In the current political climate, taking a trip to the District of Columbia feels a bit like walking right into theLions’ Den. Or perhaps that should be the Christians’ Den. But the search for locomotive intoxication plusinsightful political comment knows no fear!Actually, that’s a lie of sorts. I know plenty of fear. It was definitely unnerving to arrive in the States and see anairport notice that read (and I paraphrase, for the sake of humorous mockery):NO UNATTENDED BAGGAGE
NO SMOKING NO RUNNINGNO BEARDSNO REQUESTING FLYING LESSONSNO ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF EVOLUTIONNO FUNNY SKIN TONES (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!)NO NOTHING!NO!NO!!NO!!!But seriously, folks . . .
I arrived in DC itself at the glorified shopping mall that is Union Station. This needs to be seen to be believed, by the way. It’s a three-storey complex with everything from food courts to chain stores to a multiplex cinema to bars to more chain stores (this is America, don’t forget). As if thrown in by accident, you might also stumble across a railway station.
After a very small amount of time aimlessly wandering Union Station’s passageways, I started to noticesomething decidedly strange about a lot of the other punters. Heavily loaded looks and gestures werebeing exchanged, and people seemed to be eerily silent for what should be a bustling hub. Then, on thesubsequent subway journey up to where I was staying – in a district called Adams Morgan – I couldn’thelp spotting that about a dozen of the other commuters were all staring in silence at one guy. And then,perfectly on cue, they all burst out laughing for a three-second wave, before falling utterly silent again. Badtrip, man, bad trip! Maybe I shouldn’t have sealed that Rizla with super glue? The following day, I found out that a Deaf Convention was in town and I can’t tell you what a blessed relief that was. In fact, when someone told me, I think I actually uttered the phrase “Oh! Deaf people! Thank God!” which, looking back, is perhaps not the most sensitive line one could come out with. But hey, maybe they’re not that good at lip-reading . . .
Okay, let me actually get round to talking about Washington.
Adams Morgan seems to be the closest you’ll get to a night-life centre in the city. 18th Street, to be exact. And here’s the Top Fact For The Day: the name ‘Adams Morgan’ was chosen at the end of racial segregation in the ‘50s, combining the names of two neighbourhood schools – the mainly white Adams and the mainly black Morgan. You know, looking back, it’s a bit of a wonder that anyone ever thought segregation was going to work. Come to think of it, Prohibition seems a little naïve as well. And what the fuck was that Berlin Wall thing all about? And don’t get me started on Creationism...
But I digress.
The name Adams Morgan inspired the monicker of the bar I visited on my first night – Madam’s Organ (which, I think, is rather clever). This was running perhaps the most bewildering promotional offer I’ve ever seen in my life:
“Two beers for the price of one if you have red hair!”
Very basic mathematics told me that it would actually be worth forking out the cost of a ginger wig to return
there the following evening. Ever the investigative travel writer, I can now confirm, ladies and gentlemen, that
Washington DC is seriously lacking in red wig shops.
While in Madam’s Organ, I had the unique experience of catching myself staring at a chest that belonged to a man. I’ll explain. His t-shirt bore a phrase that I genuinely thought I must be misreading:
ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE OSAMA BIN LADEN
Holy shit! In Washington, of all places! A braver man than me, I concluded. At least, I did until the guy walked past me and I saw the back print:
BUT IT’S UP TO US TO ARRANGE THE INTERVIEW
Ah! I see.
Grudgingly, I have to admit that is pretty funny.
Next day, a very lovely young lady named Louise, who was staying in the same hostel, asked if she could tag along with me. So, naturally, I bristled with proud smugness at my innate babe magnetism. She then explained that she was partially sighted and it was useful for her if someone was going to the same place she was. As my ego returned to its correct position, I gladly agreed to help her out, obviously (at the time, I guess I thought this was a cross-section of the female population which might actually be my target market).
Our destination was the J Edgar Hoover Building, a structure as pretty as a breezeblock in which you can takethe Friendly Neighbourhood FBI tour. The most memorable part of this was being shepherded along a glasswalled corridor that provided a view into the forensic laboratories. Here, white-coated boffin types were scurryingback and forth with petri dishes and test tubes and other things I haven’t seen since GCSE Chemistry. In fact, I got the distinct impression that the scientists were perhaps a little too busy. I couldn’t shake thefeeling that the TOURISTS IMMINENT light had started flashing a minute earlier, and they’d all had to hastilyfinish their game of Grand Theft Auto and get into character for all the dense, slack-jawed hicks who’re gullible enough to believe the FBI would parade actual evidence in front of a crowd of dense, slack-jawed hicks.As the tour wound up, I found myself definitely starting to develop a bit of a soft spot for Louise. She was very cute and dainty, and was decked out in a thin, floaty, flowery dress. Delightful! My crush disappeared rapidly however, as we repaired to the Hard Rock Café – next door to the J Edgar Hoover Building – and she launched into a spiel about how chain bars always make her really depressed about the spread of international capitalism. In other words, just the sort of bucket of laughs you need to have around when you’re out for a drink. (Inner monologue: “All right, love, I get it! ‘No Logo’ and everything. But if some evil capitalist bastard is going to profit from me downing a pint, at least let me enjoy the fucker.”) My opinion of her was set in stone when she then informed me that she felt I had some “blocked energy”, and subsequently started to pummel my back (and not in the sexy way).
Concluding that my energy was clearly going to remain blocked, she went her own way after that,
down to one of the museums that line Washington’s central Mall. My destination, I have to admit,
was far, far more obvious. And, indeed, the main reason for my visit.
The White House. What can I say? What can anyone say?
I travelled to DC thinking it would yield a thousand possibilities for cutting satire. And yet, as I stared
at the familiar pristine pillars of the building’s façade and the latter-day additions of the “don’t fucking mess with us” Surface-Air cannons on the roof, I realised that no comedic comment was ever going to compete with the man himself:
“If this were a dictatorship, it’d be a heck of a lot easier, just so long as I’m the dictator.”
How can I top that? Well, I can’t, can I?
So you want satire? Here you go... President Bush is an atrocious leader, painfully misguided and ill-educated, andthe cumulative effect of his political decisions have been nothing but damaging for the stability of the world.I hope you’re laughing as much as I am.Some people have asked me why I drink so much. Sometimes I wonder why I drink so little. 
