.... oh, what's it called? That's it! A plot! Anyway. It's a story about one of those old Mercedes Benz Silver Arrow racing cars and the murderous lengths unscrupulous people will go to get one. Amazingly, it's (very, very loosely) based on a true story!

The Island Affair - finally - FINALLY - the story about how Adventure Eddy wound up on Tresco and what he did there. Expect high adventure on the high seas, a devious criminal mastermind and a bit with a dog. And unlike Adventure Eddy, there really WILL be a bit with a dog in this one. The dog is called Fido.

Adventure Eddy in New York - Sooner or later, it had to happen. Is Eddy's ambition to 'clean up' the city going to get him killed? Oh, what fun this story will be. Beautiful women. Deadly bad guys. All the sights, sounds, smells of New York city sandwiched in an adventure story. I can't wait!

Yes, as you can see, I have a lot of work ahead of me. SO MANY stories to write. Now I just need to sit my arse down and actually do it.

Well, the winter months are coming up. Now is as good a time to start as any.

And whatever you think of my silly writing ambitions - even you have to admit it's more productive than a jigsaw.

Stop the World - I need to pee!

"Just as you began to feel that you could make good use of time, there was no time left to you." Lisa Alther.

The teetering brink of autumn constantly reminds me that time is screeching past.


It was around this time last year that I first returned to America, to a wonderful week spent with Tina's family. That climaxed in an early Thanksgiving and this year, it looks like we'll experience the same thing. Tina's parents are coming up at the end of the month for a family get-together.

This time, of course, we won't be 'just visiting.' We're here to stay.

Moving to America was one of my three 'things to do before I'm thirty.' And I've managed it. Hooray! I also managed to achieve my second ambition - to earn a living by writing. But the third - to get a book published - stays tantalisingly beyond my grasp.

The arrival of Autumn is a harsh reminder that time is running out. I've got barely four months to get myself published before I turn thirty. That's just not going to happen.

It's a bit of a disappointment, but writing has been firmly on the back burner for almost a year now.

Following on from our visit to America in 2006, I settled into writing big time - and got stuck into Nanowrimo, a month-long writing competition in which you aim to complete 50,000 words in less than 30 days.

I managed to achieve that target - just - with my Adventure Eddy story Bootleg Boys. But my writing sort of teetered out once Nanowrimo was over. Work and the move to America diverted my attention.

Which means that Bootleg Boys is still unfinished, languishing on my hard drive. The problem was the ending. Nothing quite 'fit.' I have about four different versions now and not one of them is the 'definitive one.'

The realisation that I haven't written anything significant for almost a year is not a comfortable one...

(Well, actually, I have written dozens of successful radio adverts, a smutty story published worldwide, some national advertising and marketing copy, an Internet article linked to by the Wall Street Journal Online and my articles on 'being ginger' got my mug on a BBC documentary)

...so I have decided to spend October finishing what I started.

Bootleg Boys will get finished, by hook or by crook. And it'll be good. In fact, it will be miles better than Adventure Eddy. It might not be good enough to get published - but it will be a step closer towards that goal.

And in November, when Nanowrimo comes around again, I will start off a 50,000 word adventure about something completely different.

But until then?

Adventure Eddy rides again.

Princess Diana and other good ways to Waste Taxpayer's Money

Next week, a hearing begins to investigate the circumstances surrounding the death of Princess Diana.

As if the countless documentries, investigations, reports and articles hadn't already picked over every single aspect of the unfortunate accident with a fine flea-comb!

Just last December, a lengthy British police investigation ruled that the crash which killed Diana was an accident and decided that she was not the victim of an elaborate murder plot.

A two-year French investigation has already reached the same conclusion.

Which begs the question: Why are we having ANOTHER bloody hearing?

The woman's been dead for over a decade now. Certainly, there are unanswered questions regarding how Dodi and Diana died - but is it really in the public interest for thousands of pounds to be channeled into ANOTHER tedious, repetitive and ultimately pointless hearing?

Almost 3,500 people die every year on the roads of Great Britain. Unfortunately, because none of those poor people were 'the Queen of Hearts,' their deaths are usually buttoned up and filed away with the minimum of fuss and effort. Case closed - as Diana's should be.

Britain needs to move on. To paraphrase one of the lines from the Oscar winning Helen Mirren film The Queen: "Princess Diana manages to be even more annoying dead than she was alive."

Changing Seasons

"Autumn is a second spring, in which every leaf becomes a flower." Albert Camus.

Where does the time go?

In a little over a week, it will be four months since Tina and I first touched base in the United States. We're installed now, more or less. We've got cars and New Jersey driver's licences and I'm even lucky enough to have a great job.

It just doesn't feel like we're installed, though. We're still talking about how we've got to sit tight until the money's started coming in (although, to be fair, it's only my second payday on Friday) and we're holding off on all the 'things' we thought we wanted.

Funny how four months without one makes you realise that a personal micro-brewery is more a luxury than a necessity!

For all of America still feeling fresh and new, however, it's impossible to ignore the passing time. Despite long, hot days that are still in the low eighties, summer has slipped silently away and a beautiful New England fall is on the horizon.

Fall is what the Americans call autumn - and there's nowhere better to enjoy it than in the North Eastern United States. The beautiful oak trees turn all sorts of glorious colours and the weather is both bright and crisp at the same time. Throw into that Halloween and Thanksgiving - two of the most wonderful holidays in existence - and 'fall' even beats the long, hot, glorious summer we've just enjoyed. I can hardly wait.

We're already planning what to do for Halloween. There's the Field of Screams which looks like it's worth a road trip. Tina is also keen on going to the Eastern State Penitentiary which looks thrilling.

I have never had a Halloween in America. It'll be wonderful.

But fall brings not just a new wave of adventures and exploration. It's also the chance for Tina and I to get our feet under the table and really start to settle down in America. We're no longer 'fresh off the boat.' We're tax-paying, bill-paying, hard-working residents now and it's time to quit blinking in astonishment and start planning what the next stage will be.

What do we want? How will we achieve it?

Unlike England, America fills you with ambition and confidence. Once you've decided what it is you want, the American dream demands that you go out and achieve it - bugger the obstacles standing in your path.

Thanksgiving is two months away. I already have so much to be thankful for (not least of which, it will be my forth wedding anniversary.) In the lead up to that great event, however, what's to stop me working to achieve a few more things I can be further thankful for?

"There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who face reality; and then there are those who turn one into the other." Douglas Everett.

Blast From the Past

Beware of American drivers!

Everybody's heard my opinion of American drivers. Whether swigging coffee or chatting on their mobile phones, they're always threatening to cut across your bows or come crashing into the back of your car.

That's why I drive a rugged old '86 Town Car. Nobody wants to drive into 4400lbs of Detroit steel. But the Town Car actually acquits itself by being more than a luxurious tank on wheels. The damn thing can move!

Just the other day, while avoiding blithely oncoming traffic, I put the pedal-to-the-metal and out-accelerated a late nineties Ford Mustang. The driver watched me tear off, astonished.

I shouldn't be surprised. With a five litre V8 under the bonnet, the Town Car follows the Bentley and Rolls Royce philosophy - of providing 'adequate' power that can propel you out of trouble at a hefty rate of knots.

Further evidence of the Town Car's virility was provided last night, when one of my favourite movies was showing on cable.

Out for Justice was the breakthrough 1990 hit that launched the career of Steven Seagal. Playing a tough cop out to nail his old neighbourhood pal, Seagal's never looked better and the film is miles above the standard cops and robbers fare of the time.

One of the best scenes is a blistering car chase through the streets of Brooklyn - and damned if the bad guys aren't behind the wheel of a first generation Lincoln Town Car, just like mine.

Even with six Italian hoodlums crammed inside, the Town Car easily evades Seagal's hot pursuit - something that's NEVER meant to happen in this sort of movie.

I watched with a certain measure of pride. That's MY car, I smiled.

Of course, it was the bad guy's car. Lincoln Town Cars are always driven by mafia hoods or corrupt CEO's. But that's the beauty of being a bad guy. You might get your comeuppance in the end - but right up until that time, you get to be bad in style.

Who is Hugo Chavez and why is he saying those terrible things about America?

Kevin Spacey became the latest in a long line of liberal celebrities to hold court with Hugo Chavez, the apparently anti-American president of Venezuala.

The talented Hollywood actor, who rocked the kasbah in K-Pax and L.A. Confidential, spent three hours with the president chatting about, amongst other things, the Venezuelan film industry. Chavez has just started a 13 million dollar film centre to 'rival Hollywood Imperialism.'

A drop in the ocean. 13 million dollars, for example, is the amount Daniel Craig is getting paid to return as 007 in the next Bond movie.

Spacey's visit follows the likes of Sean Penn, Danny Glover and anti-war Mom Cindy Sheehan. It seems no Hollywood liberal or anti-Bush icon can hold their head up high until they've shaken hands with Hugo Chavez.

America's right wing, of course, is outraged.

But why, exactly? I know I should be outraged at the antics of this anti-American icon, but I'm not entirely sure why. In fact, I know nothing about Hugo Chavez other than the fact that he's a 'baddy' in the same mould as Mahmoud Ahmadinejad - if you believe what the right wing tell us.

Although if you believe the left wing, he's an anti-imperialistic icon.

Herein lies the problem with American politics and the dumb people (myself included) who claim to possess an opinion. We don't really have opinions of our own - we're just repeating whatever our favourite political pundit tells us.

So in an experiment practically unheard of in the Blogosphere, I am actually going to look up Hugo Chavez and find the real dope about him. In honor of that old Dustin Hoffman film:

Who is Hugo Chavez and Why is he saying those Terrible Things about America?

Hugo Chavez was born in a mud hut in 1954. A bit of a mutt, his heritage included Amerindian, Afro-Venezuelan, and Spanish ancestry. Both his parents were school teachers, but that didn't stop Chavez growing up to be a petty crook with a criminal record as long as his full name (Hugo Rafael Chávez Frías.) After countless arrests, the future president gained his education unwillingly at various military reform schools.

The reform school background led to a career in the military, in which Chavez would prove fairly successful. During his days in the army, Chavez also developed an interest in political ideology - specifically a type of left-wing nationalism that promoted the unification of Latin America.

This is where his political ambitions blossomed.

Years later, in 1992, things were pretty bad in Venezuela and security forces were coming down heavy on rioters and protesters, killing hundreds as they blocked the streets (and looted anything that wasn't nailed down.)

This gave Hugo Chavez the inspiration to overthrow the unpopular President Perez with a military coup d'etat. Unfortunately things didn't go as planned and Chavez was forced to surrender to the government, with almost a hundred of his men being slaughtered.

The coup was a failure, but it did provide Chavez with considerable media and public attention and revealed that the wannabe military dictator was popular amongst the people of Venezuela.

So just like Hitler before him (an unfortunate but valid parallel) Chavez decided to accomplish with ballots what he couldn't do with bullets. Once released from prison, he started the march to the presidency and won over the Venezuelan people with his informal oratory and idealistic rhetoric. Coming from an ethnic Indian background, rather than the pure blood 'Spanish' elite, he found much popularity amongst the working class and went on to win the 1998 presidential election with 56% of the votes.

Chavez started off his presidency by making sweeping changes in line with his political ideology. Amongst them was a campaign of road building, housing construction and mass vaccination. In addition, his left-wing beliefs inspired him to halt planned privatizations of the Social Security system, national industry holdings and the Venezuelan oil business.

Now, not wanting to get into conspiracy theories, it's interesting to note that his nix on privatising the Venezuelan oil industry, plus some rough interference on the way it was run, led to a 2002 coup attempt that was openly approved and supported by the US Government.

The coup failed however, as did the following political campaign to get Chavez booted out of office. Amid accusations of electoral fraud, Chavez defeated a recall referendum and settled back into his presidency with some security. From then on, he started rattling international cages by fighting for a place on the U.N. Security Council and harbouring friendships with traditional U.S. enemies such as Cuba.

And now, having been safely returned to the presidency once again (with 63% of the national vote), Chavez is becoming even more active in South American politics. His socialist reforms are winning him further support amongst his people and his ambitious plans - like re-taking control of the Orinoco Belt oil reserves - offer the possibility of Venezuela becoming a real international player in the near future.

He's a powerful, dynamic and charismatic leader and his ambitions often conflict directly with the foreign policies of the United States - or, more specifically, President bush. George Bush's open support of Chavez's enemies probably had something to do with the Venezuelan president developing an undisguised hatred of him. Bush, Chavez declared to his people, is a 'pendejo' and 'the devil.'

Yet despite Chavez' hatred of George Bush and the current administration, the president of Venezuela has offered many olive branches to the US. Venezuela was the first country to offer aid to hurricane-devastated New Orleans. That offer was snubbed - but a later agreement saw Venezuela supplying discounted heading oil to low income families across the Northeastern U.S.

All in all, ignoring the right wing propaganda, the facts stack up and don't make Chavez look too bad at all. He's not really anti-American so much as anti-Bush.

But, of course, his very existence is a thorn in the right wing's side, so they keep pushing the anti-American angle. And why not? He stands for everything the US is against!

I mean, Chavez is a socialist. Ick! He's also vehemently anti-Israel and politically bullish, stamping out free expression on Venezuela's most popular television station, fighting for an end to political term limits and demanding that all Venezuelan schools teach his party's political ideology in class.

But those accusations of corruption don't really hold up. They're entirely true - but despite the very clear good Chavez is doing, he's still a South American 'el presidenti' and they do things differently south of the equator. Horses for courses. Complaining that a South American president is corrupt is like accusing a computer technician of being nerdy!

Really, the major reason the right wing hate Chavez is because he's a loud and vocal enemy of the current administration. Chavez is certainly an enemy of George Bush. But is he an enemy of the United States?

I entered into writing this with little prior opinion - or so I thought. Actually, I had always considered Chavez a crooked South American politician and a nasty socialist scumbag to boot. Now, having done some research, my opinion of the man has mellowed.

Venezuela is politically corrupt and crime is rampant. But despite the corruption, there's no state-sponsored torture and even the U.S. observers struggled to debunk the election results. Chavez is truly president by popular demand and the worst of his crimes are nothing compared to what goes on in countries that are traditionally 'friendly' to the United States (such as Saudi Arabia.)

He is often guilty by association. His friendship and support of Iran - one of the scariest countries on the planet right now - is enough to earn him the hatred of many. Likewise, anybody who earns the glowing tributes of corrupt little rat George Galloway finds themselves tainted as a result.

I still don't like him, but at least the reasons I have for not liking him are my reasons instead of anybody else's.

• He tried to overthrow the government.
• Yet he got moody when somebody tried to overthrow his government.
• He's friends with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Iran.
• He's shut down free speech and expression.
• He's added political indoctrination to the school curriculem.
• He wears a sombraro.
  

However, having looked into Hugo Chavez and his life, I can't really find anything treasonous about Kevin Spacey visiting him in Venezuela. He's not betraying his country by the trip, as the right wing would have you believe.

I only hope that Spacey's political opinions - along with those of Sean Penn and Danny Glover - honestly reflect what he thinks and feels. The liberal left has just as much capacity for blind allegiance and band-wagon jumping as the reactionary right wing.

Maybe Spacey should sit down with an open mind and come to his own conclusions about Hugo Chavez. I just did and it was a very liberating experience. I'm still no great fan of the man - but I won't be jumping onto any soap-boxes and repeating right wing rhetoric against the man now that I know not all of it is accurate.

Thrill Proof

Death Proof is anything but.

The Tarantino half of the Grindhouse experience - a cheesy project to return the B-movie double feature to America's cinema screens - falls foul of it's own cleverness.

Tarantino perfectly recreates the sleazy soundtrack, grainy camerawork and amateurish scripts that made the old seventies slasher flicks such trashy classics. In doing so, however, all he manages to do is make his own crappy horror movie.

Death Proof tells two tedious tales featuring trashy looking girls. In the first half of the movie, DJ Jungle Julia and her pals have a tequila-sozzled night out which climaxes in Julia's friend, Butterfly, giving a lapdance to crazy-eyed barfly 'Stuntman Mike.' The scar-faced stuntman then stalks the girls as they DUI their way home, killing all four of them in a grisly head-on car crash.

Stuntman Mike, you see, is a serial killer. His weapon of choice? A classic hot-rod specially reinforced to be 'Death Proof.' As Mike explains: "You could hit a brick wall at 125mph and walk away." He then goes on to test this theory by demolishing the girl's car.

Flash forward a year. Stuntman Mike is back - his '70 Chevy Nova replaced by a mean looking '69 Dodge Charger. He spots four likely looking girls driving through the Tennessee backwoods and decides to give them a taste of his Death Proof car.

But Mike has made a mistake. These girls are stunt-bunnies, on the set of a 'cheerleader movie' being filmed nearby (the best line of the movie is: "What's a cheerleader movie?" to which one of the girls replies: "It's a movie. About cheerleaders.")

These girls are taking a '70 Dodge Challenger for a test drive (one of the crazy girls actually strapping herself to the bonnet.) When Stuntman Mike tries to drive them off the road, the spunky stunt women turn the tables and chase the villainous murderer down in a breathtaking high-speed chase. He dies with a stiletto heel through the skull, after crashing his car into a hillside.

And that's the plot, pretty much.

It all sounds much more exciting then it is. Aside from the breathtaking 18 minute car chase, the entire movie seems to be made up of dreary dialogue between the bitchy girls. Sadly, Tarantino's scripts don't match his quick-fire dialogue from the Pulp Fiction days and as the girls rabbit on-and-on, you can't help but wish they'd just shut up and get on with it.

It does have it's highlights. As crazy Stuntman Mike, veteran actor Kurt Russell has a field day. He's a seriously bad-ass badguy. The cars are stars in their own right, too. The chase at the climax of the movie is worth the admission price - just not the time spent trudging through the dreary dialogue to get there.

The girls are good looking. None of your skinny, polished Hollywood stuff here. They have curvy figures, dirty mouths and tons of attitude. If Quentin had just skimmed half their dialogue, this film would have been a lot more entertaining.

Sadly, though, it all comes to naught. Just like the movie, actually. The ending is an anticlimax, with Tarantino throwing up 'The End' despite there being some glaring loose ends.

Quentin Tarantino! Please, answer these questions!

• Whatever happened to the pretty cheerleader? Last we saw, she'd been left at the mercy of 'Jasper' the redneck, who'd been informed that she was a porn star and 'sexually available.'
• What will Jasper say when the girls return with his precious '70 Challenger in pieces?
• During the climactic car chase, the girls killed a motorcyclist and drove three cars off the road. Then they kerb-stomped the baddy. What exactly will the police say about this?
• And sorry to repeat myself, but seriously. What happened to the cute-but-helpless cheerleader?

No matter how much of a Quentin Tarantino fan you are, you will be deeply disappointed by Death Proof. It's a rare miss for this talented writer/director. If you are determined to watch a sleazy seventies exploitation film, rent the real thing instead.

Dino's new place...

This Saturday, it was across Manhattan once again to attend the grand opening of New York Avenue Pizza and Pasta.

It's a new place opened up by Dino and his wife Emily. Dino is Italian by heritage, a Brit by birth and sounds as American as anybody. Last year, he finally got his green-card and now, to support the ideal of the American Dream, he's opening his own pizza place with his lovely wife and their beautiful baby daughter (who's fingers are just the right size to make indentations in the calzones.)

Dino and Tina have been friends for years, so we came along to lend our moral support and scoff delicious pizza - and Dino's pizza was breathtaking. I'm already a convert to New York pizza - nothing made in England comes anywhere close - but this stuff was the cream of the crop. Crispy, tangy, cheesy and delicious.

You'll find New York Avenue Pizza and Pasta on - unsurprisingly - New York Avenue, just next to Checkers Cafe, Tina's favourite bar and the location of many a misadventure.

I wish Dino and Emily all the luck in the world - not that they need it. Dino is a real old-school grafter and with pizza as good as his, the place will be an enormous success.

Some Thoughts...

With the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, I can see that I've had some wonderful experiences in the past. Tresco, Paris and Long Island were wonderful and I made great friends and had great times.

Stupidly, at the time, I didn't quite realise how lucky I was. I kept on looking at the horizon for the next big break. I was always unsatisfied.

So while I was driving back today, the cool sounds of Miles Davis wafting out of my SIRIUS radio and the warm evening breeze on my face, I gave it a thought and realised something astonishing.

I was incredibly happy. I was incredibly lucky. I was somewhere where I wanted to be.

Where I am right now is pretty much where I've spent the best part of a decade struggling to be. In America, behind the wheel of a stupid old car, with a solid job to go to and somebody who loves me to come back to.

Now I'm not 'giving up.' I'm still on the prowl to achieve more and go further. But right now, I realise I could freeze this moment for the rest of my life and be proud of it.

I sacrificed a lot to get to New York. Relationships and friendships and the chance to be close to the people I love. But as Simon Templar said in The Last Hero: "Nothing is won without sacrifice."

I just wanted to write this down because I know it can't last forever. It might not even last until tomorrow. But right now, where I am at this moment... People wait a lifetime for it. So even if I live to 102 and wind up destitute in a gutter, I'll always look back and appreciate how incredibly lucky and blessed I was at this exact moment in time.

Even more than I appreciate everything that's happened to me, I'm grateful for being given the insight to actually appreciate it. To realise that things are good while they're still good, instead of looking back in five years time and thinking: "Damn, if only I'd have realised how lucky I was..."

I do realise how lucky I am. In fact, the only thing that scares me is the inexorable knowledge that all things, good or bad, must come to an end.

Object of Desire II

Modern British sports cars are designed with lighter-than-air, hand-assembled and epoxy glued aluminium chassis components.

German manufacturers file more patents each year than NASA.

And the American car industry? It continues to churn out vehicles that belong in the 1950's.

Take Ford for example.

Their model line-up includes the famous Ford Crown Victoria and it's re-badged twin brother, the Mercury Grand Marquis. Detroit's still churning out these cars despite the fact that they're designed the same way cars were during World War Two.

A separate chassis and body. Dependable and rugged rear wheel drive. A powerful and unsophisticated engine.

Body styles and features had changed and evolved, but the basic components haven't. That's why the Haynes manual for my Lincoln Town Car - pretty much a Ford Crown Victoria with a different body - covers all models from 1970 through 2005.

There's nothing fancy or clever about these cars, but they're still immensely popular. Whatever the limitations of the chassis/body layout, the bugs and issues have long been ironed out and the result is a pretty damn solid vehicle.

Which is why I've fallen for it.

I've really enjoyed the way my Lincoln drives, with it's heavy, well-balanced body and that predictable rear-wheel drive. The lazy engine has enough power to heft two tons pretty darn quickly when needed to and the layout of the car - with it's enormous boot and ample space - is ridiculously practical. I love it.

And now I've got the American car bug, I've seen what I really want.

Surprisingly, it's not an antique. In fact, the car I've got my eye on is a late model Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor.


They made them in enormous quantities and they can be picked up astonishingly cheaply. Most cars carry hefty mileage - but that Ford drive-train runs hassle-free for at least half-a-million miles.

These cars were built to withstand the punishment of serving the state. The Interceptor package comes standard with uprated nitrogen gas shock-absorbers, reinforced suspension and body-frame and over-sized all-season tyres. With rugged transmission and engine oil coolers - plus a 3.27 rear axle - the Crown Vic can do 129mph without breaking a sweat.

So it's fast and as agile as a two ton workhorse can be. Even better, it's a solid old bird. With an optional Rhino Push Bar (a snip at $100) the police coolly nudge offending vehicles off the road day after day. Front impact safety ratings are five star - not much Germany churns out can match that.

Really, you've got a fast, rugged tank on wheels. A serious bit of motor.

But the thing I really love about the late model Crown Victorias? The fact that they exactly resemble unmarked police cars. Add that optional push bar (those things are illegal in England) and you've got the sort of car nobody cuts up, beeps at or blocks in.

Finally - protection from the terrible and selfish American drivers.

This is the car I'm saving my pennies for now.

It's easy to criticize beauty when you're beautiful...

First off - sorry for spelling it 'criticize.' I'm living (and writing) American now. Today I got told off for using the word 'untidy.' That's unAmerican, apparently.

Anyway. Further to my post on The Ugly Truth About Beauty, I thought I'd write about a stunningly beautiful woman I saw on The Colbert Report tonight.

Naomi Wolf pretty much punches every button as far as beauty goes. Luxurious brown hair. Beautiful green eyes. Dimples you could copyright. And just as I wrote in my blog, she's not just defined by her beauty. She's also a bestselling author.

But Naomi Wolf's bestselling book is a feminist masterpiece called the Beauty Myth - in which she criticizes the way modern society forces women to conform to an unrealistic standard of feminine beauty.

Which is kind of stupid, because Naomi Wolf IS an unrealistic standard of feminine beauty. I mean, she's gorgeous. There's nothing worse than a gorgeous woman telling us that society demands women should be gorgeous.

There I was, going on about how nobody should be defined by their beauty - and up springs Naomi Wolf. She's not defined by her beauty at all - she's totally undermined by it.

The Ugly Truth About Beauty

America’s Top Model. Nip/Tuck. Extreme Makeover. How to Look Good Naked.

Switch on a TV anywhere in the western world and you’re confronted with images of beautiful people. Toned butts. Firm abs and teeth so sparkly you can see them from space.

All those lovely people - plus adverts for diet pills, exercise equipment and facial creams being crammed into our inboxes and mailboxes each and every day – make it easy to assume that The Way You Look is wrong and The Way They Look is what you should aspire to. After all, isn’t the message behind movies like The Devil Wears Prada that LOOKS are far more important than WHO you are?

In that movie, brainy Andy Sachs heads to Manhattan to begin a job at fashion magazine Runway. But before her boss Miranda takes brilliant Andy seriously, the brainy brunette has to shed the pounds and squeeze her size six butt into a skinny pair of Dolce and Gabbanas.

I mean, is it just me, or is the premise of a movie in which ridiculously gorgeous Anne Hathaway is considered fat just plain wrong?

But that’s the way the world is at the moment. Beauty is all important and if brainless-but-beautiful models like Miss Teen USA 2007 candidate Caitlin Upton have taught us anything, it’s that pretty people can achieve things regardless of their intellectual limitations.

But the result of this obsession with looks?

Scores of beautiful young men and women now think that they can succeed on looks alone.

That belief is flawed for many reasons – the main one being that beauty isn’t exactly uncommon.

If you’re willing to skip school to spend hours in the gym, or spend your savings on a boob job and teeth whitening, you too can become one of the ‘beautiful’ people.

Youth, exercise and diet are generally the foundation of good looks and the rest is just icing on the cake. But even after you’ve become ‘beautiful,’ the opportunities out there are limited.

There can only be one ‘America’s Top Model.’ James Bond only auditions for the next ‘Bond girl’ every three years or so. Sometimes, beautiful people have to take the opportunities on offer, whatever they are.

And that’s where you’ll find the real tragedy in being beautiful.

One infamous radio ‘Shock Jock,’ has beautiful young actresses on his show all the time (which seems pointless. Surely all cats are grey over the airwaves.) There’s a huge line of beautiful models and aspiring actresses clamoring for the chance to get into his studio and maybe hit the big time. But what is the price of this opportunity?

An example: A few months ago, he had beautiful young women on their hands and knees, attempting to catch meatballs (dripping in pasta sauce) between their buttocks. The audience whooped and hollered and the girls played along in good spirits – but what was going through their mind?

It must have been depressing. Their media ‘breakthrough’ involved kneeling like a dog with cold spaghetti sauce dripping down their thighs – and if they’d turned their nose up at this opportunity, there would have been a hundred other girls willing to do it in their place.

It seems in this looks obsessed society we live in, the only thing we love more than beautiful people is degrading them. It seems there’s no shortage of television programs, made for TV movies or raunchy frat-boy magazines willing to lead beautiful people through the meat grinder with the fleeting promise of fame. And worst of all? There’s no shortage of beautiful people willing to follow them.

If reading Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister has taught me anything, it’s that beautiful people risk their beauty becoming their defining feature.

So what’s the secret of the truly successful ‘beautiful’ people?

Being beautiful has never been their primary characteristic. It might have opened doors for them, but it’s never been the secret of their success.

Whether it was talent as an actress (like the wonderful Meryl Streep) or skills as a firebrand (like vile political pundit Anne Coulter) the ‘beautiful’ people who’ve made their mark had something going for them other than just their looks. That’s just the icing on the cake.

So if you’re a ‘beautiful person’ and you want to make it as a model, actress or just a diva like Paris Hilton, take one piece of advice from me (a fully qualified non-beautiful person.)

Have something that sets you apart from the rest. Skills. Talents. Opinions. Or a very rich daddy.

Be your own person. Set your own standards. Never let your (beautiful) reflection in the mirror reflect everything about who you are.

Cheap Wine

I have a mental block.

After living in France, where you can pick up quality plonk for two euros a bottle, I have developed an almost masochistic obsession with cheap wine. In England, I picked out two decent choices which didn't break the bank. A Pays de Gascogne from Sainsbury's at £2.99 a bottle (which was crisp and delicious ice-cold) and a robust little red called Little Penguin, which pushed the envelope at £4.99 (which is considered pricey in my book) but delivered every time.

Over in America, the dollar/pound difference is causing me headaches.

Little Penguin, for example, retails at $7.99 here. For some reason, that's too pricey for me.

I know, I know. Technically, that's £3.50 a bottle so I should be rejoicing rather than complaining. But the dollar amount just SEEMS more. I'm used to paying a dollar for things that cost a quid in England. When a fair exchange rate crops up, it seems like I'm paying above the odds stateside.

Which explains why wine consumption has dropped in the Hulme household - which is probably no bad thing.

We tried buying 'cheap' wine (like Carlo Rossi's enormous 4ltr tubs of 'Paisano') but that stuff was pretty rough even by my standards (and I was once drinking Chateau Mutant in Saint Valery en Caux for .84 centimes a bottle.)

But last night, entirely by accident, I stumbled over an ambitious little number that threatened to deliver on my dollar/pound dilemma.

Hailing from Australia, Mattie's Perch is a vineyard that produces single grape wines very much in the style of Little Penguin and other Aussie brands. Although the friendly Koala on the label claims that their Shiraz is 'ripper,' it doesn't quite live up to the more famous (and more expensive) brands.

But you know what?

It's not half bad. And it's only $3.99 a bottle.

There's a very mild 'fat' flavour to the wine, as you'd expect with a Shiraz - although is seems a little watered down compared to more expensive brands. But the grape is instantly recognizable and the wine itself goes down more smoothly than an awful lot of Californian reds that retail for three or four times as much.

What with my more temperate lifestyle, I can't claim that I'll be enjoying Mattie's Perch all that much (if you're only going to have one bottle a week, you might as well make it a good one) but it's worth keeping in mind.

In America, the land of opportunity, you can find whatever you're looking for if you just search hard enough. My little Aussie red is proof of that!

Visit Mattie's Perch here.

Talk Like a Pirate Day

Today is officially the "International Talk Like a Pirate Day."

So swash yer buckles, swab yer decks and stand fast, lily livered land lubbers.

Check it out on Wikipedia if you don't believe me, but all day today it's your duty to gird your loins and buckle your swash in good free-bootin' style.

Yeeargh!

Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister

Gregory Maguire is famous.

His first book for adults, Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, was an enormous hit and grew even more monsterous when it was turned into a hugely succesful Broadway musical. His follow ups, including Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister, Son of a Witch and Mirror, Mirror have earned Maguire the de facto title of Master of the Revisionist Fairy Tale.

Considering the subjects he writes about, it's very easy to dismiss Maguire as a one-trick pony. Reading Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister pretty quickly disproves that notion, though.

Maguire's take on the Cinderella story is written in a starkly different style to Wicked. It's a rich and rewarding historical novel, taking place in seventeenth century Holland rather than the whimsical Land of Oz. It starts off pretty grimly, with Iris and Ruth, the two 'ugly sisters' of the story, washing up dirty and hungry in an unwelcoming Dutch village. Right from that depressing start, Maguire pretty quickly establishes that this ain't no fairytale.

He uses the bare bones of the Cinderella story to link his novel's plot. There's a beautiful stepsister, a wonderful ball and a handsome prince. However the 'good' and 'bad' characters in the story aren't quite how you remember them as a child. Iris, the younger 'ugly stepsister', is the focus of the story and she perceives the famous events from a very different perspective than the average fairy tale book.

Iris becomes fascinated by painting - and through description of the painting craft Maguire convinces the reader to reevaluate their own definitions of beauty. The beautiful Clara - the 'Cinderella' of popular myth - is as much cursed by her beauty as she is blessed. Ugly Iris, who is lean-lipped and flat-chested, learns that intelligence, talent and vision can be as attractive as golden hair and a button nose.

Maguire manages to keep the reader guessing throughout the novel, which is incredible considering that his story is based off one of the best known popular tales in the world. We all know that Cinderella attends the ball and wins the heart of Prince Charming. How the established ending comes to pass, however, is a surprise to everybody. Who knew that this was how 'happy ever after' ended up?

If you're a fan of slightly whimsical literary fiction, like the works of John Irving or Audrey Niffenegger, you'll love the way Maguire weaves his tale. It's a beautifully constructed work of fiction and a very worthy follow up to the popular Wicked.

Subway Psychology

"A person is smart. People are dumb."

Kay (Tommy Lee Jones) Men in Black

If aliens landed on Earth, what would their impression be?

Not very positive, if their landing zone was anywhere near a Subway station during rush hour.

Something about public transport brings out the worst in people. We transform from rational, intelligent beings into selfish, stubborn creatures as soon as we disappear underground.

Humanity has sent man to the moon and split the atom, yet stick sixty of us in a subway car and suddenly we're just animals again. We bustle and nudge aside other passengers on the platform. We desperately try to cram three hundred people into a carriage designed for sixty.

Today, a fat man tried to squeeze himself into the overstuffed compartment of the Uptown E Train, his ample backside squished between the carriage doors. His hefty buttocks were preventing the door from shutting, but he feigned innocence and astonishment when the conductor demanded: "Stand CLEAR of the door, Sir."

Riding twenty blocks uptown wasn't a very pleasant experience. Thank goodness I'm tall. A lot of the shorter people on the train found themselves eye-to-armpit or worse.

But, of course, acting idiotic on public transport is not an American invention. New Yorkers might be thoughtless and selfish as they wage their war against the other commuters, but they know the all-important rule. Don't do anything that might delay the train.

The greatest example of subway stupidity I've witnessed was on the Paris Metro, when the sliding doors simply refused to close because so many people were stuffed into the compartment.

"Move forward!" The conductor demanded. "Make room for the doors to close!"

As the passengers in the compartment breathed in and shuffled forward, they created about six inches of free space for the doors to close. Except before they could, an entire wave of eager passengers stepped off the platform to fill the newly vacated space.

If looks could kill, that conductor would be France's greatest serial killer.

Ban the Bloody Bicycle

People know my stance. Four wheels good. Two wheels bad.

If you thought I considered American drivers inconsiderate, they receive just a fraction of the bile I reserve for bicyclists. Whether weaving down the sidewalks of New York City, or knocking pedestrians aside in Oxford, they're all bloody selfish nutcases who cause chaos, disruption and injury wherever they go.

Because they're not burning fossil fuels or pumping money into public transport, the average 'bicycle' commuter has a disgusting sense of pompous self importance. They're saving the world - so they don't care how many people get hurt in the process.

But the problem is, people do get hurt. Every year, hundred of pedestrians and cyclists come a cropper because some git behind the handlebars decided to hop that kerb or skip a red light.

Now personally, I have little problem with bicyclists and motorcyclists rubbing themselves out with their idiotic stunts - but I do have a problem when other people get hurt. This weekend, my sister-in-law on Long Island got run down by a cyclist as she loaded up her car with shopping.

Another selfish bastard, bombing down the tarmac far too fast and smug in the knowledge that the road-traffic laws don't apply to him. Another innocent victim crushed beneath those skinny tyres. This kind of thing happens far too frequently.

Hopefully my sister-in-law will be alright. The cyclist himself seems to be getting off Scot-free. As far as the police are concerned, traffic offenses are only worth prosecution if an internal combustion engine is attached to the vehicle in question.

Which is ridiculous, really.

Take the behaviour of the average cyclist.

• Red light? Carry on going, or get off your bike and 'walk' around the corner.


• Sidewalk, pavements, roads and paths? As long as it's flat, it's a route of access - despite the laws in the UK that say bikes can't mount the pavement.


• Right of way? If the space is three feet wide, a cyclist will 'go for it.' Then the stupid sods wonder why they prang into wing mirrors or get crushed by cars changing lane.

Basically, if they can ride on it, a cyclist will claim it for their own. This leaves the rest of us high and dry.

I say it's high time bicyclists are held to the same standards as other road users and their selfish, abusive behaviour is cracked down on.

I'm sick of idiots on bikes whizzing past me on the pavement: "Get out the f**king way!" or yelling abuse at cars that 'selfishly' pause at traffic lights in front of their route.

I'm sick of the self-important, smug attitude. Sure, riding a bike might be making a minuscule contribution to preventing global warming. It certainly isn't curing cancer, though, and your lane-weaving behaviour ain't doing anything to help the traffic problem, Mate.

If only the idiots on bikes could be more considerate. The High Street at 9am isn't part of the Tour de France. You can swiff along at a fair pace without risking life, limb or the safety of pedestrians. You don't need to play chicken every five minutes with buses and taxis. Just keep at a normal pace and you'll get there sooner than you think.

But the average career bicyclist? They don't care about being considerate. They're just Boy Racers (even the girls) without the souped up Vauxhall Nova.

Being Clean Gives You Allergies

I've been telling people this for years, but nobody listens. Now it's official. You neat-freaks are hurting the young generation with your cleanliness obsession.

Anti bacterial wipes here. Germ killing sprays there. It seems the only place that isn't as obsessively clean as a surgical ward these days are the actual surgical wards themselves... But that (and the resultant MRSA) is another story.

We live in a very clean world these days - and it terrifies me!

Now I'm not exactly a slob, but I did grow up on a farm, knee-deep in mud and dachshunds. I probably got exposed to more than my share of germs and bacteria. And you know what? It's done me no harm at all.

I don't have allergies, I don't get hay fever - and aside from mussels, I can pretty much wolf down anything without swelling up like Mr Blobby or hurling it all back up again.

But people like me are becoming a minority. A recent report has revealed that five times as many people these days are effected by allergies than just thirty years ago. And what's the causative factor?

Keeping things clean!

In modern Western society, The Germ has taken on a terrifying mantle, scaring parents and little children like the Bogeyman did a hundred years ago. Television adverts warn us that a plastic chopping board contains as many germs as your toilet seat. Domestos and Clorox adverts proudly boast that they kill 99.9% of germs. Everywhere, we're being told that the secret to long life and happiness is to live in a germ free environment - such as a plastic bubble or a giant tupperware container.

Whereas, this report has revealed the exact opposite.

The human body is a complex thing - rather like the plot of an M. Night Shyamalan movie. As the body grows and develops, antibodies spring up to protect us against viruses and bacteria, while the white blood cells develop tolerance the outside influences (such as pollen) that our body gets exposed to every day.

So, at the same time we're learning in school, our bodies are learning about the environment we live in - and developing defences for the 'Bad Things' and giving hall passes to the 'Harmless Things'.

Schoolkids have school books. The human body has exposure to the outside world. Both are vital in order to properly learn. If children aren't exposed to a variety of outside influences, their immune system isn't developed properly. You end up with kids who swell up at the first sign of daffodils - or drop dead because their body hasn't developed antibodies to protect them from a 'harmless' lurgy.

Germs, bacteria, dirt... It's all a vital part of growing up - and yet a whole generation of mothers are wrapping their kids in plastic and not exposing them to the outside environment. They're worried about little babies briefly getting sick. Instead, they're cursing their children to a lifetime of allergies and weakened immune systems.

There's an old expression in Hampshire: "You've got to eat a peck of dirt before you die."

That's reference to parents exposing their children to dirt and mud, to get them used to the world they live in so they grow up big and strong.

If we continue with our obsessive 'germ phobic' lifestyles, future generations of kids are going to be pale, anemic, sickly little things who get ill from stepping outside the door of their bacteria-free, air conditioned, hermetically sealed homes.

So Mums and Dads. Do your kids a favour. Stick 'em out in the garden and let them get a little dirty.

You can read the "Too Clean?" report here

I'm too Sexy for this plane...

Given the terrifying world we live in, you'd image there are many sensible reasons to be kicked off a flight. Take Dr. Ahmed Farooq, for example, who decided to loudly and obnoxiously start his Islamic evening prayers on a busy airplane full of nervous passengers.

But getting refused permission to fly because your skirt's too short? That's absurd.

Yet it's what happened to 23 year old Kyla Ebbert, who was nearly refused permission to fly on an Southwest Airlines flight because she was 'dressed too provocatively.'

Southwest spokesman Chris Mainz says that airlines reserve the right to refuse service if customers wear clothing that might cause discomfort or offense to other passengers. But a short skirt? Ebbert's clothing was far less offensive than her bright orange fake-bake tan.

Would passengers be offended by Kyla's outfit? Only puriant evangelicals and fundementalist muslims as far as I can tell - and who'd want to be stuck next to either of them for a long-haul flight?

Besides, what with banning peanuts on board - just in case somebody, somewhere has a peanut allergy - it seems all this time spent worrying about other imaginary people and their hypotethetical problems has ended up giving the actual paying customer a pretty shoddy deal.

Who knows what was going through Southwest Airline's mind when they made the poorly-considered decision to accost Kyla Ebbert?

Personally, I'd prefer they spend less time worrying about the length of pretty girl's skirts and more time preventing crashes, hijackings and snakes on the plane.

Why I love Country Music...

In Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Xander Harris said Country Music was: "The Music of Pain."

I'm not sure if I agree with that. I think Country Music is awesome.

Popular music, Hip-Hop and the Blues are all about love. Country music can be about whatever the hell you want. There are ballads about love, laughter, pick up trucks and taking your dog out back to shoot him. You name it, there's a country music song about it.

As I cruise to work these days, I'm listening to Channel 60 on SIRIUS Satellite Radio and I'm getting all the latest (and greatest) Country Songs right to my fingertips. And here are a couple of the best of them: Tequila Makes her Clothes Fall Off by Joe Nichols and The More I Drink by Blake Shelton.

Why Americans drive big cars...

Curiously, the commute to the office in Lawrenceville is exactly the same distance as my old commute from Winchester to Ocean/Power FM. 40 miles a day.

In my lunch break today, I did some idle calculation.

Based on the current exchange rate, the cost of petrol in the UK and New Jersey and the mileage my cars got here and in England, I came to a staggering conclusion.

Even though my '86 Lincoln Town Car has an engine 150% larger than my Volvo 480 - and neatly does half as many miles per gallon - it's still a whopping 25% more expensive to drive from Winchester to Fareham and back (40 miles) than it is to drive from North Brunswick to Lawrenceville (also 40 miles.)

Of course, in England my commute took 20 minutes at 80mph. Here it takes 40 minutes at anywhere between 55mph (the speed limit) and a standstill (because of the millions of traffic lights on US Route 1.)

But with maths like that, no wonder people in America are still happy driving 'big' cars.

But it's not so much that America grants indulgence to gas-guzzlers. My commute up to New York City is also shocking. A round-trip (that's a return ticket, folks) costs $21.50 and my subway tickets on the Uptown E Train cost $4 there and back. To get to HQ in London, my return train ticket from Winchester to Waterloo was £40 and my Tube tickets were £4 each. On today's exchange rate, that works out as $96 compared to $24.50.

That's almost a quarter of the price!

No wonder we couldn't afford to live in England.

Oh, it goes without saying that the $24.50 you pay to get from New Brunswick station to the corner of 49th and 6th includes train service that runs on time and pretty much guarantees you a seat.

British Rail? If you were a dog, we'd take you out back and shoot you.