I fought the law

Did you see this? A free pistol with every car bought from a dealership in Missouri.

It’s a familiar story - in Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine there’s a bank that gives away a free rifle with every account opened - but the quotes from the owner make it particularly funny, I think.

“We’re just damn glad to live in a free country where you can have a gun if you want to…We all go to church on Sunday and we all carry guns.”

Quite.

In a country where guns are still pretty rare (despite what the Boris-and-Dave-Show would tell you) this sort of attitude seems completely alien.

“Hell, yeah! Let’s all get loaded and go up the ranch and shoot some buck-shot off! Yee-haw!”

Etcetera, etcetera.

The right to bear arms. Americans (not all of them, admittedly) love it.

But it’s all a bit of a myth. What the second amendment to the constitution actually says is this:

“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”

Now, that’s a little vague I guess, but really it means in the early years of the country coming to terms with independence and then the days of the wild west it probably wasn’t a bad idea to carry a gun. This was back in the days where fighting with Native Americans was a bit more organised and before police departments sprung up across the entire country. Having been to the USA I would suggest that a well regulated militia (and doesn’t that imply a better more organisation than just registration documents) outside the regional and national police services is not necessary for the security of the state.

It’s kind of doing all right on its own.

In fact, crossing the states we had more encounters with police than I think I’ve ever had in this country.

(oh, hang on - there was the time I got a lift home after a few drinks when I was sixteen, but otherwise I think I’m pretty much clean)

In the space of two weeks we had three meetings with law enforcement agencies. One was when entering an Native American reservation where they had set up a roadblock and were searching cars for alcohol.

There was the time Beck got pulled over for speeding in Texas, the preamble to which went something like this:

“That’s a police car over there,” I say taking my feet off the dashboard.

“I know,” she replies barely glancing at it.

“Do you know what the speed limit is?”

“No,” we shoot past the idling car.

“H’mmm, you’re going quite fast. I’d slow down if I were you.”

Beck checks the rear view mirror. “He’s turning around and heading this way.”

“Could be a coincidence. The only town for about sixty miles is in front of us. Keep an eye on him.”

“He’s put his lights on!”

“You better pull over.”

“I could try and outrun him.”

“I’d just pull over if I were you.”

Mildly amusing. Funnier when taken into the context of our third meeting with the police about three hours earlier. We’d been in Big Bend National Park, on the border of Mexico, and about twenty miles out of the park there’s a customs point. We got flagged in, a little pointlessly because whilst we’d been for a look at Mexico we’d not actually crossed the line. Beck was driving again.

“Evening ma’am,” the officer said taking off his shades and leaning into the car. Three other officers came out of the temporary building on the side of the road. “You guys been across the border?”

“Nope,” we say in unison.

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I need to see your passports.”

I rummage around in my pockets. Beck says: “Mine’s in the boot.”

“You keep your passport in your shoes?” They both look as confused as the other.

“In the trunk,” I try to clarify.

“We need to make sure you ain’t been to none of them Islamist countries, like Turkey,” one of the other officers says. I look at the large Turkey stamp in my passport and wonder whether it’s worth pointing out that as a member of NATO and a secular government Turkey’s kind of pretty low of their list of rogue states.

Fortunately everyone gets distracted.

Beck has, by now, got out the car and opened the trunk/boot. “It’s in here somewhere,” she chatters happily along to the officer standing next to her. Now, in the car park at San Francisco airport it took us ages to actually make the car move forwards. I could cope with the automatic gear-boxt fine, but the fact that the hand brake was in the foot well confused the hell out of me.

Beck has simply forgotten it’s existence.

I suddenly become aware that I am rolling away from the officer at my window.

“Hey, we’ve got a run-away,” he shouts.

I dive across into the driver’s foot well and hold the brake pedal down.

“Dave, sweetie, could you pop the handbrake on, please?”

“Right you are,” I call back, upside down next to the pedals.

On second thoughts, perhaps Americans do need to bear arms if two gormless English tourists attempting to drive implausible distances in a short period of time can happily occupy half of Texas’ police force for an evening.