Billy Connolly's Route 66_ The Big Yin on the Ultimate American Road Trip - Billy Connolly [67]
As I continued to ride through the Sunflower State, I became slightly despondent. I’d been assured that although Route 66’s passage through Kansas was short, it boasted a surprisingly large number of fried chicken shacks – fourteen in just thirteen miles – and all of them teeming with customers buying up to five thousand chicken dinners a day. I’d even been promised a Scottish connection, because fried chicken was allegedly a traditional Scottish dish. This was news to me, so I was determined to investigate. But do you know what? There was nothing but a great big hole where I was expecting hustle, bustle and the sweet smell of chicken fat.
Making a television travelogue can occasionally turn into a crap shoot. And I hate it when that happens. I arrived at Chicken Annie’s in Pittsburg, Kansas – a slight detour off Route 66, but I’m prepared to suffer for my art – expecting to find hundreds of people wolfing down their dinner. Instead, there were about four cars in the car park, and inside it looked like the dining room in an old folks’ home. I’d schlepped all the way over there only to discover it was the dullest fucking place on earth. I’d been promised a string of chicken businesses, all jostling with each other for trade, but when I stood outside Chicken Annie’s, I couldn’t see any sign of a single shack. There was one other chicken shop, but it was way behind some trees. There was no fucking competition whatsoever.
I had this weird feeling, like I was spiralling downwards. I couldn’t think of anything to say about the place, and I started to doubt everything. Kansas was turning into a big disappointment. I’d not been there before, and I doubted I’d return. As for the suggestion that fried chicken was a traditional Scottish dish … that was bullshit, too. I’ve never known a single Scot who makes a fuss over chicken. And I’ve never seen a single Scottish cookbook that features recipes for fried chicken. It was a non-story and it left me feeling a bit like the centre of a doughnut. Empty.
The combination of Precious Moments and the chicken shack fiasco meant I finished the day in a foul mood. But sometimes I find a kind of comfort in being grumpy. There’s a feeling of righteousness, a sense of being the great misunderstood, which is probably bollocks, but comforting all the same. At least I knew it would pass, and that something else would show up. Something interesting would stick its head up, and I’d be intrigued by it. That’s the glory of Route 66 – there’s always something new around the corner.
It would have been great to end the day with a feeling of a job well done. If I’d achieved anything, I could have nipped upstairs to my room, lain back on my bed and watched Ghost Finders on the telly before falling asleep with a sense of satisfaction. I didn’t see that happening tonight. But then I remembered Rob and his crazy collection. It seemed so long ago that I’d met him, but it had only been that morning. I’d had a good chat with him. I’d known my stuff and he’d certainly known his. Maybe the day hadn’t been so bad after all. In fact, as long as I thought about Rob surrounded by all his instruments in his anonymous warehouse in the middle of nowhere, I felt pretty good.
Oklahoma City Looks Oh So Pretty
A sign by the side of the road, then a slight thud under the wheels as one section of tarmac ended and another began. Those were the only indications that I’d slipped out of Kansas. ‘You Are Now Entering Oklahoma On Historic Route 66’, said the sign.
In many ways, Oklahoma is the heart and soul of Route 66. Although Springfield was the birthplace of the road’s moniker, Oklahoma was the home state of Cyrus Avery, the man who chose that name. And it boasts more miles of original Route 66 than any other state. Somewhat ironically, it was also the first state to bypass the Mother Road, dealing an early death blow in 1953 when it opened the Turner Turnpike (later part of the oppressive