The Magic Of The Movies

All the, er, ‘rural folk’ came into town last night to watch the custom cars ride up and down Main Street. We dampen the vibe by saying “I bet that would fail its MOT” as the impressive hot-rods with impossibly shiny chassis’ glide around for hours. I am not wearing combat shorts nor a cap with a petroleum-based logo on it – this points me out as a dangerous Liberal Commie Faggot. We buy Blue Q socks.

I became far too drunk and loud in the restaurant, my usual ‘been driving for four days and need to let go’ bullshit is accepted by Ashly. Almost. It’s very difficult not to like Moab.

The Gonzo Inn is indeed cool and eating something other than a corn-based snack from a plastic bag is a pleasure. The air is warm and clear and the town is obviously a centre for healthy young people with excellent teeth. They are gathered here for all that ‘adventure sport’ stuff with quad bikes, canoes, balloons, jet boats, jeeps, bits of rope and horses. There is a lot of shouting, waving of arms and taking pictures of each other before they head-off back to college to become injury lawyers or mass-murderers. There are very few British people here and we studiously avoid the ones we spot (it’s easy). I pretend to be Romanian as every local we meet only wants to talk about one thing – our Royal Family. The Duchess of Cambridge is a particular favourite, being an ‘everyday person’ who has become a ‘real princess’ – we gloss over telling them that she probably now bitterly regrets the union and would happily sacrifice a limb to be married to an investment banker from Epsom with a large penis. Let’s not break the spell.

We visit Dead Horse Point where Thelma and Louise ended their movie career, it’s just outside Moab and is geological wonder #573. The car is now slightly sludgy and sticky. I throw out something unrecognisable from the food box in the boot. It might have once been chilli salsa…