And the most interesting thing we found in Lubbock was the airport car-rental desk. This is the town that gave the world Buddy Holly and James Dean. But both of them left.
So what of Houston? Well, it’s no better I’m afraid. The skyline, built with oil money I suppose, is impressive in a pointy-type way, but the streets are almost completely devoid of human life.
For our first three nights there we walked the sidewalks at night, looking for bars and restaurants. We wanted action but all we got was a joint whose USP was an owner who encouraged us to throw the pistachio nutshells on the floor.
This is the fourth-biggest city in America. Home of NASA. Epicentre of the world’s breast-implant industry. And, in 1994, provider of more than half the
And there we were in an awful little bar with Ry Cooder doing his best to slide some atmosphere into the joint by giving it some soulfulness on the geetarr.
It wasn’t until the fourth day that we figured it out. All of Houston’s shops, bars and restaurants are underground, linked by a series of walkways that would defeat Ranulph Fiennes. There were people down there who had voted for Lincoln.
It seems that Houston is a hot place — they’ve obviously never been to the middle of Australia — so to keep the shoppers happy, everything is tucked away below ground in air-conditioned splendour.
I hated it, and I hated our hotel which was where everyone in America had arrived for a bridge tournament. I hate bridge too.
But then, as is the way with our
First, there was Clyde Puckett, whose pickup truck had just been recognised, officially, as the ugliest in the whole state.
If he were to walk into your house, you would call the police first and the council health inspectors shortly thereafter. He was big, for a kickoff, and to complete the picture he had long hair tied into a pony tail and a beard whose most far-flung extremities reached down to his oft-exposed navel.
But here was a gentleman; a man of God who lived the simple life, way out in the hinterland with nothing but his truck and a dog — it was hard to tell them apart sometimes — for company.
We were there because I wanted to know why Americans in general, and Texans in particular, buy so many pickup trucks.
In order to be tough, and not to tip up when their rear ends are loaded down with ‘stuff’ — you hear that word all the time in Texas — they are burdened with suspension that would be more at home propping up a skyscraper.
Just walk up to a big Yankee pickup and try to make it rock. You might as well try to push the Tower of London over.
This means, of course, that if you hit a small pebble while driving a pickup, your spine will shatter. Your teeth will implode too as the vehicle rears up like an angry beast, before crashing down again with great vengeance and furious anger.
Of course, while it is up in the air, the wheels will not be on the ground, so you’ll have no steering. But that’s OK because thanks to your snapped back, you’ll have lost the ability to turn the wheel anyhow.
The pickup truck is even more uncomfortable than a horse.
So let’s look at the practicality. Well for sure, there’s a great deal of space in the back for… um, it’s hard to say what really. I mean, once in a while, maybe, you need to take an old sofa to the skip, but would you be prepared to put up with the bone-breaking discomfort on the other 364 days in a year? Certainly, in England we would not.
Especially as the huge rear end means there’s precious little space up front for people. Most are capable of accommodating three alongside one another and some of the bigger versions have elongated cabs to provide space for five — but frankly, bearing in mind the average size of an American, we’re talking two-seaters here.
To move this vast vehicle around, obviously, an equally enormous engine is required and that’s why even the cheapest, most bland and plain models come with 5.0-litre V8s.
These, though, are usually tuned for torque, so that should you wish to spend your days uprooting giant redwoods, you’ll be well equipped. Unfortunately the downside is no power.
When they’re burdened with an automatic gearbox — and nearly all of them are because manuals in the States are as rare as non-remote-controlled TV sets — you would not believe how slowly they go.
People will tell you they have a ‘lot of pickup’, meaning they can get away from the lights quickly, but that’s nonsense. An Escort diesel would leave even the most potent US doubly for dead.
And when it comes to top speed, forget it. The pickup truck doesn’t have one. And nor would your car if it had the aerodynamic properties of a wardrobe.
Needless to say, they chew fuel too, which is just one more small reason in a sea of big ones to give the very idea of a pickup truck the sort of berth you’d give a bear whose cubs you’d just trodden on.
Explain this one then. In Texas in 1994, 21,000 people bought a Ford Taurus, which is the bestselling car in America. It’s a sort of cross between a Mondeo and a Granada, but that’s not really important just now. Remember the sales figure — 21,000.
In the very same period, 110,000 Texans bought a Ford pickup truck. In Texas, pickup trucks outsell cars five to one. The people there are very obviously as mad as it’s possible to be without being incarcerated somewhere.
Clyde Puckett was not mad. He had a truck because he hauls ‘stuff’ for people… but he was the only one.
Down at the Broken Spoke ‘dancing and dining’ Bar, the car park was chock-full of pickups which, very obviously, had never hauled anything more arduous than the odd six-pack.
Inside, the customers told us that pickup trucks are safer, more convenient, more practical and better-looking than a car. But it’s more than that. A truck is as much a part of the Texan uniform as a ten-gallon hat.
Suitably equipped with an electric-blue Ford F150, I headed out to meet a few more of these strangely daft people.
And happened upon Bill Clement. Bill runs a sort of Battersea Dogs Home for knackered Chevvies, picking out the best and restoring them. He has many, some of which he sells, and some of which live in his warehouse.
Dull so far, until he tells you that his favourite models are those which bear the high-performance SS insignia. ‘They were not too popular among non-Third Reich enthusiasts,’ he says, while sitting at his desk playing with a German helmet from WW2.
His desk, in actual fact, is the front end of a 1955 Chevvy but I was a little more bothered about the list of ‘nigger names’ he’d just plunged into my sweaty paw. ‘What’s your daughter called?’ he barked.
‘Er… Emily,’ I stuttered.
‘Nice name,’ he said. ‘Means something, unlike any of the names you’ll find on that list.’
‘What does Emily mean?’ I asked.
‘Oh, stuff,’ he replied.
Getting to see Bill hadn’t been especially easy as a large sign above his door made it perfectly plain who was welcome and who was not.
It went something like this: ‘No bargain hunters, bleeding hearts, bullshitters, credit, cheques, computers, collegiates, deadbeats, drunks, daydreamers, non-Chevvy drivers, estimates, Fords, girlfriends, honking, metric, politicians, peddlers, refunds, solicitors, sympathy, vacationers, wives or whiners.’
Things he liked included profanity, chauvinism, bitching, cash, impatience, bad attitudes, NRA members, sloppy appearance and bigotry. Another sign on the office window advised visitors to ‘speak English or get the fuck out’.
I was allowed in even though I was considered a ‘crapass limey’, from the same country as the ‘godawful’ Rolling Stones and the ‘gall bladder of rock and roll’ John Lennon.
