Sweet Home Alabama

Wanting breakfast and coffee in Alabama it made sense to go into a Subway and keep it simple. For all her tender teenage years the small, rounded assistant behind the counter had the look of someone who had already seen every sort of idiot that walked this earth. Not yet she hadn’t.


“Canner help y’all?”

“Er, I’ll have the Breakfast Special, please.”

“What Special d’ya want?”

There was a poster on the wall which said Breakfast Special and showed a muffin filled with - well, stuff. That poster inspired my choice in the first place and so I pointed at that and told her I’d have that, please.

She picked up a muffin, sliced it in half, looked at me and said, “Ya warn heminnit?”

“Sorry”

“Ya warn heminnit?”

I had absolutely no idea what she was saying to me. I stood staring at her feeling totally helpless.

“Hem!” she exclaimed, becoming exasperated. “Hem! Ya warn heminnit?”

“Ah! Ham. Yes, please. I’ll have heminnit.”

“Ya warn yeller eggs or white?” If you say it to yourself rhyming ‘white’ with ‘fart’ you’ll hear what I heard. Christian and I instinctively looked at each other probably for inspiration more than anything but none was forthcoming.

“Yellow please” hoping I had made a good choice.

“You warn cheeseinnit?”

“Cheese? Yes please.”

“What karnda cheese?”

“What kinds are there?”

“AmericanCheddarParmesanEdamGoat’s . . .”

“American cheddar please.”

She looked at me with a mixture of pity and contempt although I think it was mostly contempt, to be honest.

“American or cheddar?”

In an unashamedly cowardly fashion I backed away from her. I felt completely humiliated, had no idea what this girl was saying to me or even what language she was using. I felt it was time for Christian to suffer some of the indignity but, as always, he just smiled his smile and she became an instant fan . . .

I ought to tell you about the day at Talledega watching the auto racing but guess you won’t want to know too much about that. About cars travelling at 200mph nose to tail. As in the nose of the car actually touching the car in front and pushing it at that speed. About the tactics involved. About a wreck involving eight or nine cars one of which flew ablaze along the fencing and then was hit by a further three cars as it crashed back onto the track. Who’d want to know about that stuff!

What I did see was the whole American attitude encapsulated in one little stadium. Well - large stadium to be honest - two hundred thousand people would be kinda large, don’t you think?

In the build up to the race each driver stands in the back of a pick-up truck and is driven the length of the main straight. The fans are only too keen to show their appreciation. Or derision. The cheers are deafening for the local heroes. The boos are much louder. This is no time to hide your inner feelings!

It’s during the singing of the National Anthem that, as an Englishman, it’s possible to see inside the American psyche. Everyone stood, hand across their heart, they really, really feel every single one of those words as they will the singer to give the best performance of their life. I’ve seen it all done enough times on television but nothing prepares you for the depth of feeling you can sense all around you when you’re in amongst it. Americans are so proud of their country and their way of life. Why are the English not?

I was absorbing all of that and as the performer sang her very last note of the anthem four fighter jets flew low, very low across the racetrack, low enough to give all the men who had hair a proper crew cut. That happens at every single race - the arrival of the jets, not the crew cuts - and the planes never obliterate the last note or arrive a few seconds late. Think about that. How can you arrange for planes flying at up to 500mph to always turn up at a very precise spot at a very precise time which will depend on a singer - singing a capella remember, so no band or backing music to time her or his performance - to hit the final note. It happens every single time at every race and is impressive. (Hint. The singer did drag out her last two notes a bit!)

I spent the day in the company of Christian and Beth, obviously, and three of their friends who all treated me as a long-lost friend of theirs - a young guy originally from Chicago and two Southern belles, very pretty sisters who hailed from Alabama and had the accents to prove it.

“We’ll meet y’all at Sixer Clark.”

“Sixer Clark, what’s that?”

“Sixer Clark - why, it’s a tarm!”

“And what’s a tarm??”

“The tarm. The tarm of day! Do ya not speak English?”

“Err - I thought I did but now I’m not so sure.”

I just love talking with these people.

Have a narse day, y’all!!