The Gilded Throne

We are in Alton by 8am; we stop at Jimmy The Greeks and I have once again died and gone to whatever heaven I deserve. We sit in a booth and each booth has an individual jukebox. I turn my head and the first thing I see written in jukebox typeface is Never My Love: The Association. Oh Lord I love that song. They also have red topped swivel stools along the bar, and we’re alone in here. As usual.

There are Amish carts on the side of the road but no Amish. It’s up to them I suppose – we’d only try and take stupid photographs.

We cross into Missouri now: St Louis in the early morning. We get royally lost and drive aimlessly round the apocalyptic post-industrial riverside area for what seems like quite a long time. It is a perfect location for an 80’s hair-metal band to do the video for their mighty power ballad. It is beyond perfect for a posh post-industrial-coffee-table-photo-journal book. This place must have been a major hub, I shall google What On Earth Happened To St Louis?  Ashly is slightly uncomfortable but I reassure her that all the murdering crack-heads will not be out of bed yet. The Gateway Arch which is the symbolic starting point for all those who ventured west to colonise this huge country is noted with mixed feelings. Bravery and brutality in huge measures.
East St Louis has the highest murder rate in the States and a great Ellington song named after it – I’m therefore itching to see it but Ashly not so. Move on indeed.
The K Mart at Crystal City has 72” waist trousers and we duly take a photo while giggling self-righteously. We wander the K Mart for a long time and take pictures of our shopping – it consists of a melon, some water, two kiwi fruit, a hat, and some non-specific meat products. The trolly is the size of a large tanker and our pathetic shopping is an embarrassment. We also gawp at the hunting equipment wondering how each bit of oddly shaped metal can do what damage to what animal – it’s confusing. At a fuel-stop (see TIPS) in Deslonge the nice man taking the money (cash for fuel, again see TIPS) tells Ashly ‘Bless your heart honey, I love your accent, it reminds me of my time in Australia.’ Ashly purchases $24 dollars of fuel. A local DJ tells us ‘She came from Germany and Switzerland.’ We are both impressed and confused.
Our tight schedule includes Bonne Terre MO, to see the old lead mines. You can take a boat underground to view the huge green lagoons left by the mining operations, I’ve been excited by this for a while now. We head for Bonne Terre. We get to Bonne Terre. It’s closed. I salvage some happiness by looking at an old nuclear missile they have on Main Street – that’ll have to do. There is also a huge pink elephant. It also has our first drive-thru cash point. We talk about it for a long time.

Ooh, we’re hungry! Here’s a Chinese ‘all you can eat’ in Farmington MO, what can go wrong? Not just Diet Coke and nachos, let’s have some foreign stuff.

Thirteen minutes post-Chinese and we urgently need toilet facilities. There is no sweet way of putting this but we’re poisoned and need to evacuate. Swiftly. It’s okay as Ste Genevieve is only a whisper away and we reach the hotel (I refuse to name it) with a smile and clenched buttocks at 2.30pm.

‘Hi, we are a little early, sorry for that but can we check in?’

‘No, four o’clock, there’s no one here.’

‘Err, are you sure there’s no one here?’

‘Come back then.’

‘Err, um, okay.’

I am now officially crapping myself due to Chinese all-you-can-eat poison. Really in trouble. Ashly says ‘Hey, look, bar!’ We go in. Jesus on a bike! There are two women who are clones of Patti & Selma standing side-by-side behind the bar. Impassive, and they immediately despise us. There is no going back. ‘Two diet cokes please, thank you.’ The order is barely acknowledged before I sprint to their toilet and lose a pound of noodles in three seconds. Afterwards I amble to the bar and give Ashly the nod that she is now free to use the facilities. She returns, and we stand in silence before three Mormon dudes in matching suits who knowingly watch us whilst sending us to hell. I think I’m wearing a Status Quo T-shirt but I really hope I’m not. Let’s walk the town and get into our charming hotel.

It’s whatever-o’clock and the hotel is in front of us. Oh Lord. We are dead and we have gone to a bad place.

It’s difficult to describe what a high opinion this guy has of his ‘historical hotel’, we were given a tour from hell which lasted through him showing us every dusty doll, every bit of wood, every old trinket, the ‘library’ (three books), every picture of the town since 1874, every relative of his (dead or nearly dead), how to turn on the lights, how to turn the smelly bedclothes over and, vitally – How To Shit In Your Own Room.

Yes. The bog is in the middle of the bedroom. I kid you not. I shall repeat that. The bog is in the middle of the bedroom. 

Now, I’ve seen some stuff in my time but I can only think of two people who have shat in their own bedroom.

1. Chris Quinton* an Ulsterman who ‘used’ his wardrobe after a very heavy St Paddy’s in Ealing. Circa 1979.

2. Crowley, a male cat who gleefully took relief on my duvet in 1983.

*Chris was one of life’s wonderful people who passed away not long ago, he was kind, generous and very funny – like most of the population of Northern Ireland.

Once the hotelier has finally left us alone we fantasise; what would he hate? I know… 

‘Bugger me bugger me pretend I’m a gay’ I shout, hoping he’ll hear – then we think “what’s the point”, let’s just get out of here tomorrow . We laugh uncontrollably for a while then sneak out to a very local bar and meet a lovely woman who’s been to Luton and actually liked it. We all smile at each other. Yet another nice person. It’s a nervous sleep that’s blanketed by the old road knowledge that we’ll be out of there by 9am…. 

And: Our home back in the UK is a building built in the 1870’s and it’s no big deal.