‘ESTA refused,’ said the email from the official website of the US Department of Homeland Security. Franklin Roosevelt once said that the saving grace of America lies in the fact that the overwhelming majority of Americans are possessed of two great qualities — a sense of humour and a sense of proportion. This refusal, presumably on the grounds of a 40-year-old conviction for possession of amphetamine sulphate, showed neither. And why now? After all, they’ve let me in three times before.
The first time was to LA. The early part of the morning of my first day in the United States was spent doing pool aerobics with about 20 of the fattest women in America and we laughed our heads off as our tidal waves nearly emptied the pool. It was a fat women’s conference and protest. (‘We’re fat. That’s that.’) I attended in the capacity of a ‘fat admirer’. After seven days’ hard labour, I travelled up to San Francisco, where I paid homage to Jack Kerouac, an adolescent passion, by drinking a glass of beer in the City Lights Bookstore bar. In a dingy corridor of the YMCA hostel, I was sweetly propositioned by what must have been the shyest young man in America. ‘Believe the hype: get sucked in,’ advised a gnomic poster fixed to a San Francisco lamppost. Precisely. I loved the place.
The second time I went was to New York, to spend a week with a rock band called Hootie & the Blowfish, who at that time were riding high on a wave of adulation. I hadn’t heard of them, but they were pleasant, easy-going lads and only the singer took himself seriously enough to wonder why they’d been sent an obvious cretin like me.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in