Obamarama - Day Two

Morning comes about two hours quicker than I would like and once woken from the jetlag-ravaged slumber I find it completely impossible to get back to sleep. Instead, I try the free root beer, which is disgusting, then head out into the streets.

The walk to the Cultural Centre takes me along the Magnificent Mile, the Chicagoan equivalent of Oxford Street. The buildings are enormous, the architecture awesome and the number of flags baffling. Reassuringly, there are also a lot of nutters, junkies and fools on the streets too. Already I’m happy to be back in a Real City, instead of one populated by preening, boring fuckwits and unfriendly robots. Here you can walk down the street and hear someone rave about a secret Russian conspiracy to swap real Americans with replicants – it’s fucking great. I take lots of pictures, mostly of buildings, but sometimes of the wonderful, wonderful people.

Before long I’m at the centre, introduced to my contact at the tourist board and stuck on a bus for a tour of Greek Town, Little Italy and Chinatown. Truth be told, it’s shit and not much use for my piece at all as only Chinatown still has any of its original population still living there. The other two are only really defined by a number of dingy-looking restaurants. The guide isn’t as funny as he wishes he was, but talking to Dave – a postman from New York who is holidaying with his mother and who looks a bit like Egon Spengler – is pretty entertaining. Strangely, he asks for my card too. I doubt I’ll ever hear from him again, either.

I end the tour early and elect to walk the couple of miles to US Cellular Field, home to the Chicago White Sox. The sun beats down as I plod along taking pictures of Americana. I even stumble upon a gushing fire hydrant, in which a fat hobo is taking a shower. Unfortunately, by the time I get to within picture-range, he’s back on his stoop.

By the time I get to the ball ground, I’m sweating heavily, but happy with my efforts; given how little I’ve slept, I must be exhausted in some way, but I don’t feel it at the moment.

Most people either don’t care about, or actively dislike baseball, but I personally think it’s alright. Like cricket, it goes on for hours, making it hard to maintain sustained attention. To compensate, many of the fans get progressively drunk (indeed many of them start with a BBQ in the car park before the game). The shit they eat is amazing: what looks like ice cream perched on nachos follows foot-long hotdogs and chunky fries drowning in liquid in cheese that glistens in the sun. I feel quite sick watching it all while endless advertising blares around the stadium and an authoritative announcer commands everyone to Be Happy.

Meanwhile, the game is about as entertaining as baseball gets as the Sox come back from 4-0 down to take the lead 5-4 with a three-run homerun (the second of the afternoon). Equally glorious is the arrival of a platter of free food for the journalists. Though I’ve not taken my pen from the bag, I head to the trough, gorging myself so as to avoid buying dinner. Take that Four Seasons!

Bored and increasingly fatigued, I leave after the 6th Inning (this, it turns out, is a wise decision as the game drags on for another four hours). Upon standing up, though, I realise I’m in great discomfort – all that walking and sweating has left me with a chronic dose of chafing. Each step feels like a staple being driven into my thighs and though I cram my undercarriage as far into my barse as possible, I can’t get away from the pain.

I hobble downstairs and bump into a beggar that looks a bit like Bubbles from the Wire, but who has a sales-pitch like Benny from Total Recall.

“Hey man, help a brother out – I gotta wife and two lovely kids.”

“How about you let me take your picture and I’ll give you a dollar?”

“A dollar. Man I got kids to feed. Make it two?”

“Alright, two,” I say, before taking the shot.

“Say, whatcho gonna do with my picture anyway?”

“I dunno,” I say, suddenly perplexed by the futility of all human existence. “I’m just taking pictures.”

This, though, is no time to get philosophical – sandpaper is rubbing all over my groin as I limp to the train station. An impromptu troupe of drummers start rhythmically hammering some empty buckets while a pensioner blasts a sax nearby, but all joy has gone from the world.



I finally get to the station convinced I’m bleeding when I discover my next problem; the machine doesn’t give change and I only have a $20. The fare is two bucks, both of which are now part of Benny’s Big Heroin Fund.

A large black lady spots me, presumably alerted to the obvious distress of a sweaty, wincing, blonde idiot who is by turns walking like he has – or is just about to – shit himself.

I explain myself, or at least the part about giving cash to Benny.

“Honey, you shouldn’t give them people nothin’,” she says sagely before very generously comping my fare.

“Thanks,” I say, almost crying.

“Mmm-hmm.”



A couple of hours later, showered and smothered in moisturiser, I’m getting ready to leave the Four Seasons again. Tonight I’m going to a recording of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me, a national radio show not unlike Have I Got News For You. I’m only really here because a woman from work who lived in Chicago for ten years says it’s fantastic.

Alas, the blag has also evolved to mean I’m meeting the cast backstage, which, given I’ve never actually heard their show before, brings all sorts of problems. The hosts and panel are a mix of journalists, comedians and screen writers, all of whom are more experienced, talented and wittier than I.

Thankfully, they are almost unanimously kind too and take mercy on my adolescent awkwardness. The septuagenarian co-host is also kind enough to record a personal message for my colleague, something I know will make her squeal with delight. Given that callers enter competitions to have him record a personal message on their answer machines (he’s got one of those voices that make you think of Christmas and the cinema and car adverts all at the same time) I guess it’s kind of a big deal.

The Talent isn’t quite so cordial when he arrives, but as it’s essentially his show – which he frequently has to carry when it’s not being funny enough – I suppose it’s not much of a surprise. While he can’t be bothered in feigning interest in me backstage, watching him work out front is a treat. After 11 years in the job, he is quite simply a master of this format.

I nearly doze off a couple of times in my front-row seat, but that’s not the show’s fault. I stand to leave and feel the beginning of the uncomfortable pinch in my thighs again, so quickly hail a cab when I get outside. The driver is from Algeria and when I thank him in Arabic, it’s as though I’ve just declared myself a directed descendant of Prophet Mohammed. I chuckle as head into the hotel and once more to bed.