Social Networking: Liable for Libel?

Living in the midst of a social networking revolution is not without its legal consequences. The rapid advance of our current communications options has made the world smaller than ever before. Communities are linked by electronic immediacy in a new one-click culture of all-consuming information. Facebook, Twitter and Skype are not just internet platforms for cyber fiends; they are populist portals, available for free on computers, phones and e-tablets. They consolidate and disseminate our thoughts and our movements; our lives. Amidst this tsunami of data lurks a new form of litigation. Social media libel may not be at the forefront of an average microblogger's mind, but for media lawyers in the twenty-first century it is fast becoming the defining defamation battlefield. Radio, television and the print media may still be the subject of last-minute super-injunctions and traditional conflicts over libel and privacy actions, but as social networking pulses through the fabric of modern society, so too does the possibility of internet libel on an increasing scale.

Litigation based on social networking has advanced dramatically in the past ten years, creating a number of considerations for legal teams. Issues of publication, jurisdiction and meaning, alongside limitation period reform, are regular themes. This article surmises these key trends and offers a commentary on legal developments.

Traditional libel actions tend to involve conventional media where it is reasonably simple to locate, and bring a claim against, the publisher of the statement. Social media affords publishers a cloak of anonymity, allowing users of networking sites to veil themselves under the guise of usernames and pseudonyms, operating out of web pages run by internet service providers (ISPs) that have little or no connection with the individual. The landmark case of Godfrey v Demon Internet (Godfrey v Demon Internet [2000] 3 WLR 1020) held that an ISP cannot argue a defence of innocent dissemination if it is given due notification that a defamatory statement has been published by a user of its site. It is clear that an ISP can only avoid becoming a party to litigation if it can prove to have no knowledge of the defamatory material, or a reasonable belief that the material was not defamatory, or if reasonable efforts were made to remove the statement as soon as possible upon notification.

While such methods may remove an ISP's potential liability, they remain intrinsic players in identifying the ultimate wrongdoer. Many internet libel actions require the originally anonymous publisher of the statement to be identified through a Norwich Pharmacal disclosure order (Norwich Pharmacal Co v Customs & Excise Commissioners [1973] 3 WLR 164). Such an order compels an ISP to provide details of the potentially offending publisher, including the IP address of the specific computer used to make the statement.

Norwich Pharmacal's relevance is helpfully illustrated by the July 2010 settlement between Orlando Figes (the defendant), an historian and writer, and two rival academics (the claimants), after the defendant posted fake reviews of the claimants' books on Amazon. The defendant originally argued that he had not published the comments. A subsequent Norwich Pharmacal order, obtained by the claimants against Amazon's ISP, traced the statements back to the defendant.

Obtaining a Norwich Pharmacal order can, however, be a lengthy process, and may involve considerable expense. This is particularly the case in relation to the world's most popular social networking sites, often with headquarters in the USA. In October 2009 the High Court gave permission for an injunction to be served via Twitter on an unknown user who had been masquerading as the right-wing political commentator Donal Blaney. Beyond obtaining a disclosure order against Twitter's ISP, this was the only way to make contact with the individual. This followed an Australian case where a court order was served through Facebook. Lawyers now have recourse to both the Norwich Pharmacal approach to identify publishers of potential social media libels, and new opportunities to use the same networking platforms where the statements are made to bring an immediate action.

Social networking is an international phenomenon, crossing borders and continents instantaneously. Identifying the ultimate wrongdoer and enforcing a claim is complicated further by jurisdictional issues. A libellous statement posted on a social networking site could be the catalyst for libel actions in a number of countries simultaneously. The case of Gutnick v Dow Jones (Gutnick v Dow Jones [2001] www.austlii.edu.au/au/cases/vic/VSC/2001/305.html), in the Supreme Court of Australia, held that the Australian claimant could sue the American defendant company in Australia for comments about the claimant published on the defendant's website. The internationalisation of internet defamation has created a myriad of jurisdictional issues for lawyers and potential expenses for clients. Some jurisdictions do not recognise judgments formed in the courts of others. This is most notable in the USA, where UK libel judgments are prevented from being enforced. An interesting development, then, has been the use of the social networks themselves, almost as their own quasi-jurisdictions, as the recent service of claim forms and injunctions on Facebook and Twitter has demonstrated, circumventing the need for multiple service (and excessive legal fees) across a number of courts.

While issues of publication and jurisdiction have posed problems for litigators, successful actions still require the basic elements of defamation to be successfully made out. Courts have been quick to point out a difference between networking frivolity, as evidenced by casual and informal statements on message boards and chat rooms, and more serious statements that 'lower the estimation of the claimant in the eyes of right thinking members of society' (Section 1, Defamation Act 1996). The cases of Islam Expo Ltd v The Spectator (Islam Expo Ltd v The Spectator (1828) and another [2010] EWHC 2011 (QB)) and Sheffield Wednesday v Hargreaves (Sheffield Wednesday Football Club and seven others v Neil Hargreaves [2007] EWHC 2375 (QB)) demonstrate this. In Islam Expo the Court felt that, while words about the claimant were published on the defendant's website over a period of seven months and formed part of general message board discussions, it was important to put potentially defamatory words and statements into their proper context and meaning, and for their seriousness to be judged accordingly. The claimant company helped organise a bi-annual Islamic exhibition, which went by the same name as the company. While some internet message board posts were deemed to be casual and without malice, and hyperlinks in the text of the complained-of statements did not infer anything libellous on their own, the Court felt it perverse not to infer that the complained-of statements were defamatory of the claimant company rather than just the event being organised. The statements were of sufficient seriousness to bring a successful claim precisely because of the context and mode within which they were made.

Message board posts were also critically evaluated in the Sheffield Wednesday case. The claimant football club, who wanted a Norwich Pharmacal order against a fansite's ISP in order to disclose the identity of its posters, were concerned by statements on the site that were allegedly defamatory of the claimant's board of directors. The Court distinguished between informal football colloquialisms and more serious suggestions as to the alleged greed, untrustworthiness and dishonesty of the claimant's board. The order was thus granted only against the ISP for users of the site whose messages were deemed serious enough within the context of the overall manner of the other posts.

In the case of Bryce v Barber (Bryce v Barber [2010] http://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/facebook/7912731/Law-student-wins-10000-after-being-branded-a-paedophile-on-Facebook.html) Tugendhat J pointed out that at the heart of the case was the defamatory material, rather than it happening to be on Facebook. Here, the defendant inferred the claimant was homosexual and a paedophile by posting child pornography on Facebook with an accompanying picture of the claimant alongside a comment. The claimant was ultimately awarded £10,000 in damages after it was shown that, despite the relatively short period of time that the material was published for in comparison with conventional media forms, there had been over eleven links to the post, two independent comments and that more than 800 users could have viewed the material. The Court held that the defendant had acted with intent and malice, and ruled that arguments raised by the defence regarding the temporal nature of the material due to it being on Facebook were irrelevant. The material had clearly defamed the claimant, regardless of its form.

Bryce affirmed the landmark decision in Firsht v Raphael (Firsht (Applause Store Productions Limited) v Raphael [2008] EWHC 1781 (QB)), which was the first libel and privacy case to reach trial concerning Facebook. It demonstrated that the level of damages for defamatory material posted online can be substantial, even if the material only remains available to the public for a limited period. The defendant argued damages should be low because the material had only been available for 16 days, but the Court did not accept this. Instead, the Court held that an action could be brought for libellous material in the social media arena and that existing libel and privacy law would be applied. The fact that the material was only available for 16 days was countered by the specific issues caused by it being published on Facebook. While only temporarily available, the nature of Facebook meant the material could be viewed many times over, particularly as the fake profile that formed the crux of the libellous material was signed up to Facebook's London network, and was thus searchable by over 700,000 people at the time.

It is clear that Courts are assessing alleged libels through traditional applications of defamation law whilst acknowledging the complexities of social media: multiple cross-border publications, intra-jurisdictional challenges, and instantaneous electronic reproductions.

The Firsht case encapsulated all such issues into one legal landmark, involving a Norwich Pharmacal order to trace the creation of the fake profile to the defendant's computer, a discussion over publication and damages, and conventional application of the law of intent and malice. Since that decision in 2008, internet defamation has gone from being an unusual precedent to a legal certainty. Looking ahead, debate is likely to centre on limitation period reform. In an era of re-tweets, shared links and virals, a greater degree of regulation is needed when managing the time in which a claimant can bring an action. As social media networks develop apace on personal computers and phones globally, lawyers now find themselves representing clients in libel actions across a multitude of media forms and must strive to keep a step ahead of our socio-technological revolution's rapid advance.

Britain On The Brink: The 2010 Election

A world financial crisis. The constant threat of foreign and domestic terrorism. Controversial immigration. A battle between traditional and modern sources of energy. Troops engaged in battle in far-flung corners of the world. Social and familial breakdowns. This is no ordinary British election.

Every so often the populations of world democracies find themselves standing at a pivotal precipice. In the United Kingdom, on Thursday 6 May 2010, the British public will take part in the most important general election in a generation. Never has politics and democracy been so pertinently relevant to the people of Britain. Rarely has a campaign been so unpredictable, so controversial. For the first time in recent memory, a genuine third choice has emerged in the form of Nick Clegg’s Liberal Democrats. Inspiring in his articulate debating style, Clegg’s rise to fame has been as aspirational as it was unlikely, and with it the political landscape as we know it has been permanently altered.

In 1997, Tony Blair famously uttered that ‘there is a third way’. He referred, of course, to internal Labour party struggles, the divisions between his vision for the future of the party, and the old unionist version that he wanted to consign to the scrapheap of history. Today, in an unpredictable and fragile twenty-first century, the third way is not internalised within a particular party structure, but instead presents itself on the ballot paper; a referendum, if you will, not just on who should become our governing party, but on the future of our politics, of our society. While this writer is not necessarily convinced by Liberal Democrat policies, it is clear that politics has renewed itself, that our ability to choose and be inspired has dramatically increased, that there is cause for optimism amidst the gloom and despair of recent times.

It is of vital importance, then, that each of us takes part on Thursday. Over the course of many centuries, this country has paved a road towards universal suffrage, a world leader in fighting for each person’s right to have their say, to raise their voice, to make a difference. To walk to your polling station, to strike an ‘x’ next to your preferred candidate, is the very definition of a display of individual liberty. At a time when our trust in politicians is at a nadir, it is still important to maintain faith in the overriding values of our democracy, and indeed of our country; ideals of free markets and free people, social cohesion and responsibility, duty and fairness. There is, after all, much to be optimistic about. Despite our financial and social troubles, this is still a wonderful place to live. The political commentator Andrew Marr once said that to be born British is in fact a remarkable stroke of luck. We may have a budget deficit, but this is still a nation with a welfare state, with magnificent cities, famous cultural icons, free access to healthcare, a military to be proud of, and a multicultural haven for people from all over the world seeking opportunity and freedom, strong civic and legal justice and tolerance.

Despite the ideological flavour of the prose, this is not an American-style election, despite David Cameron and Nick Clegg repeatedly using the Obama mantra of ‘change’. In my mind, no candidate in this election is seriously bending the arc of history once more toward the hope of a better day. There is no grassroots movement shaking down the traditionalist walls of the political establishment, despite our obvious annoyance at the behaviour of many politicians. No. This is a very British election. We debate with a civilised politeness. We resist political subterfuge. We travel across half the country to apologise to pensioners. The candidate who preaches most about change, about establishing a new order, is in fact a public schoolboy from the upper middle class. His name is Nick Clegg.

What this campaign has really demonstrated, has really illustrated to our nation, is that in 2010 we are not certain of our place in the world and how we want to be perceived. Should we look solely to Europe? Should we preserve our special relationship with America? Should we retreat completely, bruised and battered by our forays into global politics over many decades of engagement under leaders like Thatcher and Blair? It seems to this author that Britain must somehow strike a balance between all these issues. We are stronger when we engage with Europe, but not to the extent that we pander to its beaurocratic web of confusion. We are more relevant when we work closely with America, though never again should we let the White House dominate Downing Street over where we send our troops without so much as an iota of support when we have our own foreign issues to deal with. We are more stable when we concentrate on home affairs, knowing that we can only really offer a voice of progress in the world at large when we have cohesion and social advancement at home.

Given that these are the issues which both unite and divide us, which party seems most aligned to the obvious solutions? While the partisan amongst you will cling steadfastly to your views and decisions, many of us remain unsure, cautious of pinning our political colours to the mast, preferring to wait until the last possible moment before making our date with electoral destiny. The polls reflect our uncertainty. The make up of our parliament hangs in the balance. Quite literally.

Not every aspect of the Labour party’s thirteen years in power has been bad for this country. Though success has been limited more specifically to the Blair years, the new Labour experiment has, for the most part, been positive. Boom and bust may now be the catch-phrase of our catch-22 economic downturn, but at the least it helped establish the City of London’s Square Mile as the preeminent financial and legal district of the world. Labour liberated the Bank of England, legalised civil partnerships, abolished cruel and archaic fox-hunting, engaged in wars of ethics in Kosovo, Sierra Leone and Afghanistan, brought Northern Ireland towards peace and modern political acquiescence, cut NHS waiting times (just) and got more young people into universities (perhaps too many). Tony Blair, rightly or wrongly, managed to cement Britain’s role in the contemporary arena of international affairs. The Blair-Brown years coincided with a revolution in British cultural sensibilities. ‘Cool Britannia’ dominated the worlds of fashion and cuisine, film and theatre, music and architecture. London grew not just as an economic powerhouse, but equally attracted a global significance last seen at the height of the British Empire, on par with New York as a true city of the modern age.

Whether Gordon Brown clings on to the keys of 10 Downing Street after Thursday or not, it is hard for even staunch critics of New Labour to forcibly argue that the United Kingdom is, at least on a societal level, worse off than it was at the end of John Major’s premiership in 1997. However, a closer look beyond the PR and the spin indicates that Labour have not properly capitalised on three terms of impressive parliamentary majorities. Socially our communities remain divided, caught in a crossfire of claims and counterclaims, mutual suspicion and distrust, waylaid by council beurocracy and paperwork, underfunded or overpaid, too readily interfered with by the meddling hands of the neurotic central government and incapable of reaching out to those in society most in need of help. As a result we have, as Bobby Kennedy once warned, a number of cities that are not communities, of counties that are not locally connected, of ethnic, national and class groups who have been allowed to wallow in their resentment for too long.

No part of this Labour government’s election campaign has inspired any confidence that another five years of Gordon Brown will enhance ordinary life on the streets of our towns and cities. While the big institutions and offices of state may well find themselves basking in the glow of short-term public spending, little will filter through to local councils and youth workers and community activists, the sparks in the engine of our country. Over the past thirteen years, Britain has consolidated and enhanced its position as a world power, yet at the same time has become incapable of mending its own broken society. Gordon Brown’s current politics of fear will not save his party, and nor should it. We need a strong Opposition, a solid and dependable critic to bring the government consistently and appropriately to account. Only Labour’s defeat will achieve this, offering a movement with high ideals and poor execution the chance to undergo its first leadership election since 1994, replacing the static, stoic, stolid and stunted Gordon Brown with a better, younger, idealistic alternative. Labour could become the party for the masses once again if it undergoes an intensive reboot during a much-needed period of time on the other side of the House of Commons aisle. David Milliband would be an exciting and attractive prospect leading Labour into the general election of 2015.

What of Clegg’s Liberal Democrats, the surprise contenders punching above their weight as we head to the polls? No doubt he is a deeply intelligent political player, adept at feeding on populist sensibilities and providing neat soundbites for the media. Skilled at public relations and slick electioneering, Clegg has drilled the Lib Dems into a campaigning machine, full of the slights of hand and subtleties of Tony Blair in his pomp, positioning his party as a new option to replace the old guard of tired policies representing antiquated politicians. These are the natural reactions to Clegg’s outstanding performances in the Prime Ministerial debates, as he neatly sidestepped real scrutiny over a number of dangerous and poorly explained policies by sounding and looking modern and relevant, and by continually articulating a message of difference to his two opponents. The reality, much as it pains this author to admit it, is that Nick Clegg resembles a rather earnest sixth form student, anxious to impress at a Model United Nations conference and to tell us what he would do if he was a Prefect. This writer would love to be a Clegg supporter, and would enjoy his rise to prominence a lot more, if he could match substantive and intelligent policies with his already obviously impressive style of politicking.

However, his positions on Europe, on our nuclear deterrent, on a frankly bizarre system of geographically positioning immigrants into specific skill-set locations, are beyond the acceptable limit of pandering populism. These are the manifesto hallmarks of a group of politicians who simply had not considered seriously the fact that they might be genuine players in this election. Their own wealthy benefactors must be shuddering at the thought of a 50% tax hike. Investors in the City of London who had previously appeared to be supporters of Clegg must be anxiously looking at mainland Europe’s inability to aid Greece, itself a member of the Euro currency club, at a time when the Liberal Democrats continue to make positive noises about the UK joining the single coinage. Moreover, while Clegg’s desire to see a nuclear free Britain taking an active role in a nuclear free world should be lauded, his idealism is dangerous. The complete removal from planet Earth of all nuclear weapons would be wonderful. Never again would mankind stare into the abyss of annihilation at the behest of our warheads. Every serious political player who wants to be the Prime Minister of Great Britain should be forthright and immediate in working hard to prevent the proliferation of nuclear weapons and to gradually reduce the stockpiles of the nuclear club. There are, however, safe ways to do this, and Nick Clegg’s policy of unilaterally not renewing Trident, our own nuclear deterrent, is not only reactionary; it is counter-productive. The sight of a British Prime Minister signing away the UK’s nuclear capabilities at a time when rogue states are continuing to develop their technology of terror and terrorists themselves are closer to getting their warped minds and hands on a dirty bomb will not cause other nations to follow suit. Instead we will be reduced to bit-part players in the vital global struggle to reduce our arms, no longer relevant or significant or even sure of our UN Security Council position and influence to shape the world in the way that we would like to see it become for generations to follow us. Nick Clegg may be the most earnest and hazardous man in Britain.

Which leaves us with David Cameron and the Conservatives. Does anybody want to actually vote Conservative? It seems that every time an ‘x’ is marked next to a Tory candidate it is etched with a heavy heart, a resignation to settle for it in this election. Hardly a ringing mandate. Yet it was never trendy to vote Conservative, and perhaps Cameron has done more than most Conservative politicians to make his party acceptable and relevant and electable once again. Michael Howard, the former leader of the party, ran a campaign in 2005 that played on fear and social divisions and pandered to a hardcore Tory base of right-wing snobs. Thank goodness for the Conservatives and the country at large that Cameron has brought the party kicking and screaming into the modern age, callously cajoling its traditionalist powerbase into abandoning age-old entrenched ideologies and policies that were rooted in aristocratic entitlement and an indifference to change. He may be an Eton toff, but at least Cameron understands modern Britain, how our society has changed so indelibly in the past ten years, and why the voting public are more discerning than ever before. His decision to begin public spending cuts immediately upon winning an election, rather than Gordon Brown’s policy of continued public spending for another year to secure our financial recovery, is the key policy issue and difference at this election, even if other philosophies and national moods dominate headlines. Whether he is right remains to be seen, but there is something persuasive in Cameron’s steadfast commitment to starting the process of managing our budget deficit rather than leaving it for another year. It means, of course, potentially unimaginable hardship for many of us, including rising unemployment and the failure of many businesses. Yet it may be our only hope, and at the very least gets the unfortunate process started faster and sooner than Gordon Brown’s options.

It is also clear that Cameron has forged a new wing of his party, one of social modernity and liberalism, where traditional free-market values are maintained, but this time played out against a more concerted attempt from the party machine to understand the sensibilities of the modern British citizen: compassionate, pluralist, forward-thinking. Cameron’s economic policy seems drastic, but he has skilfully portrayed it as optimistic, as the best option to make the economy, and thus our country, better. At a time of uncertainty, of momentous sea-changes of emotion and practicality, as our city streets reverberate to fearful messages of hard times to come, it is no bad thing, in this election and at this pivotal time, to vote for the candidate and party that has campaigned on optimism and positivity and faith in how great our nation is and can be.

These are but one ordinary voting citizen’s musings. The real beauty in our democracy is that the ultimate decision is down to you. This really is the most important British general election in a generation, and the voting sensibilities of the great British public will secure either a decisive victory for one party above any other, or alternatively deliver a verdict of minority uncertainty, of a parliament balanced in its seat proportions but unbalanced in how it can ever get anything done. Should we be concerned by a hung parliament, by the people delivering a verdict in keeping with the prevalent feeling of simply not being sure? I believe not. Democracy, in its infinite wisdom, will find a way.

Across the world many national populations will be envious of the opportunity before us, of the chance to walk into a polling station and cast a vote, the thrill and honour of taking part in having a say, making a difference, being counted. Politics may bring out the worst in people, but our engagement in the process can still bring out the best in politics, and while so much of the world covets what we take for granted, and while our own future is so delicately poised, it is a near categorical imperative to go out and vote.

We will soon discover what Britain we will live in for the next few years in an already tumultuous century. Have your say. Casting a vote in an election is a gift: it is our present and affects our future. The UK must awake, arise and decide.

“You have a decision to make. Don't vote for us because you think we're perfect. Don't vote for us because of what we might be able to do for you only. Vote for the person who shares your ideals. Your hopes. Your dreams. Vote for the person who most embodies what you believe we need to keep our nation strong and free. And when you have done that you can go back home with your head held high and say, 'I voted.’” Matt Santos in ‘The West Wing’.

"Until Then I'll Spend My Money, Right On Down To My Last Dime..."

There are few sensations more unnerving than flying through the middle of a Gulf of Mexico thunderstorm. Battered and buffeted by storm clouds and pressure systems, swept to and fro by high winds, dodging lightning bolts and encroaching thunder claps, you cannot help but be awkwardly aware of your own mortality. Modern aircraft are designed to survive turbulence of apocalyptic proportions, including even being struck by lightning itself, but this fact, however well-meaningfully articulated by those in the travel industry, fails to strike a chord when ten and a half hours into a flight you are face to face with gathering clouds of rumbling, roaring significance.
I have, you may remember, blogged before about fun and frolics at 36,000 feet. Being not the most confident flyer in the world, I was obviously a little concerned that the thunderstorm landing into Houston, Texas, was laced with both a literal and metaphorical symbolism, an ominous, portentous harbinger of troubles brewing. On reflection, and leaning heavily on my ability to recite the Desiderata by heart, I am now confident that such fears were borne of fatigue and/or loneliness (delete where applicable). It can be disheartening to spend the duration of a long-haul flight on a half-empty plane with nobody to talk to, while the time-lapse and journey duration were obviously contributing factors to a high dosage of fatigue. Such rumblings of negative emotional thunder dissipated as swiftly as the real storm and, once customs had been dealt with the standard clash of cultures that inevitably emerge when the least subtle security nation in the world collides with weary and sarcastic British folk, soon it was time to enjoy the ultimate in travelling experiences, the airport reunion.
Richard Curtis has made many mistakes during his career as sit-com writer, rom-com creator and charity commissioner for the entire continent of Africa. The Boat That Rocked, for example, really sucked. He is, however, responsible for a wonderful little speech at the beginning of Love Actually, a film so perfectly simple in its scope and ambition that it is bewildering as to how it engenders such vociferous debate between film fans as to its merits (or lack thereof, depending on your point of view). I am firmly in the ‘pro’ camp, seeing it not only as a perfect Christmas treat, but a love song to my home city, not to mention the fact that the film was released during a particular moment and time in my young life that seemed to align cleverly with how I was thinking and feeling at that precise moment. With that in mind, the opening speech, delivered against a backdrop of real CCTV footage of genuine travelers greeting each other at the arrival gates at London Heathrow, has always struck a chord. However, beyond the obviously happy instances of greeting family members at the airport, and one or two other occasions that I have no need to go into detail about here, I had not enjoyed the happy circumstance of my own Love Actually moment until I landed in Houston. While not the arrival gates at Heathrow Airport, they were still arrival gates, and being face to face with someone that you have spent so much time talking to, and so much emotion thinking about, helps affirm those beautiful Curtis words: ‘It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it’s there.’
Baton Rouge, Louisiana, is itself an interesting place to spend some time. It has all the quintessential Southern values and charm that I mentioned when previously blogging on my travels through the Deep South of America, but, as a college town, there is also a sense of urban Bohemia, a point enhanced at this particular moment by my current typing location in an independent-run coffee shop, populated by students with laptops and Ipods and time. There is, therefore, a pleasant juxtaposition between the general feel of student openness and acceptance, and old-fashioned traditions synonymous with this region, from the food to the politics. Here in America, this weekend sees the main celebrations for Mardi Gras, a pageant of huge proportions in this part of the world, with food, drink, carnivals, dancing, music, and a general celebratory spirit that may now be some way from the original religious sensibilities behind the festival, but nonetheless entrenching a positive feel of community. New Orleans is the world centre for Mardi Gras. It is already a city that lends itself well to street parties, with its roadside music culture already deeply ingrained, and during a holiday where much emphasis is placed on colour and vibrancy and a love of life, the entire region dials up this sense of spirit even more. This year, Louisiana is also celebrating their first ever Superbowl triumph after last Sunday’s win for the New Orleans Saints, a victory which has already prompted a huge ticker-tape parade through the French Quarter before Mardi Gras even properly started. After the travesty of Katrina and the damage done to the whole region both socially and economically, it was not just an ordinary Superbowl win for the Saints. More than just a sporting victory, it helped symbolize the recovery of the city of New Orleans and Louisiana in general, a sentiment enhanced going into this weekend’s frivolities also.
The UK does not celebrate Mardi Gras in the same way, save for a few of us belatedly flipping a few pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. I suspect that a New Orleans-style carnival atmosphere through the streets of London would be sensational, but no doubt the rigid powers that be would place such stringent health and safety embargoes on the entire event that it would be pointless. London has never been that sort of city, and probably never will be, save for the impromptu street parties that greet momentous national events like coronations, jubilees and English footballing success. Regardless of the UK’s own standpoint, as a Londoner of Jewish ethnicity it would not be unfair to argue that attending the once Pagan, now Christian celebration of Mardi Gras in New Orleans will place me a considerable way out of my comfort zone, but so far I am on the right side of excited.

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A few days later

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Mardi Gras has now been and gone, and I sit and type this back home in London, amidst swirling sleet and snow, that perennial illustration of the bleakest winter in recent memory. Dark, portentous clouds loom overhead as February closes out with its usual dismal fare, a fitting epitaph to a gloomy meteorological season. It is without question that I love London - my city, my home, my people. Recently, and perhaps connected to seeing more of the world than I could have anticipated, the feeling of excitement at returning to one of the world's great cities has lessened. Cynicism, complacency, tedium, perhaps all contribute to this. More likely is the great lifestyle change I am about to undergo, taking place in the heart of the capital, as I begin the daily commute and the weekly grind. In a few days time, I will be swapping a Fred Perry polo for a well-tailored suit, leather shoes in place of Puma canvas. Like the millions around me, I will take the train into work, praying I do not need an umbrella for the walking part of the journey, subconsciously hoping the gentle sounds of my Ipod can last just a few moments longer before I walk in through curved, glass doors into a curved, glass building. The times they are a-changing.

All the more important, then, that I have been lucky enough to enjoy my time off after finishing Law School. In this time I have learnt much about myself, and the world around me. I have travelled extensively, adventuring across a great continent, meeting new people, expanding my horizons and challenging my previous preconceptions. Had there not been a recession, a credit-crunch that caused major businesses and companies to hold back their intakes of new employees, I would not have enjoyed my American sojourn, and consequently not had the recent opportunity to return there.

Mardi Gras, then, became symbolic to me, not just as a holiday and series of festivals in the South of America, but because of its position at the start of the Lenting season, a time when those of Christian faith are compelled to give something up, or make some kind of positive change for the better. In many ways, I will be giving up a lifestyle, a way of being that I have grown accustomed to, but which ultimately, and like so much of our formative years, must come to pass. With this in mind, I was determined to enjoy my final moments of freedom.

New Orleans was a perfect place to start, with its one-of-a-kind community spirit, intense musical culture and intricate ethnic history, combining in a kaleidoscope of noise and colour and vibrancy. The Endymion parade through St. Charles was a real sight, with marching bands and floats, flying beads and decorations, not to mention the continued celebratory chanting of New Orleans Saints football fans. Spending the first day of Mardi Gras there alongside close friends was a unique and enjoyable experience, and a million miles from what I am used to back home.

This feeling of difference was heightened in the following two days, firstly in a town called Thibedaux, Louisiana, and then the even more remote Mamou, Louisiana, home to a Mardi Grass street-dance that has to be seen to be believed. Thibedaux is close to what I picture to be old-school America, with neat town squares and houses with railings, shutter-windows and ornate gables, peering over the streets below with decorative balconies. The Thibedaux parade featured some fairly hostile throwing of Mardi Gras beads from the travelling floats, causing yours truly to have to duck for cover on a number of occasions, but the spirit of this part of Louisiana, and the celebrations they put on, were far from hostile. Instead, I found a welcoming, community-driven locality, and was overwhelmed by the generosity of our hosts for the parade, with an endless supply of food, drink, music, sunshine and unparalleled balcony views courtesy of Kyle to enjoy the proceedings.

Similarly, the Mamou street dance opened up my eyes to an entirely new level of appreciation for Southern values. Here, in the midst of rural Louisiana, a small town takes to the streets to enjoy real Cajun music (guitar, accordion, snare, vocals), beer and three-step dancing. I arrived in polo t-shirt and skinny jeans, looking more Shoreditch than shoreline, and found myself deeply out of place from a sartorial point of view. Most of the men in Mamou take to the street-dance in hunting garb, with large army-style jackets, combat trousers and boots, often with traditional baseball-cap as a complimentary addition. Nonetheless, although a clear out-of-towner, I was once again welcomed to this fiercely local tradition with warmth and friendliness. My good friend Ashli's family were kind and polite, hospitably making me eat fresh catfish (delicious, I might add) and seeing to it that Sam and I were well looked after. In Mamou, we met all kinds of interesting folk, from the old high-school sweethearts dancing arm in arm in the exact same style that they must have perfected decades earlier, to the single wedding planner, drinking his troubles away in the bar, and happy to talk to me about The Beatles and to Sam about the Louisiana State University dance programme. Many suggest that rural Deep South backwaters are set in their ways and suspicious of outsiders. I found, both in Thibedaux and Mamou, communities deeply committed to their ideals and traditions, but proud of them in a positive and engaging way, with the overwhelming majority of the people I met eager to show me a good time and welcome me into their world. In a city as vast and disconnected as London, we could learn a lot from these displays of local and regional solidarity.

Back in Baton Rouge, I began to mentally prepare for the long drive into Texas, towards Houston, the airport and home. Is there anything harder than an airport farewell? If meeting someone special at the Arrival Gates is an uplifting experience, the complete opposite is true of parting at a Departure Lounge. What can I tell you about this particular Departure Lounge experience without resorting to sycophancy and hyperbole? Well, let's say that the world can move in mysterious ways. I have been, for a while now, a cynical sort, one who questions those who place emphasis on the whims of serendipity. Even now I am not certain if the series of events that led me to Baton Rouge, and subsequently back to this wonderful part of the world just a couple of months later, can be attributed to fate or some sort of masterplan, or if indeed we are, as John Lennon once put it, merely 'molecules bouncing around', and thus purely part of a random circumstance, a happy accident. I am, however, less cynical than I was, illuminated as I am by a new adventure, exciting and scary in equal measure, but offering a sense of hope, of idealism, of faith, amidst uncertainty and intrigue.

It is, at the last, a quiet thing, hard to surmise in cold language on a screen, yet eloquent enough in more silent parts of my heart. For many months now I have noticed two roads stretching out before me. I could have, as Robert Frost put it, saved one for another day, 'but knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back'...

"I shall be telling this with a smile,

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood,

And I...

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference."

Robert Frost, 'The Road Not Taken'.

iPad. Therefore I am.

Truly we live in exciting times. Forget, for a moment, the doomsday economic downturn, threatening the very fabric of our financial services industry and ultimately the entirety of western capitalism as we know it, and consider this brave new world in which we inhabit, a society constantly changing and progressing to an entrepreneurial, enterprising beat. We may have a weaker pound, rising inflation and worrying levels of unemployment, but as of yesterday afternoon we also have the iPad.

Granted, I am not overwhelmed with certainty as to exactly what purpose the iPad serves. Is it a gigantic phone, created to make us all feel like we are in a new series of The Borrowers? Is it a lighter, more efficient laptop, designed to liberate us from the shackles of office tedium, prompting a revolution of pedestrianism, letting us work not just from home, not just in the office, but in fact practically anywhere at any time? Not that the iPad is limited to business-related tasks. This is a model designed to improve gaming experiences, open up a whole industry of e-books, and collate together an already burgeoning world of iPhone applications into one portable tablet. It's the technological form of NurofenPlus, minus the layered codeine.

The emergence of the iPad is both a tangible, physical stage in the technological revolution happening right now across the world. It is also deeply symbolic. With Apple's computerised tablet, the internet is closer, more accessible, faster and easier than ever before. Knowledge, information, progress is just a touchscreen away. Compartmentalising every single aspect of world-wide social networking, entertainment and communications into one movable device may seem, at first glance, to be a great opportunity to collate what we feel, think and know, what we do and how we act, into a singular entity. The reality, however, is that while the iPad can bring these literal and metaphorical elements together, we are in essence still working through an immeasurably large pool of detail. It may be all on one machine, but modern man still has himself (or herself) spread thinly over vast expanses.

We Facebook, Tweet, and blog. We surf, game, read and listen. At the moment, many of us do all these acts many times a day, through a variety of sources. I may play Football Manager on my laptop, reply to emails via Blackberry, and tweet about how mind-numbingly boring/fascinating (delete where appropriate) these actions are on my Nokia NSeries. The iPad would let me do all of this on one device, wherever I may be in the world, but my specific actions are still broad. It calls into question what levels of knowledge we really have in a new decade, and whether it is a help or a hindrance to our future careers.

Which is better: to have an in-depth level of knowledge regarding a specific subject or industry or, alternatively, reasonable information over a wider area? Modern business seems unsure of itself, unable to confirm whether focused study of a singular area is more beneficial than nuggets of knowledge spread thin. In the legal profession, for example, City law firms are adapting to the credit crunch by having to focus more on corporate restructuring, rather than the mergers and acquisitions of yore. Should solicitors, and their firms, focus on training staff to deal stoically with the challenges of commercial law in a recession, and therefore limiting skills and training to very specific corporate recoveries, or should trainees have a broad spectrum of knowledge in a number of fields, ready to adapt to a changing economic landscape and the varying needs of their clients. On the one hand, very specific knowledge will be invaluable to clients in desperate need of certain advice in absolute situations. Alternatively, some firms may profit from their lawyers being able to respond with merely a modicum of ability to a range of issues.

Technology is driving the second of these possibilities, by providing us with mechanisms and devices through which we can find information, but not necessarily knowledge. Our technological revolution aids communication, but perhaps not ability, intellect and expertise. Ben Macintyre, writing in today's edition of The Times, illustrates this most modern of conundrums by focusing on the differences in intellectual thought as set out by the 1950s philosopher Isaiah Berlin: some thinkers are foxes; some are hedgehogs.

Which are you? A fox, knowing many things, or a hedgehog, knowing one big thing? Macintyre argues that today, 'feasting on the anarchic, ubiquitous, limitless and uncontrolled information cornucopia that is the web, we are all foxes'. The vast, unfathomable torrents of information that are now, thanks to devices like the iPad, just a touchscreen swipe away, have changed the way we think, act, communicate and, ultimately, do our jobs. As the world gets smaller than it has ever been, our ability, almost by osmosis, to seep in information gets larger. As Macintyre states, 'we can go on instant mind-journeys that once would have taken years'.

I feel a little bit like Arthur Miller's choric character Alfieri, in his sublime 'A View From The Bridge'. Alfieri argues that we now 'settle for half'. The vast societal changes in his world, he feels, can be bridged by a sensible complimenting of what we knew and what we will go on to know. In the rapid currents of an at times unstable and ever-changing world in 2010, it is no bad thing to find a via-media between the foxes and hedgehogs. Indeed, there is no reason why both cannot cohabit the same iPad. We need the foxes to streak ahead, scavenging their way through the multitude of possibilities and applications that a work of art such as the iPad can both provide and collate. We also need the hedgehogs, the big thinkers in microcosmic areas. Without the symbiosis of these two, our technological revolution will crumble and with it modern society as we know it. There would be no iPad without the hedgehogs at Apple. There would be no use of an iPad without the foxes of modern society.

We go about our business, our day-to-day lives, with little thought or concern for the vast happenings around us. I will most probably purchase an iPad. I like its sleek design, its modern urgency. However, stopping for just a moment, pausing and reflecting over our societal sea-change, I am inclined to be feel both excited and a little apprehensive, caught as I am (and amongst many who are in similar positions) between being a fox and being a hedgehog.

Houston, Austin and Dallas: For One Brief Shining Moment...

USA - Houston, Austin and Dallas, Texas.

I feel bad that Texas was not given a fair crack of the whip. After the emotional peaks of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, lingering doubts remained in the minds of Dean and I, as we hit the I-35W towards the Lone Star State. Texas is a large state, full of impressive metropolises and interstates, rolling in oil-based money and proud of its heritage as one of the last bastions of the frontier west, a pioneering land that today acts as one of America’s most significant political and economic republics. Much to be excited about, then, not to mention the fact that Texas is famous for good steaks, excellent music and cowboy hats. Nevertheless, as we left Louisiana behind, Dean and I questioned whether we should have moved on from Baton Rouge at all. It was trying and dare I say even emotional coming to the decision to leave, and then to stick with it, but after sound advice from old friends, the road trip remained. Westwards we travelled. A rendezvous with Dallas would be our ultimate target, but before that we had two other major urban zones in Houston and Austin to look forward to.

Houston:

Due to our indecisiveness in Baton Rouge, we did not set out for Houston until later than we would have originally anticipated. Driving through the night and across the border into Texas, we arrived at our downtown hotel dazed and tired, both in need of a good night’s rest that would, we hoped, set us in more positive spirits for a full day’s sightseeing in America’s fourth-largest city. Houston, perhaps unsurprisingly, is rather big, surrounded by freeway mergers that loop around each other in increasingly tall flyovers in a multitude of directions: more Spaghetti Western than Spaghetti Junction, but certainly confusing to navigate through, particularly with six lanes of traffic in either direction. Our trusted GPS helped us through many a tricky situation, but while satellite navigation did its job with aplomb, the weather sadly let the side down. For the first time on our trip to America we were met with genuinely poor weather. Low clouds descended over the city, a wind came in from the Gulf, and patchy rain drizzled down in a very London-esque manner, as if completely decided to be awful weather, but not totally committed to a torrential downpour. The foggy haze cut off the views of many of Houston’s skyscrapers, and prevented us mooching through the streets as had been our tradition until that point. There is, nevertheless, much to recommend about Houston, Texas. Its space heritage will be discussed later, but it also remains a major cosmopolitan conurbation, bringing together peoples of all races under the American and Texan flags. In particular, Dean and I noticed a definite rise in the Hispanic population when compared to where we had travelled to previously. This was also obvious through the main Houston cuisine, which merged meat-based Texan comfort food with traditional Mexican offerings. No surprise, then, that ‘Tex-Mex’ was created in Houston.

Determined not to let the weather get the better of us, and putting to good use our stiff British upper lips that we have naturally grown up with in London, Dean and I headed towards the Houston Museum of Fine Arts. Here, inside this sprawling building, we found countless exhibits that were genuinely informative. The Native American collection was particularly impressive, telling the story of the original settlers in this vast land, and their creeds and practices of many thousands of years. It is an area of history and society that I sadly no little about, and I was therefore pleased to be able to take the time to learn a little more. After all, the first people in America were the native races that today, in some areas, struggle to find either political acceptance or an alternative way to sustain their age-old ideology within their own communities and the nation at large. It is a sad tale, and one which must not be forgotten, lest America completely divests herself from her heritage, a vital and cogent link with the land that stretches back way beyond Britain’s role in America’s story.

Another dazzling exhibit in the Museum of Fine Arts was in the corridor of lights. This mesmerising rectangular space, with a door at either end, and shafts of laser-beamed lights criss-crossing each other at different angles, created optical illusions that made us hesitant underfoot and curious to explore further. Out came the cameras, unsurprisingly, as we took full advantage of this light show. Facebook profile pictures will no doubt follow. At the other end of the vast museum building, Dean and I were fascinated by scale models of housing developments that had been deliberately smashed to pieces on one side, and left untouched and undiminished on the other. There are, I am sure, numerous socio-political points to be made from the creation of scale-model conurbations, perhaps enforcing upon the viewer the fact that America remains fiercely divided, particularly in terms of governmental housing policy, but as a mere bystander, and indeed a foreigner, it would perhaps be out of place of me to lend too much of a critical eye to our viewing experience. Nonetheless, if you find yourself in Houston, Texas, and you fancy doing something a little different for a few hours, this museum is a must. Well spaced and signposted, it certainly helped while away the time as it rained outside.

“Houston, we have a problem.” There was no need for Dean and I to utter these words during our sojourn in this sprawling city, but it is a phrase known the world ever after immortalisation in the film ‘Apollo 13’ – the cinema account of the true story of NASA’s ill-fated 1970 lunar mission. Houston will always be synonymous with America’s space programme, and while the rockets may blast off from Cape Canaveral, Florida, mission control is most definitely in Texas. With boyish hopes of letting slip the surly bonds of earth, dancing across and above light-splintered clouds and touching, with outstretched hands through the stratospheres and the great beyond, the very face of God, Dean and I went boldly where no Radlett citizen has gone before, to the very heart, the epicentre itself, of America’s heralded space centre. Some criticise NASA for wasting money that could be spent on schools and hospitals and troops, while others simply argue that space travel is an irreverent irrelevance. Yet beyond the political infighting there remains something romantic and magical about exploring beyond the known world. President Kennedy summed it up when he explained that America would choose to go to the Moon “not because it is easy, but because it is hard” and because “the Moon is there, and the planets and the stars are there, and with them new hopes for mankind.” With these inspiring words in mind, the windscreen wipers in the Jeep moving at full speed, and the satellite navigation aimed at NASA HQ, it was one small step for man, and one giant leap for Dean and Sammy.

Which is why I am a little concerned to report that, having spent a good few hours at NASA, I am now reasonably convinced that there is more to the conspiracy theories regarding lunar fakery than meets the eye. Supposedly the main headquarters for NASA, the Space Centre seemed to lack any form of control, security, organisation, and basic management. We were waved into the $10 car-park, told we could leave the Jeep for free, and then somehow worked our way in to the centre itself without having to part with any money for a ticket. This culminated in getting aboard a monorail train that would take us through the many NASA sights, again supposedly for a nominal fee, but, in a neat twist of fate, completely free for Dean and I, ignored as we were by almost everybody in a position of authority. Our tour guides seemed bewildered, tired, haphazard, lacking much information about, for example, the mission control room, apart from to point out which seat the Queen had used when she once visited the centre. Questions on how the space shuttle works (and, to be fair, the exact replica size practice shuttle is an impressive specimen to view) were waved away with mere shrugs, and one supposedly senior NASA scientist appeared to drop his accreditation and security cards on the floor, in the middle of the viewing public, with the sort of carelessness that one would expect from a schoolboy, and not a salaried member of the world’s most pre-eminent space programme.

When it reached six o’clock, a janitor whose face resembled a skull emerged from the shadows and started shouting alarmingly loudly at small children to vacate the area and go home. It appeared to Dean and I that when this place closes for business, they mean it. “Get out!” shouted the man at Dean, who was enjoying playing with an exhibit where you can pretend to power up the lunar module all by yourself. Dean and I responded with a series of pranks and gestures across the main lobby floor of the centre, finding as much slapstick comedy out of the exhibits as possible while the janitor, always a few steps behind, desperately tried to make us, and the many screaming, shouting, crying children, leave the centre so that all the miserable employees could similarly go home and forget that they have to work there. What an odd place it was. Part awe-inspiring, part ridiculous; occasionally fascinating, often bewildering, and most definitely, for Dean and I at any rate, completely free of charge.

Please do not let this put you off visiting Houston, a city with real cultural appeal, big steaks and a cosmopolitan mix of interesting people. It’s just that for some reason the people at NASA had obviously not heard Kennedy’s speech, or familiarised themselves with why space exploration is important and exciting and wonderful, and why Houston is lucky to have the space centre in its environs. Perhaps Sam Seaborn from the television series ‘The West Wing’ sums that up better than I can:

“Because we came out of a cave and we made fire. We put wheels on the ground, ships on the sea, and planes in the sky; we gazed up at the heavens. The history of man is hung on a timeline of exploration. And this is what’s next.”

Austin:

We drove through the night from Houston to Austin, the state capital of Texas, and noticed the weather stat to clear as we made our way west. Arriving late at the motel, a decent sleep was in order before exploring this beautiful town over the course of the next day.

The next morning was bright and sunny, a return to form after the singular aberration of the previous day’s rain and gales. Throughout our trip to the United States, neither of us were particularly homesick. I had been concerned about missing Spurs matches, but thanks to the wonders of Fox Soccer Channel had actually managed to see more of my beloved side than I would have done in London. However, that Sunday morning in Austin made me miss home more than at any point on our trip thusfar. Why? Because Spurs had decided to wait for me to go to America before scoring a sensational nine goals in one game. Yes, I watched it. Yes, I was beyond elated. Nonetheless, when your team wins 9-1 you really do want to be there in person.

Still, if there is a way to put English football to the back of one’s mind it is to travel around a new city, and Austin duly obliged, with its tree-lined roads, impressive civic buildings, well-kept parklands and squares, and imposing state structures, including the state Capitol Building. Texas is, of-course, a large and important state, both politically and economically, and duly has an administrative and governmental building befitting the state’s role within the nation. With a domed roof and columned front, at the end of a long boulevard that itself is lined with statues and sculptures, flowers and well-spaced oak trees, the Capital Building can be seen for some distance around. The dome roof itself is particularly attractive, and inside a painted mural across the ceiling helps cement the fact that Texans are proud of their state and heritage, and are happy to display the state’s history in its central building. Large scale prints and paintings adorn the walls, featuring battle scenes, local politicians and frontiersmen at work: the men and moments that helped sculpt and form the republic of Texas, from Native Americans to the Spanish, the French, the British and then the revolutionaries, the pioneers, the oil men. Politically, we may be far removed from the sensibilities of Texan attitudes (though perhaps not so much in the major city centres), but there is no denying that they are proud of their ideals and culture, and the state’s standing as a key electoral battleground. We may rudely and disproportionately scoff at the politicking of Texas’s most famous son, President George W. Bush, a former Governor of Texas also, but he and his father (not to mention President Lyndon B. Johnson also) illustrate the power this state can have if you achieve high office here first.

Across from the state governmental buildings is the University of Texas campus – beautifully crafted and laid out, with its own mock Roman buildings and centres, glorious palm trees and finely cut grass quadrants, around which book stores and coffee shops lend a sense of organised bohemia to the otherwise Deep South sensibilities of the rest of the citizenry. Feeling at home amongst the scenery and the sunshine, Dean and I relaxed in a roadside café, dipping in and out of the New York Times Sunday supplement, planning the evening ahead, and enjoying a short interlude to our walking tour of the town.

By nightfall we were ready to head downtown. After our Halloween experience in New York, the word ‘downtown’ will forever be associated with our good friend Dylan Viner’s atonal rendition of the song of the same name, and taxi cab drivers across many states will no doubt have been bemused by the jocularity which Dean and I frequently linked to it when we asked them to take us there. In Austin’s case, downtown means the famous 9th Street, and the roads off of it, where live music and food outlets line the boulevards, complete with neon lights and hard-working tradesmen attempting to escort us into their establishment above any other. Although a Sunday evening, there was still a decent vibe and Dean and I enjoyed burgers, drinks and live music in an iconic setting before the fatigue of so many weeks travelling began to catch up with us. Inevitably our attentions turned to the past few fabulous weeks, and how much we had managed to achieve during that time. We still had Dallas to come, of-course, but as Sunday night turned into the early hours of Monday morning in Austin, Texas, we could not help but feel the first pangs of emotion at the prospect of returning to London. Determined to enjoy our final couple of days, we headed back to the hotel, aware of a long drive the next day towards a city famous the world over: Dallas, Texas. Forget who shot JR, a far more important murder mystery occurred here, in November 1963 – a moment and time in history that will live in infamy.

Dallas:

Like Houston, Dallas sprawls for miles around, encroaching into nearby Fort Worth and gobbling up the surrounding countryside with its miles of interstate and flyover systems. In the city centre, skyscrapers abound, but with architectural differences in style and structure that are synonymous with Chicago. These impressive buildings were not only tall; they looked fabulous, with varying angles, materials, and designs sitting close together in the financial district. The lack of uniformity, beyond their obvious height, made walking and driving around Dallas a pleasant experience, particular as the central roads and avenues are wide and pedestrian-friendly, inviting tourists to take a look around as they go about their business.

Dallas is an important city, and is the home to many international organisations, predominantly oil-based and with far-reaching economic capabilities. Like Houston, it is proud of its heritage, and deferent to the tragedy of November 1963 and the assassination of President Kennedy. Dallas is a real southern city, with cowboy hats, knee-high boots, and silver-buckled belts, all around. Politically to the right of centre, it still boasts rich cultural traditions and ethnic mixes, and is clearly an affluent urban zone, complete with large, gas-guzzling cars, giant portions in restaurants, and imposing buildings. Sam, who you will remember from Baton Rouge, told me that “everything is bigger in Texas.” She was right, certainly with regards to Dallas. On our first evening in the city, Dean and I ordered two of the largest steaks you are likely to see, complete with a side-order of potato-skins that would have been enough for five or six people. This was after enjoying our hotel’s complimentary milk and cookies reception.

Earlier we had travelled out of the centre to the largest shopping mall in Dallas, in order to finish off buying gifts for our families and perform a final, futile search for some Major League Soccer jerseys. Amidst American Eagle, Abercrombie, Hollister and Dean’s beloved Urban Outfitters (I believe Dean made at least one Urban purchase in every city we travelled to), we found a bonafide cowboy shop, similar to the beautifully crafted independent store that we popped into in Dexter, Michigan, with Adam Jacobs, some weeks previously. Amidst the belts, the spurs (!), the checked shirts and boots, the gunslingers and holsters, we found a bewilderingly large display of real cowboy hats. Jacking up my own jeans as high as they could go, and placing my thumbs into my pockets, I paced up and down the store in different cowboy hats, perfecting a southern drawl of an accent, and preparing to draw my pistol at the slightest interference. Dallas is the start point of the age-old Wild West, and I was determined to look the part with a cowboy hat of my own. It was a battle between my financial budget and my fashion sense. The town wasn’t big enough for the two of them. I bought the cowboy hat and presented it to my Dad at Heathrow Airport, having insisted on wearing it on the plane. It makes saying “Howdy ya’ll” all the more rewarding.

That night Dean and I found a specialist steak joint and toasted our adventures. We’d come a long way: literally and metaphorically. As the vodka flowed, and we delivered talking heads to the camera about our feelings on what we’d seen and experienced, and the people we had met, it dawned on both of us that returning to London was going to be difficult. In order to stave off the blues we moved to a number of different bars and, true to form, found the locals to be friendly and accommodating, so much so that a waitress in one bar came over and informed us that a businesswoman at the other side of the bar wanted to buy us a drink. Dean chased up her name and number. What came of it? You’ll have to ask Dean.

Dallas has a congenial air about it, friendly and engaging, where the people (true of Texas in general actually) are pleased to talk and listen, and keen to often their opinions on a multitude of subjects. Particularly interesting was to hear political opinion that goes against the grain of British views on US politics, without resorting to the sort of bigotry or ignorance that we in the UK like to pretend characterises much of the south. The reality of course is much different, and Dean and I found intelligent and informed Republicans who offered a diverging view with clarity and insight.

The social transparency of Dallas was maintained the following morning as we made our way to the Texas Book Store Depository, just a few blocks from our hotel, in beautiful Texas sunshine. To the naked eye this rather uniform building may seem irrelevant, but within its confines, in the corner room on the sixth floor, Lee Harvey Oswald loaded a gun and fired numerous shots towards President John F Kennedy’s presidential motorcade as it travelled through the centre of Dallas. Kennedy, and his wife Jacqui, were in the car, with Vice President Johnson, native of Dallas, in the car just behind. Waving to the crowds in his open-top Cadillac, Kennedy exuded optimism and hope in a new America, a shining new era of Camelot. In the ensuing confusion and fear, the anguish and terror, part of America’s soul was taken, lost on that fateful day as a young president in his prime was gunned down by a crazed assassin. Whether conspiracy or the actions of a singular mad man, the impact of this event resonated across the world. Big Ben, in the heart of London town, chimed once every minute of Kennedy’s funeral while the Queen’s guards stood in silent salute. The attention of the planet was on Dallas, Texas.

Forty-six years later, and outside the building on the road that passes it, a simple ‘x’ can be found: the exact spot where the bullets hit. Across the street is a memorial to JFK, a permanent plaque, statue, water feature and walkway leading towards the fated road and the infamous grass knoll alongside. Inside the building a museum and exhibit goes through, in minutiae detail, the events of 22 November 1963 and what it meant to America and the world at large. After coming through a revolutionary battle, a civil war, two world wars, and in the midst of civil rights struggles, the murder of JFK changed the United States of America indelibly. It scarred a nation, knocked its confidence and focussed minds on healing what Kennedy’s brother Robert later called the ‘mindless menace of violence’ that stalked the streets. Decades later this work is not finished, despite the political therapy of President Johnson’s social reform bills, or President Reagan’s inspiring oratory, or President Obama’s historic election.

People refer to the Kennedy administration wistfully, using the phrase ‘for one brief, shining moment’ to illustrate its beauty, its ambition and its tragic temporary status. Is Camelot back in America today? From what Dean and I saw and experienced there is certainly a new sense of civic pride and hope and enthusiasm in a more tolerant and socially inclusive land, despite its still evident polarisation. Kennedy would argue that the work of America is never finished, that the pyramid on a $1 bill is deliberately not completed because the point of this nation, and the real sentiment behind America’s fervent ideals, is that the American dream is continuous. It is not an end goal or a place or a specific: it is a state of mind, and one encapsulated by John F Kennedy and his own era of Camelot. Yet look at what has happened here since Kennedy’s epoch was halted all too early by the bullet rather than the ballot: the end of segregation, man on the moon, economic upturns, the election of Obama.

It may be perplexing that Dean and I found this part of Dallas, Texas, to be a fitting end point for our trip: a place of carnage and chaos, of bloodshed and disaster, yet the beauty of America is how this nation deals with its challenges, as the fictional President Bartlett reminds us: “Every time we feel we have measured our capacity to meet a challenge, we look up and we are reminded that this capacity may well be limitless.” Everywhere we travelled we saw hopefulness and friendliness and great pride, so to be taken to the scene of a great American tragedy having just witnessed America’s present confidence and positivity was an important and rewarding experience, filling both of us with an immense sense of pride, hope, happiness and our own spoken and private ambitions: emotions that made a long journey back to London seem a little less trying, a little less difficult.

From Boston to Dallas, with everything that came in between, Dean and I lived America: from the skyscrapers of New York and Chicago, to the plains of Louisville, Nashville and Memphis; from the stunning campuses and people of Ann Arbor and Baton Rouge, to the dividing lines of Birmingham, the colour and vibrancy of New Orleans, the sprawl and confidence of Houston, colourfulness of Austin, and importance of Dallas.

For a few spectacular weeks, Dean and I were in America. We’ll be back, of course, but for both of us the American dream is no foreign and imagined concept: for one brief shining moment we lapped up this magnificent country, yet we will live the American dream forever.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbour that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Emma Lazarus, ‘The New Colossus’, New York City, 1883, now adorning the Statue Of Liberty.

US Road Trip - Video Diary: Baton Rouge

Baton Rouge: What Is Happening Now?

USA - Baton Rouge, Louisiana

I envisaged the big cities posing me the most problems. Fitting New York, Chicago, New Orleans, et al, into manageable blogs would be tough tasks, given their size and attractions, not to mention our close friends who live there. Yet now, as I type this in the Jeep heading away from this wonderful town, I feel no words I choose can do justice to our four-day sojourn here, a stay that saw us arrive and meet new people, and leave having made good friends. It was exciting, it was funny, it was emotional, it had a million-dollar tiger. We planned to stay one night; we went home four days later. Baton Rouge, you are in my heart now and always.

Before I explain the emotional effect of this Mississippi river town on both Dean and I, perhaps it would help to describe how we ended up there in the first place. Rewind two years or so, and Dean is searching Facebook for the popular actress Katie Holmes. It will come as no surprise to you to learn that Dean was not successful in befriending Tom Cruise’s wife. What Dean did manage, however, was to become friends with a girl from Louisiana called, wait for it, Katie Holmes. Studying at Louisiana State University at Baton Rouge, Katie and Dean’s friendship was integral to the two of us visiting this town. This is the beauty of the revolution we live in today. The world is smaller than it ever has been, broken into manageable pieces by new media and technology that allows a boy from London and a girl from the Deep South to become good friends, chatting most days, without ever meeting each other. If Dean had not decided to find a Scientology celebrity on Facebook, we may never have wound up in Baton Rouge and, in turn, I may not have had an amazing week there, a week which included one of the best days and nights of my life.

Returning to the present, Dean was excited about meeting Katie face to face for the first time, while I was simply interested in sampling a new city in America. As we drove up to Baton Rouge, in pleasant sunshine, we had the car stereo turned up high and became increasingly excited about a stay in a University town. I could never have guessed that I would be feeling so utterly dejected about leaving, just a few days later. Reading this, you may find it hard to understand why this is the case. Baton Rouge is not exactly famous, or commercially important to anybody from Britain. They say that the people make a place. For Baton Rouge, this is especially true. So, Sam, Katie, Ashli, Katelyn, Megan, Emily and Dominique (and everyone else we met), thank you making our trip to America that little bit better.

Before explaining what Dean and I actually did in Baton Rouge, and why that contributed to the amazing time we had, a word or two is due about the cityscape. With palm trees and oak-lined avenues, beautiful lakeside walks and impressive colonial mansions, Baton Rouge looks fabulous, particularly on a sunny day. The State House (Baton Rouge is the state capital of Louisiana) was particularly grand, with a towering structure supported by the State Senate and State House of Representatives on either side of it, reached by a walk up step that bare the name of every state in America. Built by a rather narcissistic and egotistical Governor, it bestrides the town, visible from a fair distance, and yet strangely fits perfectly despite its gargantuan size (the tallest State Capital building in America).

The Mississippi River is also prominent in Baton Rouge, which also enjoys the position of being America’s fifth largest inland port. A key moment in our stay was on the banks of the river during the early evening of our second day in the city. Sam was keen for Dean and I to watch the sun set over the opposite bank of the river, and Katie and Dean, and Sam and I, standing at slightly different viewpoints, were not disappointed by a glorious Magic Hour, with red lights sparkling over the water, and a crescent moon slowly emerging from the darkening sky like a half-finished halo high above our heads. Drawn in by the peaceful sounds of the lapping water and Sam’s engaging conversation, the dramatic vista and her passionate explanation of her life, interests and future plans, there was no other place I would have wanted to be.

Louisiana State University (LSU) is the dominant infrastructure in Baton Rouge, and adds to its aesthetic appeal. Sorority Row, for example, with its colonnade style houses looking out on to the lake, and marked by well-grown oak trees and the flights of local pelicans, was a particularly attractive part of town, both for the view and, of-course, the lovely Sorority girls who lived there. Looming large over the university campus is the main football stadium, home of the LSU Tigers, and housing over 90,000 people. Next to the stadium is a one-million dollar dwelling for the Tigers official mascot: Michael the Tiger, a fearsome beast who stalked his cage and regarded his British photographers with initial resentment and subsequent indifference. It is certainly a million miles from the University of Nottingham, who have no stadium, let alone a tiger. We knew already that college sport is huge in America, and LSU was no exception. The colours of purple and yellow were everywhere to be seen, and students and alumni alike take pride in their institution’s sporting success.

The campus itself is staggering, with impressive columned buildings (particularly the union building, plus the Music and Dramatic Arts department and the Law building), bustling quadrants, neat coffee shops and retail outlets, and expansive parkland where students relax, sunbathe or play pick-up games of Frisbee, football (ours and theirs), or baseball. It was hard, when walking around, not to feel like studying here would have been inspiring and a lot of fun, and consequently be jealous of those that do have that opportunity. Certainly there was something about LSU that Dean and I feel very much at ease with and at home. No doubt the girls we became close friends with aided that, but the campus itself had a feel of familiarity: Nottingham uni-park, with beautiful women and palm trees. And a tiger.

Comfortable in our surroundings, then, Dean and I already forewarned our hotel reception that we may be extending our stay from the initially booked one night. Our first few hours in Baton Rouge helped us come to this understanding. We were picked up by Katie and her friend Ashli, who has such an enthusiastic attitude about her, constantly energetic and interested, keen to learn and chat, with an impressive turn in comedy, that we were already laughing and enjoying ourselves within just a few minutes. Less funny was Ashli’s driving ability, which was frankly terrifying. We visited the State Capital building, posed for photos in the Senate and House of Representatives, and then headed for the girls’ Sorority, Chi Omega. Dean had visited a Sorority before, but this was my first experience. Obviously there is something appealing about going into a beautiful house, full of wood-panels, lush sofas, grand pianos and, well, women. Within a few moments of being inside Chi Omega, we had completed two girls’ crossword puzzle for them, and befriended two new girls in Emily and Dominique, before then being introduced to Megan, whose soccer shirt was obviously the subject of some interest for Dean and I. A huge fan of both ‘Harry Potter’ and ‘Friends’, Megan and I went round-for-round on key trivia from both of these cultural institutions.

Reluctantly leaving the house (admittedly, we had not eaten all day), the girls took us to a bar-restaurant called Chimes. This was a busy bistro, with sports on television, loud music, and good food. It was here that I tried my first po’boy, with the famed local catfish inside. Ashli impressed us by ordering alcohol with the frequency and tenacity of the very best British chavs (in-joke), Sam became the first American I have ever seen order a salad, and Dean and I settled in to our first night in the city. Excited by what lay in store, our hotel room turned into a rock concert as we prepared ourselves for the evening plans. There may be, somewhere in the vast entity of digital technology, a video of me dancing around the room to ‘Thunderbirds Are Go’ by Busted, but sadly this is restricted viewing.

Katie and Ashli picked us up again from our hotel. Mercifully, Katie was driving. We were taken to a trendy bar called Tsunami, situated on the top floor of the Baton Rouge Art Museum, and featuring a balcony looking out over the Mississippi. Tsunami would fit in well with any fashionable London nightspot, with its ambient lighting and music. Made to feel so welcome by the girls, we enjoyed debating the finer points of modern music, art, film, television, cultural and political differences between the UK and the USA, and observations of the awkward first date taking place between the cigar-smoking man and high-heeled woman at the table next to us. Following on from Tsunami, Sam, Katie, Ashley, Dean and I headed on to Happy’s. This was a rather different bar, with a digital juke box, sticky floors, and one drunk man with a dog. Feeling the warmth of both the company and the drinks, conversation flowed freely, videos were captured, photos taken, and music enjoyed (provided by Sam’s $15 dollar coup d’état of the juke box).

Even later, as the night turned into early morning, we were taken to the Baton Rouge institution that is Louie’s café, a joint that served full portions of food into the small hours, including a supersize portion of burger and chips for Dean and one of the larger plates of hash-browns in culinary history for me. The girls bemoaned their early starts the next morning; Dean and I toasted our lack of any need to set an alarm (despite a brief flirtation with attempting to organise a morning coffee meet-up). Perhaps it was because we were back in a student environment, slipping into our university ways like old friends greeting each other at an airport arrivals gate, but Dean and I were more relaxed than at any other part of our trip, safe in the knowledge that we had good friends to show us around, and a picturesque town within which to get to know them all better.

Wednesday, then, and with a blazing hot sun shining down on Baton Rouge, we emerged bleary-eyed in our Jeep, heading towards the central campus area to meet Katie, Sam and Ashli and look at a giant tiger. Michael, the tiger in question, is housed in an enclosure that took millions of dollars to build, and is brought out on to the field alongside the cheerleaders at every Louisiana football game. Once, we were told, Michael managed to remove himself from his bindings and run with glee through the stadium, while cheerleaders, marching band members and spectators alike, panic-stricken and bemused, raced for the comparative safety of the exits. The image, of a rampaging tiger and screaming American sports fan, still makes me chuckle days later.

Katie, Ashli and Sam were enthusiastic tour-guides, showing us where they live and work, taking us into their world in a friendly and personal way, allowing us glimpses of real life in this part of the world, introducing us to their friends and teachers, their classrooms, coffee joints and quadrants. After much working, we returned with them to the Chi-O house, where we lounged on sofas or at the piano, planning the night ahead and getting to know this lovely group of girls even better. Our progress from strangers to close friends was interrupted only by Dean and I heading out to the front lawn, looking glorious in the late afternoon sunshine by the tranquil lake, to kick a real, proper, British football around. If I had one criticism of America, it would be their complete lack of understanding of the beautiful game, that steadfast grip they refuse to yield up for stop-start sporting pursuits like American Football and basketball. It felt good to wrap my foot round a bonafide ‘soccer-ball’ once again, even if it did delay our trip to the riverside to watch the aforementioned sunset by just a few minutes. Eventually, however, and after Sam stepped in to stop us bending it like Beckham any further, we headed for the river’s edge. In one’s life, there may only be a few moments of near-perfection, where the place you are in and what you are feeling merge together in unison and harmony, where everything and everyone fuse together in a symbiosis of symmetry and synchronization. That’s how it felt on the outpost overlooking the river, with the sun slowly setting.

Another period of hotel-based reflection and preparation followed before Sam and Katie took us to meet Katelyn and Ashli at The Bulldog, a pub-bar close to the university that had cheap beer and shots, combining flowing booze with genial company and a bustling trade. It was here that the girls taught us a secret Chi-O chant regarding the drinking of shots, which alas I cannot commit to paper as to do so would break an impressive dedication to preserving the secret sacraments of Sorority life. Sororities, for all their Hollywood-ised sexual motifs, actually exist as important traditional communities, where girls can enjoy university safely and securely, where they can more easily make close friends and partake in both academic and charity work. They are like large, residential societies, and as such come with their own rituals, conventions and initiations, alongside philanthropic efforts that UK colleges could certainly learn from. Many of these traditions are secret, protecting a bond between members of the Sorority that, in some cases, stretch back many years. In this way, there is a code, a sense of honour, duty and companionship that is admirable and should be noted. Certainly, the Chi-O girls we met were well-mannered, interesting, intelligent, kind and fun. The girls we became such good friends with illustrate all these attributes and demonstrate why Sororities (and Fraternities, I suppose) work.

We lost track of time in The Bulldog, and eventually only myself, Dean, Katie and Sam remained out of the initial group. From the campus walk to the Chi-O lounge chat, from the Mississippi sunset to the subsequent Best Western Hotel sunrise: it was a perfect twenty-four hours.

Our travels in America have provided us with so many wonderful moments and places and people. We have slept little and partied much, driven far and walked extensively. Consuming food and alcohol and culture and new sights as much as Dean and I have, it is not surprising to learn that in an epic adventure there will inevitably be moments of epic fatigue. The sheer wall of tiredness that hit us later the following day, after an almost unbroken twenty-four hours, was immense, and it was only with a supreme effort that we made it back on to campus by the early afternoon, for a few hours of football and guitar playing, not to mention snoozing, on the main parkland of the University. That night, the majority of the girls had booked tickets to see British star Robert Pattinson pout his way through the latest ‘Twilight’ film, leaving Dean and I in the capable hands of the beautiful Sam, who took us to Bogie’s. I can only describe Bogie’s as the most ‘college bar’-looking college bar in the entire United States of America. Think ‘American Pie’, think red cups and short skirts, think loud music and strange fashions. Dean, of course, was in his element, and began speeding down a road to all-out intoxication, working his way through a number of introductions set up by Sam, even managing to find coordination within his inebriation to dance with complete strangers. Sam and I enjoyed Dean’s descent into utter ridiculousness, observing his antics from the relative safety of general sobriety (give or take a vodka-water with extra lime or two). How much Dean remembered the next day is a question for the great man himself. I can only tell you that, during the course of the evening, Dean made near perfect strangers shout famous quotes from the London Underground at our camera, posed for photos wearing a tiara, and convinced two sets of girls that he and I really were the Jonas Brothers.

You will have noted that I have described three nights in Baton Rouge. It was initially only meant to be one. I cannot explain how pleased I am that we stayed for longer. Indeed, we even considered driving back to this safe haven of laughter, friendship, romance and sunsets after just one night in neighbouring Texas. In hindsight, however, it is better to leave wanting more. Certainly, I know that Dean and I will spend time with all the lovely people we met in Baton Rouge once again. A European travelling trip is in the offing for many of these girls, and we will be counting the months until we can join them in Paris and welcome them in London.

From a personal point of view, I was able to get to know someone’s lifestyle, geography, culture, their hopes and fears in the town where they live, and remain excited to reciprocate in a few months time. It is hard to meet people and leave them, to say goodbyes that mean ‘see you soon’, to drive away (at 7pm the next day, rather than the intended 1.30pm) with so much unspoken and yet so much experienced. We kept hearing the song ‘Fireflies’ by Owl City throughout our few days in Baton Rouge, but it was only after leaving that I fully understood the lyrics. These girls were our fireflies, and our trip to America has been enhanced in so many ways by being with them. We’ll be ‘calling Baton Rouge’ forever. Trust me.

“I’d like to make myself believe that Planet Earth turns slowly,
It’s hard to say but I’d like to stay awake when I’m asleep,
Coz everything is never as it seems.

To ten million fireflies I’m weird coz I hate goodbyes,
Got misty-eyed as they said farewell…”
Owl City, ‘Fireflies’.