(For the benefit of American readers, one stone in weight is equal to 14 pounds.)
For me, 1993 was a memorable year in many ways. I turned 18 and became a 'man'; I lost my virginity; my football team, Sheffield Wednesday, reached two cup finals, losing both; I became the first member of my family to win a place at university; Bill Clinton, the first really interesting politician in years, entered the White House; and I embarked on the greatest adventure of my life.
I had wanted to visit the United States for years, and with the money my dad gave me to celebrate my exam success at school and acceptance for uni, I decided that summer was the time to do it. I wanted to experience life on the road, and cross the country by whatever means I found. My girlfriend Gemma, the only girl I'd ever slept with, was supposed to be going with me, but shortly before I made the arrangements we had a huge row and we split up. The reason for that was the owner of the café where she worked at weekends. He was a big, muscular Anglo-Italian, good-looking in a cheesy sort of way. He was nearly ten years older than Gem, and married with kids; but she started making excuses for not doing the trip we'd been talking about for over a year, and one day I saw a secret look pass between her and Gennaro and I knew beyond any doubt that they were sleeping together.
So I made the trip alone, my dad solemnly shaking my hand at Manchester Airport, my mum giving me a big hug and biting her lip, trying hard not to cry, my kid sister effecting bored indifference then, at the last moment, flinging her arms round my neck and bursting into tears. Then I settled back for the long flight across the Atlantic to a place called Jersey City.
I had bought my flight at a bucket shop in Leeds. I had wanted a single, planning to leave my return date open-ended, but the guy told me I wouldn't even make it past US Immigration without a return ticket and an address I'd be staying at. So I booked a six-week return and a Holiday Inn on West 26th Street in New York, New York, in the shadow of the Empire State Building and Macy's. For the first couple of days after I arrived I did the full tourist thing, 5th Avenue, the Statue of Liberty, got offered dope and hookers in Harlem, then I met a guy in a diner who offered me a spare seat in his car with three friends going to Greensboro, North Carolina. I felt exhilarated - I was on my way. When one of the guys offered me a reefer ten minutes into the trip I acted cool, and pretended like it wasn't the first of my life, but I suspect the violent coughing and my face turning green rather gave me away!
After that, I made progress however I could. Through a combination of Greyhound buses, truckers looking for relief from the boredom of the road and generous car drivers, I travelled wherever they would take me and, after three weeks, found myself in Sweetwater, Texas. (Looking back at the naïve young student I was then, I find it amazing I was never robbed, raped or worse.) By then I knew where I was heading: the road ahead lay straight towards LA. It was a thousand miles away, but to me it felt so close I could smell the Hollywood tinsel. I'd found roadhouses were a good bet for a ride to my next destination, so early one morning I made my way to one on Highway I-20 on the western side of town.
There didn't seem to be many truckers in the place, but I got chatting to a farmer in his 60s who offered me a lift as far as his home town in New Mexico. Wolfing down the last of my grits – an American delicacy I never really developed a taste for – I followed him outside to a battered pick-up truck, with some kind of ancient hound dozing in the back. The animal raised its head and stared at me with red-rimmed eyes, and the old boy patted its head and told it, "It's okay Princess, this young feller's a new friend we're takin' through to Cranton." It was a burning hot day, with not a cloud in the sky, but fortunately the guy had a six-pack of beer that he kindly shared with me. I half-dozed listening to him tell me some of the history of the area, while dreadful country 'n' western droned away on the radio. At one point Princess heard it through the open window and started baying along to it! I grinned to myself, and told myself that some clichéd images of America exist because they happen to be true.
About mid-afternoon I realised we had stopped by a large ranch house. The farmer turned to me and said, "Sorry son, this is as far as I go. 'Bout half a mile along the road there you'll find Cranton." Feeling hot and dusty, and trying to conceal my slight disappointment that he hadn't invited me into his home, I thanked him and asked if there was any accommodation in the town. He rubbed his chin and thought about it. "Well, I guess Molly at the Desert Diner lets rooms, you'd best ask her." With that he bade me farewell and drove down a track towards his home.
I couldn't believe how hot it was. By the time I'd made my way along the featureless road, bounded on either side by scrubby desert, to the edge of the town my hair was dripping wet and my shirt was glued to me by sweat. The town sign wasn't very encouraging: 'Welcome to the community of Cranton, New Mexico, population 780', to which someone had at some point added in a daubed scrawl, 'twinned with Shithole, Alabama'. Raising a chuckle I staggered into the town and across to the Desert Diner, which I saw to the right of the main street. I flopped into the first booth I saw and ordered a beer from the bored looking middle-aged waitress who drifted over. According to the badge on her blue uniform her right tit was called Jo Anne. She returned quickly and, after a long slurp of beer I took in my surroundings, and noticed another badge which said simply The Boss. It was pinned to the biggest woman I'd ever seen.
I'm not an expert on people's weights, but I was a trim 11 stone at this point and my ex-girlfriend was as thin as a rake. I guessed the woman behind the counter must have been at least 20 stone, maybe a lot more. Her sleeveless blue nylon uniform struggled to contain her massive bulk. I reckoned she was in her 50s, and she reminded me of a super-sized Roseanne Barr: shoulder length black hair, with the odd strand of grey mixed into it, heavy eyebrows, friendly brown eyes and a wide toothy smile to match, half-buried in a pudgy face, at least three chins, a bust that put me in mind of the Himalayas, and fingers like prime pork sausages. She had the slight shadow of a moustache on her upper lip, and when she reached up her fleshy arms to a shelf above the counter I saw a forest of black hair in her armpits. She seemed like the most grotesque woman I had ever seen – yet, for reasons I couldn't possibly explain, from that moment I could barely drag my eyes away from her.
The place was quiet, apart from the inevitable C&W on the jukebox, with few other customers. One was a trucker built like a bear, shovelling into a hole somewhere in his great mass of dark facial hair a plate of ham and eggs big enough to feed most of the population of Cranton. I returned my gaze to the woman behind the counter, and saw she was waddling her way over to me. Her hips and thighs were just as big as the rest of her, but it was only when she loomed over me that I realised how tall she was. I was five-eleven, and I guessed she was at least three inches taller in her cheap flat sandals. She perched a gargantuan buttock on the corner of my table and said, "Can I get ya anythin' else, sugar?"
