The middle of America has a heart of darkness that I am fascinated by. When the opportunity first came about to go west to Omaha, Nebraska, I immediately said yes. After the flights were booked and I began to speak about my plans, I was greeted with a familiar response by everyone I spoke to: "Why the hell would you want to go there?" and "I've never even been to Nebraska." Considering I have never been to Scotland, or anywhere north of Lincoln, I can't really argue with those statements. I'll let you decide the British equivalent.

While I love Washington as my second home, it's a good idea to get out of any city for a while. Good for the mind but maybe not so great for the body; there were often no options beside the ubiquitous holy trinity of Dairy Queen, KFC and the drive-thru nostalgia trip that is Sonic. For those unfamiliar with it, you absolutely cannot go inside and absolutely must have a car as it's a drive-up-to-the-speaker trip back to the 1950s. So that was fun. I ended up eating cajun food, including catfish, but managed to avoid steak, which is one of the culinary delights Omaha can be proud of. They even sell them, frozen, at the airport.

As Will Ferrell says in The Campaign, which we watched in the Aksarben (say it backwards) Cinema, the fair heartland state is big on three things: America, Jesus, and Freedom. On the first day we stumbled across the Divine Truth Christian Store, a megastore for all your God paraphernalia. Bible tote? You got it. An entire section devoted to books on the End Times, framed posters for religious surgeons, t-shirts and dog clothes and even a tambourine in the shape of a fish. A more perfect example of religious capitalism I have never come across. Divine Truth was in the middle of one of those colourless, flat, fragmented malls seen in the midwest and on the long stretches of road between American suburbs. This one encompassed a gas station and KFC, but also Jimbo's Diner, which provided the fear of God the Jesus-Mart failed to. All the windows of this establishment were tinted and a sign on each door warned patrons to make sure their shirts had sleeves, that no one under the age of 19 should think about entering, and that children must remain seated at all times. I was wearing a tank top and afraid of the consequences; I sensed that my accent would have zero effect on Jimbo's proprietors.




 Gazing out of both windows at the empty spaces and rusty farming machinery, suddenly a motorbike pulled out. In the backpack of the rider, a terrified yet exhilarated small blonde dog having the time of its life.