On My Own Again

So off I drove. On my own in my big white car, still reeling from a few things.

The White Chrysler Sebring Of Dreams

Scott Walker – On Your Own Again

Firstly, I’m on my own again. Not for over three weeks have I had to put up with my own conversation. It’s frightening. I quickly assemble the iPod for the car, although K-RTH101 has been helping us get north with its mix of Californian summer hits and its ‘guitar licks weekend’ – which unfortunately consisted of about 15 tracks, most of which were Creedence Clearwater Revival. That’s not a bad thing though.

CCR – Down on the Corner

Secondly, money. I’ve not exactly been keeping track of the cash situation. I’ve known when I’ve maxed out my credit card: that’s fun. And I do have a running total of what’s left, and that can be a rollercoaster ride. You shouldn’t really be checking your online bank while looking at the screen through your fingers should you?

Thirdly, and connected to the second point, I hate car rental companies. I spent ages trying to find a good deal for this car and thought I’d cracked it. I even got a 10% discount for using Amex. But know, Dollar found several ways to royally fuck me over once again. Remember, I’d just paid extra for stealing the first car. What more do these bastards want? I know, their cars back on time, I know…

Beth Orton – Stolen Car

So off I drove on 4 hours sleep and a wing and a prayer. Head north, find a motel, do nothing for a bit. A simple plan that some might call a holiday.

150 miles later I still have found anywhere. I’d lost the coast just after Santa Barbara, desperately waiting for it to reemerge. This is the coast highway after all. The landscape becomes very hilly, greener and all very nice – but not coast. Finally I hit water in the rather obviously named Oceano. It’s about 3pm. I’ve driven 200 miles and somehow the sight of a beach, a motel and a huge train carriage transformed into and Mexican restaurant-cum-50’s diner seems ideal.

The sunset was pretty special too – and my railway-based chilli came in a bread bowl!

Oceano Sunset

I tried to get to sleep, only to be woken sharply just as I was about to drop off completely by rumbling and shaking.

I’ve never been in an earthquake before but I imagine this is what it feels like. The whole room was shaking for about 30 seconds. I’m still not sure today what it was. I checked the websites to see if Oceano had indeed been hit by a minor tremor, but nothing came up. I was on the second floor so if it wasn’t an earthquake it was either a huge washing machine downstairs or some very active other guests. There had been no mention at reception of such exciting beds. It didn’t seem that sort of place.

The next morning I drove another mile and a half to realise that I wasn’t in the middle of nowhere. I was about a mile and a half from Pismo Beach (and very probably a much cheaper motel that didn’t shake quite so much in the middle of the night). I had a breakfast of a “Famous Old West Cinnamon Roll” in the “Famous Old West Cinnamon Roll Bakery”. I have met no-one since who’s heard of them. They were just Chelsea buns that had been warmed up in the oven. Damn tasty though.

Pismo Beach has a pier, but you could tell that everyone else round here seems to think the end of October is autumn or something. They’re all in big coats and hats. Brit-abroad here is still in his t-shirt and shorts, thumbing his nose to Jack Frost, oh yes.

Today isn’t about driving, I’ve decided that. So I toddle off to San Luis Obispo, a small mission town inland that seems all very quaint and tidy. There’s not much happening here and my hostel doesn’t let people in until 4.30 so I’ve got about 4 hours on my hands. Could I waste it without resorting to beer?

I did y’know.

Obviously I went out later for beer and ribs, but during those 4 hours I meandered round those shops like you wouldn’t believe. I even bought something. Crazy, I know.

Back at the hostel, disappointed at the New York Yankees winning again (I’ll come to that later in the blogging) I met the latest new arrivals. The three of them were from Portland: Jo, his grandpa Art and another girl who was SO AMAZED by the hostel being a pleasant place to be should wouldn’t shut up about it. They also had a very small yappy dog that was wearing a jacket telling us he was a guide dog. The only place that dog would guide a blind person is straight into the middle of the road via 12 people’s ankles and another dog’s bum.

Jo and Art

But anyway, Art was an interesting guy. He was old-school American, with his politics being that you get out and work for your legacy and then enjoy it. Push the boundaries and you’ll reap the rewards. That bit I liked and understood. The right-wing nonsense that followed I didn’t like, but who was I to tell Art that maybe things had changed for the better and that the Mexicans were actually doing the jobs that no American would ever want to do? Well, I’d have been a braver man than I clearly am. It wasn’t the sort of thing I expected to hear on the West coast, but then you remember that California is not all flowers in your hair and Eagles records. They elected Arnie as their Republican governor didn’t they? He’s about as left-wing as Norman Tebbit, and less feared by aliens.

I shared a room with an Irishman who rather scarily would only tell me that he was back in town, “to finish some business he left behind last year” and woke up to find the car had been ticketed because I’d parked it facing in the wrong direction. What the hell’s that all about?

LA is my Lady (a dirty dirty Lady)

Yes, the hat's back! And I'm blurred.

“LA is a great big freeway, put a hundred down and buy a car.

In a week, maybe two, they’ll make you a star.

Weeks go by like years, how quick they pass.

And all the stars that never were are parking cars and pumping gas”

Tony Bennett – Boulevard Of Broken Dreams

The Doors – LA Woman

Hollywood Beyond – What’s The Colour Of Money?

(ooh, Hollywood Beyond there, answering that burning question once and for all).

Anyway. Hollywood!!!!!

We arrived in downtown Hollywood via a trip up Sunset Boulevard and along Mulholland Drive. It’s a beautiful place and yet, there’s something not quite right. It’s difficult to put your finger on it, but the place just makes you feel uneasy.

The views from Mulholland Drive are spectacular

It’s not that there’s money in the town, although there quite clearly is. It’s something to do with the atmosphere of the place. I must say here that we were specifically in Hollywood (West Hollywood really, Universal City to be precise) and our hotel, our lovely lovely hotel, was on Sunset Boulevard, just over from the Comedy Store. I’d saved up for this one.

The Mondrian gave us all the home comforts we needed. Many many pillows, two beds, a shower that cascaded from the ceiling (like a tropical rainforest apparently) and to top it all off a mirror that was actually the TV…

The room was clearly used by the Wicked Queen from Snow White when she stayed over.

So we weren’t exactly in ‘normal’ LA.

We spent the first evening we were there just wondering what people would make of two pasty Englishmen just wandering to the poolside in their Rodney Dangerfield shorts and H&M trilby (okay, that was just me) especially when the pool itself was what’s known as the “SkyBar” – the trendiest, hippest and most achingly cool place to sip an overpriced beer in LA.

But we sat down anyway. We even took off our T-shirts. That’ll show ‘em.

The view from the room was fair-to-middling

Having sampled some of the (few) delights of the Sunset Strip we thought, “sod it, let’s go back to our hotel bar. They know we’re scum, but we’re scum what’s paid for the room.”

And who should be in there but…

(Actual photo from the Sky Bar)

Hugh was chatting up two women – knocking down our chances of working our magic in there by a factor of ONE blonde woman – and eventually went home with BOTH of them! Shocking behaviour. And what happens when he gets home? He’ll have to choose because he can’t kiss two women at once can he?

Can he?

It’s a different world is this LA…

Grauman's Chinese Theater

The next day we decided to ‘do’ Hollywood. As cheesily as we possibly could do it. We’d have to do the tour of movie stars’ homes and see the big sign and put our feet in Jimmy Stewart’s footprints. So we did.

Big feet that Jimmy Stewart. Big feet, big shoes...

So off we went on the tour, past the dreadfully dressed Marilyn and Jacko look-a-likes and Snoopy. Snoopy’s never been in a bloody movie has he?

We saw all the big names’ houses. Leonardo DiCaprio, her out of Friends, Antonio Banderas (the real one, not the blow-up one), that other one out of Friends. Until we finally hit the jackpot. The Fresh Prince of Bel Air’s house!

Vivienne!

In West Philadelphia born and raised…

No, I won’t do that. I’ve forgotten to mention that our tour broke down so we got rescued and given an extra hour of a tour around more people I’d never heard of. It really was a fine afternoon out.

We retired back to the hotel, I got into an LA frame of mind by going to the gym (no, really, I did) and out we went to find another celebrity. And boy did we find another celeb. Telling the waitress that, “no, we’re done, can we get the check please?” it was the one-man-image-of-Cold-War-Communism-through-the-medium-of-boxing (and He Man) himself…

"I don't think I can fit in a pudding tonight, thanks"

Dolph Lundgren? The town was literally throwing A-listers at us! We went to the Comedy Store to watch comic after comic die horribly on their arses. Even the ones who made us laugh had convinced themselves we hated them. Even the guy from Curb Your Enthusiasm who turned up went down really well and then went off in a huff because we thought one of his jokes was about to go a bit puerile. “I don’t do that, you should know better of me…good night…”

Eh?

That bloke

We ended the night in the SkyBar again but no more famous people wanted to be seen drinking with us. It was Chris’ last night in the USA, you’d think they’d have made the effort. Bastards.

The next morning I dropped Chris off at LAX and we went our separate ways.

It was during this journey that it dawned on me that I’d actually only booked the car for a week, I should’ve returned it two days ago and I was technically driving round LA in a stolen car. A stolen Kia Spectra at that. I trudged towards the car hire return desk with credit card in hand.

What an arsehole.

I’d personally like to take this chance to thank Chris for coming out to join me on the tour. I think I’d have actually gone nuts without him, especially in Vegas. In fact, I may still be there now if it wasn’t for him. I think he had a good time, and we got away with him smashing the car up on day one!

I switched to my new vehicle. A convertible, just in time for Winter.

A Splendid Time Is Guaranteed For All

Ok, let’s take time here to go back to Las Vegas. No, not that bit.

This bit.

Now I’m no fan of street performers, trapeze artists leave me cold and I’m genuinely scared of clowns, so it was with some reticence that I went along to see the Cirque du Soleil’s show using The Beatles’ music. That stuff is sacred.

But I’d heard what Giles and George Martin had done with the music beforehand, and believe me the soundtrack is an immense piece of work, so I was prepared for at least aural pleasure. The problem was how they were going to weave it into the show. Was it going to be Mamma Mia on stilts? We Will Rock You on roller blades? Was Ben Elton involved at all?

When we sat in The Mirage theatre we simply didn’t know. And then we were hit by an assault on every sense that left me reeling. It’s breathtaking stuff and simply one of the greatest shows I’ve ever seen.

You’re not allowed to take photos but someone else on t’internet has:

Apart from one clunky scene where a young Lennon’s mum tucks him into bed and is promptly run over by the VW Beetle from Abbey Road, it all works superbly. It’s a Vegas must-see (in fact you won’t really go wrong if you never leave The Mirage – although its nightclub Jet promises 3 rooms, it’s 3 rooms of the same old shite R&B, but this is America. I wasn’t going to get an indie room was I?)

Go and see The Beatles’ “Love” – it’s brilliant.

Have a listen to some of the musical brilliance at work:

The Beatles “Love” – Drive My Car, The Word, What You’re Doing

Tijuana be Startin’ Somethin’

Let’s get the jist of things out-of-the-way first. Tijuana is a shit tip.

But it had to be done. Maybe we should’ve gone at night, but I fear I’d still have my hand clenched around my passport to this day if I’d had to walk around the town with it for more than the two hours we did. Maybe we should’ve dressed slightly less touristy – and kept those shorts in the suitcase – but Tijuana is an experience on a par with Blackpool, only with slightly more salubrious activity going on. They even have donkeys. None to ride, just to have your photo taken beside. The main difference in Mexico is that the donkeys are painted.

To look like zebras.

Now I’m not sure if they have Zebras in Mexico. I’m pretty sure they don’t, so the picture you buy can’t exactly be described as a traditional scene (my memory has the donkey wearing a hat, but I think I’m kidding myself there).

But let’s face it, who doesn’t want a picture of themselves smiling next to a mule painted head to toe in black and white stripes?

I wish I had a picture but they’d have wanted to charge me and possibly run after me and hurt me. And I’m sure that you have an imagination fertile enough to picture a Zonkey. Or a Debra.

The world's local bank - now with branches in Hell

The salesmen all hassle you, but at least they keep it light. Say, “No gracias” and they let you go, with a parting line or two. A couple made us laugh as we held onto our wallets:

“Come in gentlemen, buy some stuff you don’t need.”

“Go on, buy something for your neighbour’s wife.”

And best of all…

“Come in, look at this. You guys wanna buy a blow-up doll of Antonio Banderas?”

Inflatable Guns Not Included

It was time to leave Mexico. We scarpered back to the border. Past the dodgy chemists, the cheap dentists and the 24-hour strip shows (and the very scary man outside customs who started the chat by saying, “Fellas, I’ve just got out of prison…”

Now then, something I neglected to tell you about the drunk night in San Diego was that I had, in a moment of weakness and some might say clarity I decided to grow a beard.

Egged on by Chris, who said it was a “great idea” and would “go down really well with the chicks” (can you believe he talks like that reader? Well, he does)

We headed up north and took on the might of Pacific Coast Highway 1, spending a couple of really great days heading up towards LA, where Chris would be leaving me to go home to dark dark dark Great Britain (and cold, I hear it’s cold).

In Encinitas we checked into a motel just on the beach (hello to Courtney at the D Street Bar & Grill – a Beatle fan who’s DEFINITELY coming to Liverpool to see Penny Lane. It’s in print now).

In Laguna Beach we saw the change from San Diego to LA as the look of the place changed, the people got a bit snottier and the service dropped in the restaurants. Even here though we managed to find a club that I can only say was the closest I’ve been to The Raz in years. They promised 4-second pours of spirits, and that’s what we got. Pissed.

But before that, the beard had to go. Looking back maybe I should’ve kept on…

Or maybe not.

Then we hit LA. After a short stop to see the Queen Mary in Long Beach (Gawd Bless ‘Er Soul) we hit Venice Beach, and Santa Monica.

On Venice Beach we had a look at Muscle Beach (it was closed, which was disappointing because I’d brought my gym kit), but the most impressive stuff was what we saw at the skateboard park. They’re even letting girls skate now! Truly the land of the free.

(It’s scary when you see 7-year-old girls flinging themselves round a swimming pool. They’re the shit!)

We retired to a very dodgy motel room where the smell of weed slowly drifted in from next door and prepared to hit LA – and Hollywood!

Staying Classy

So the day came when we had to leave Las Vegas.

He'd started wearing shades at night. We had to go.

They don’t make it easy for you to leave Vegas, especially not on a Sunday at 11am when the rest of the country is leaving Las Vegas. It was torture just getting to the airport. Checking out took 45 minutes, getting to the airport took another half hour, then we had to get a bus to the airport car rental place, which was actually quite near our hotel anyway. Then we got the sharpest tools in the box helping us with our ‘compact’ car (which over here is the size of a small 2-bed flat) pointing us to, “go get it yourself, take a midsize, we don’t even have any compacts and the keys are in the cars anyway.” That’s service. We got on the road.

In our hungover state – it had been our last night in Vegas, come on! – we embarked on the 260 mile trip to San Diego, where I’d booked a hostel. I drove 200 miles before falling asleep at the wheel and gallantly letting Chris drive us into the big city. How good of me, particularly when you realise he hadn’t driven in the USA before. And it was dark. On an 8-lane highway. He did very well to get us there with only a split front bumper.

I made up for that by having booked the hostel for NEXT Sunday and Monday. Luckily there was room at the inn after all. Having settled down we eventually found a bar, had buffalo wings and ribs and beer and relaxed. What made things better was that this bar appeared to be full of cool people. Really cool people who were just hanging out at the bar, having a beer, being cool. And we were there too. The place was cool.

Happy with our work we slept well, apart from being woken by the sound of the planes taking off from San Diego Airport which seemed to be close by. It seemed as if it was in the bathroom. That’s some loud planery.

The hostel experience was a million miles from Boston. This wasn’t a rack ‘em and stack ‘em place. It had flowers and fresh coffee and a lovely girl called Natty who wanted to light scented candles all the time and give us beach towels to go and enjoy ourselves, and gave us all a goodnight kiss, wishing us sweet dreams. Not really.

Ocean Beach

We were at Ocean Beach, known as OB. It was so laid back it was almost horizontal. I went for a run the next morning (yes, reader) and explored the town until my heart nearly gave up due to buffet-related exhaustion. I returned to Chris telling tales of a clean beach, a nice pier and a high street dominated by the smell of joss sticks and weed. It had been like a jog through a student union on a Wednesday afternoon, but with a beach. And a pier.

The next few days we just relaxed, went the pub, went to the beach (despite doom-mongering from some of the others in the hostel: “YOU’LL BURN!!!”

Of course we did.

We went to Coronado to see the hotel where they shot Some Like It Hot. Now that is a beautiful place, but I got far too excited just driving there. We had to go across the bridge where Jack Black kicks Will Ferrell’s dog into the sea in ‘Anchorman’. Like I say, I get excited on occasion. A bit too excited.

We also spent a night in the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego. It used to be bars, clubs and brothels. Now it’s just bars and clubs. We enjoyed many a happy hour taco and beer. Much beer. One bar had 127 beers ON TAP. What the hell??

Sweet Baby Jesus and the Argonauts...

Ocean beach is cool. It’s possibly the perfect place to live if you want your heart beat never to raise above 55 without the use of hard drugs (and I expect those drugs are available there).

But we had to leave OB eventually. We were too relaxed. This was a holiday for God’s sake! We were headed north, but only after a trip south of the border. Underlay!! Underlay!!!

Bright Light City

Las Vegas, Nevada. Hell on Earth or Heaven with Slots?

I’m not decided yet. I keep having flashbacks; some good, some bad. The rest I’m blocking out.

Is it New York or Las Vegas? It's Vegas. Of course it is.

Once over the excesses of the final night of the Trekamerica tour, I moved round the corner and checked into a new hotel. The Alexis Park had been off the Strip and not exactly high-class. The MGM Grand on the other hand, had a certain air of quality about it. And it’s got lions next to the casino.

Having arrived at my room on the 26th floor I settled down and waited for my travelling companion for the next two weeks. Chris (university housemate and all-round good egg) was en route from Leeds to join me in Vegas. It would be just a bit sad and probably very dangerous for me to be in that city on my own. We wandered the streets of Vegas for a good few days drinking over-priced drinks, staring at the sheer audacity of the place and occasionally cringing. Most of the time it was wide-eyed wonder.

Of the things that stood out for me, I think the majority show my age and the clear fact that I’ve mellowed over the years into the fine, rounded individual most of you know today. First up, the Bellagio fountains.

Note how I've not got many photos of my own here - cameras are not for taking out in Vegas

I have to say that my first sight of Vegas was the Bellagio fountains dancing to Frank Sinatra singing, “Fly Me To The Moon”. Plenty of old memories of dad playing that VERY loudly at home on a Sunday morning came back to me while I was watching that. It’s also just an amazing spectacle, if only for the noise of the blast as the biggest jets fly high into the night sky.

Next up, old school Vegas tries to hit back at The Strip. The Fremont Street Experience.

It needed a roof, what with all the terrible weather it gets

Years ago, Fremont WAS Vegas. It still holds plenty of attraction with the cheaper end of casino life – a boon for a cheap skate like me, but let’s not mention that particular game of Blackjack and just thank Chris for telling me to walk away…WALK AWAY DAVE…NOW. The main attraction is now outside where magicians and street performers gather under the huge video-screen ceiling. The magicians and street performers are obviously terrible, but once an hour you have to look up and (with your hands in your pockets guarding your wallet) be amazed.

Levee = dry

If you get to see the utterly superb video accompaniment to Don McLean’s “American Pie” then count yourself lucky. It’s a stroke of genius, and after the full version with all the verses everybody is singing along. The video tracks every reference in the song (even the downbeat reference to the Rolling Stones’ Altamont Festival fiasco) and goes on and on and on. I actually got a little emotional, because it’s one of those songs that you are always quick to switch off when you hear the first line. Hang on for, ooh, I dunno…12 minutes? and it shows itself as the classic it is. Plus the bright lights made my eyes water. That’s all it was.

I’d like to tell you a lot more about Vegas, but such are the rules…I can’t.

Chris and I enjoyed ourselves. The End. Move on.

Oh okay, we went to see the Grand Canyon again. This time, in a chopper!

AIRWOLVES!

Now a lot of people have commented on my sartorial decision in these pictures.

Yes, this man was my Vegas icon:

"Hey everybody, we're all gonna get laid!"

And that’s all you’re getting.

Iron Lion Zion

Bryce flew by a little quickly, but we soon worked out why. Zion…

It’s a monster. That there is just the East End of it. It is HUGE, and it’s no wonder the Mormons called it Zion. They got that right, when they weren’t wearing stone spectacles and listening to rocks that is…

We saw this late in the afternoon and returned to our new home: the Ranch! For the next two days we’d be living on a ranch resort just outside the park. It had horses and log cabins, a swimming pool and a buffet. It was all we needed. If I’d known what I was to face the next day I would’ve demanded a little Dutch courage (no, nothing to do with Lotte).

We went to bed (no, nothing to do with Lotte again, we were just tired) and prepared for Angel’s Landing.

Do I look sweaty? You bet I do...

This was as far as I got. The lookout post is still about 1300 feet up, but this was where the rest got…

That's Phil. He's not as scared as me.

There was no way I was going on, not when I saw the chains you have to use. The ones that stop you, and your very sweaty palms, dropping 1750 feet.

Nonsense, utter nonsense.

So there, I didn’t make it to Angel’s Landing. I stayed at the lookout post and swapped stories of travelling with other scaredy cats, some of whom assured me that people regularly fell off the cliffs and I was much better sat here with a sandwich.

We had one more morning in Zion before leaving for Vegas. My hiking was over. I had an early-morning appointment with a horse…

Jiminy and I prepare for take off

Man and horse in perfect harmony

And so the trip was complete.

Except for a final night in Vegas where we were all picked up by a stretch hummer, taken to see the sights and plied with booze. I can only show you one photo of that night, such is the tightness of the contract I signed in Vegas. Y’know the one, where what happened there stays there. Strictly I’m not allowed to even tell you I was there.

That's all. Now leave it. Leave it.

We went our separate ways. And I was in Vegas.

Bryce and Easy Does It

Fully refreshed from my exploits, tweaking the nose of terror, we moved out of the Big Brother hostel and away from the freaks in the main common room (one of whom asked me to make her lump of tree sap look like a whale – she could only make it into a fish shape and she didn’t like fish. She liked whales…)

On to Bryce…

Crazy

It’s an absurd place. The water’s made the rocks into huge stalagmites and fins and the colours of red and pink and white make it look like it’s a huge piece of coconut ice. It’s a fascinating sight, looking slightly man made, like something built for a theme park. We had a small trek around the rim before sunset knowing we’d have a trek in the morning before quickly moving on to Zion. Then there was the first tour split as some said they wanted to see more of the canyon than the 3 mile trek on offer. They wanted 5. We let them have 5, but I’m pretty sure they did 8, because the extra 2 miles took them 90 minutes. Yes my friends, I worked out your little game!

Ready at dawn. Again!

Queen Victoria. Obviously.

Once again whoever was in charge when they opened the park had been at the old wacky backy because the places have all these odd names and they’ve been able to see all sorts of things in the rock that really aren’t there. I mean, look at Queen Victoria up there. No, I can’t see it either. That’s about 4 foot tall on top of a huge slab of rock.

There’s Fairyland and there’s Peekaboo, and there’s the Hat Shop.

And then there’s Wall Street, which is magnificent…

And the trees grow in there. How?

Monster!

And that was Bryce. On to Zion. And more heights. Ohhh….bugger.

Underneath The Arches

On we go. More driving and on to Moab. Now Moab is a cool town. It’s a laid back oasis for anyone who wants to rock climb, hike or jump off a cliff. Extreme, man.

Moab - with the Gonzo Inn over at the back there. God knows what goes on there...

I am none of those, but I do like a good bit of scenery, so off we hiked again. This time we entered the Devil’s Garden and it was one of the highlights of the tour because it was genuinely fun. Arches National Park is just that: a park full of arches. They’re all a bit different and all very cool.

Here’s one:

This one's 100 yards long. That's long.

It was a real clambering tour and a lot of fun, although my fear of heights raised its ugly head during one slightly precarious walk. More of that later as well…

But for now, the wonders of Arches brought the group together once more. In this Big Brother house atmosphere it was fascinating to see how the group progressed. Some were quiet, but were growing in confidence. Some were gathering in groups, which weren’t schisms but were definitely evident. And there was a difference in opinion over Eddie, who was certainly rubbing some people up the wrong way. I didn’t mind him personally, but I could see how he might split the group that way. I think it’s fair to say he would’ve liked a more ‘fun’ group. It’s the luck of the draw. But we were getting on fine, which was good because for the next two nights we were all in the same hostel, all sleeping in dorms in a house. Big Brother indeed…

The first night in there we tried to get some drinking done, but it didn’t really happen. The next night, when the drinking games kicked in, we had a right old night. I needed it because in the day I’d done this:

Yes, that's my arse.

We won’t mention that fact that I was the only one that freaked out during the first drop and that my calls of, “I’m off the wall – I’M OFF THE WALL!!” were met with childish sniggers that I really didn’t appreciate!

We won’t mention that at all…

Michael Jackson – Off The Wall

We also won’t mention that quite politically incorrect name of the canyon that arch is in:

It's been renamed 'Negro Bill Canyon' - just to be on the safe side

And off we went to Bryce…

Monumental as Anything

So on we go, back in the van early next morning and on our way to Utah and Monument Valley. Marlboro Country. Navajo lands.

It was a long drive but when we got there we were met at our jeep for the day by Willy. Willy was (and is) a Navajo tribesman and a key part of the Navajo nation’s main economy: tourism.

Willy, with the Left Mitten in the background

He led us on the tour of the quite amazing Monument Valley. It’s a vast plain dotted with these surreal rock formations just rising out of the ground. The Indians have names for them, but Harry Goulding, who discovered the plains on behalf of the white man and sold the idea to Hollywood, gave them new names depending on what he thought they looked like. So, we have the left and right mittens, the sleeping dragon and the elephant.

Now I’m not one to pour scorn on ideas like that (I very rarely have any scorn to pour) but something tells me old Harry had been to visit the medicine man one too many times. He was seeing 20 foot sandals and mermaids in the desert. Yeah, man. Yeah…

Willy led us round the tour and as sunset approached we turned the corner to find the ladies had been cooking. Navajo taco anyone? Them’s tasty!

Reader, I didn't finish it.

We drove back to the hotel in the dark and the temperature plunged. I tried to get a sexy photo. Not sure if it worked:

We were all desperate for a beer after that, but we couldn’t get one because YOU CAN’T BUY A BEER IN UTAH. There are no bars. None at all. Because they’re Mormons.

Let’s just remember that the Mormon religion is based on one man’s reinterpretation of writings he was directed to by an angel, but which he subsequently lost and then had to re-dictate them by sitting by the fire with stones in his hat while wearing a set of spectacles made of rock.

So why couldn’t I buy a sodding beer?!

We’ll be coming back to the Mormons later but for now, bed.