You know the classic cowboy movie bar scene; raucous, festive. The pianola player desperately keeps the urgent tempo of the room alive with “Yellow Rose of Texas” or some other favourite saloon tune. In the far corner, a drunk wrangler has passed out within the confines of the ample cleavage of Laura May, the well-worn town hooker. Two cowboys rassle at the end of the bar. At the other end a drifter sits alone, Stetson hat dipped below shady eyes, downing continuous shots of the roughest moonshine west o’ the Pecos. Front and centre a group of gentlemen — the mayor, the sheriff, a poor farmer, the saloon owner and a renowned bootlegger –– play poker at a large table. The game started out gentlemanly enough but as the whiskey flows, tempers begin to flare, words are exchanged, tables are upturned. It’s loud, smoky and pretty damn rough.
Then John Wayne rolls into town, a stranger in these here parts. He shackles his horse to the hitchin‘ post, boardwalks toward the bar and unceremoniously kicks in the saloon doors. In that split second, beneath the shadow of John Wayne’s lean silhouette manfully dominating the saloon entrance, everyone and everything stops. The pianola music grounds to a deafening halt. The cowboys cease their rasslin‘. The poker game, now an afterthought, stops. Even the drunk wrangler wakes up from his boozy, flesh-pillowed slumber. He comically lifts his head, tilts it to one side as the dopiest of confused expressions spreads across his stubbled, fat face, stares at John Wayne, mouths something incomprehensible, then in a groggy swirl collapses his head back into Laura May’s motherly bosom. The only person seemingly unaffected by this is the drifter sitting at the bar. He coolly downs another shot of moonshine. All other eyes though are on John Wayne, the stranger. Everyone is frozen, everyone is silent.
What will happen next?
Well, from first-hand experience, let me tell you.
John Wayne’s name was Marion
A not–so–manly silhouette stands in the entrance of a bar door in Paris, Texas (cue Ry Cooder slide guitar accompaniment). Nobody notices. The silhouette walks inside. Turns out that it is indeed some sort of man. He walks up to the bar. Nobody notices. The bartender looks surly, gruff, Texan.
“Ahh yeah, g’day. Umm do you know what sports channels you have? Do you have Eurosports? I umm want to watch the ahh soccer.”
Screeeeeech!
The immediate area surrounding me seemed to go dead quiet. Now people were noticing. To me, this was quite surreal.
“Ahh yeah, umm I’m from Australia and it’s the Asian Cup final and ahh it’s in Sydney and we’ve never actually won a trophy before and uhh South Korea. You know? Tim Cahill.”
At least that’s what I think I said. Judging by the stink-eye I was getting from the bartender I may have been speaking even more gibberish than I thought.
Now, at this point, this is where John Wayne would have said something cool and confident. Something succinct. Something witty. Not me though. No.
“Come on man, you don’t have Eurosports or something? Just this NFL shit huh?”
This brought a weak smile to the bartender’s face. Or it may have been gas brought on by the serious amount of jalapenos he and an elderly African-American gentleman were sharing. Everyone goes back to what they were doing. The bartender offers me a jalapeno. Much to his disappointment I eat it without flinching. I’m in.
“Well I kin have a look for ya suh, where y’all from?”
Once we established that yes, there are indeed a lot of kangaroos in Australia and yes, Paul Hogan is looking kind of strange lately, we actually all hit it off pretty well. Plenty of robust discussion about NFL, soccer, the upcoming Super Bowl and how I really couldn’t give a stuff about it. My sexuality was questioned with much jocularity, the existence of my wife, also questioned, I rationalised that America has the five most boring sports in the world, we drank Coors and a fun time was had by all. Suck that, John Wayne.
No soccer on the TV though.
“T’ain’t a man’s game, no suh” was the general consensus around the bar.
My seriously laboured point is this. I could not give a flying fuck about the Super Bowl and yes, America, as great as the land is, has the five most boring sports on the planet: baseball, basketball, hockey, Nascar and the NF fuckin’ L.
God what a horrible game it is.
So my plan for Super Bowl Sunday was this: Myself, together with my lovely wife (who does actually exist) were to spend the day canoeing and picnicking on the eerily beautiful Lake Caddo on the Texas/Louisiana border. No Super Bowl out there. No macho bullshit. Just the tranquillity of nature and the shrill scream of my wife each time I splash freezing water in her face with the paddle. It was going to be a great day.
This never eventuated.
The view from Uncertain, Texas
Lake Caddo: eerily Southern Gothic
I wake up to a sound that can only be described as Texas weirdos shooting at our RV with machine guns. I jump out of bed and race to the window. Ahh that makes much more sense. Rain. Seriously heavy rain. OK, no canoeing. So I made a cup of tea and planned a lovely day of reading instead.
I get through about three chapters of Nick Cave’s The Death of Bunny Munro (not his best work as it turns out) when I’m interrupted by a message on my phone. It’s from this guy Engel. He’s an editor or something for this rag tag online publication… Shoot something… I don’t know. He’s suggesting that if I feel like it, he would love to put up a Super Bowl article. I let out an exaggerated breath of defeated air. “Fuck it” I thought to myself. Bunny Munro‘s not doing it for me anyway. The signs are there. Everything’s pointing to me having to endure the Super Bowl.
Fast forward four hours and there I am, standing on the edge of the nearest town, Uncertain, Texas. Population: 94. Could there be a more apt name for a town. I walk down the main street. The Bald Cypresses jutting out of the lake in the misty rain coupled with the fact that there is absolutely no one out on the street is kind of freaking me out. A wagon wheel and a whiskey barrel resting on a local’s front porch slightly eases my worried mind. A pick-up truck passes. An old man rides past on a bike. He nods in my direction. I walk from start to end of Uncertain. There isn’t a single bar in this place. How the hell am I going to watch the Super Bowl? Here we go again. I seem to have an annoying habit of frantically looking around random out of the way places for coverage of sporting matches at the last minute. Why change now?
Now, I’m not a religious man but if there was ever a time to start believing in some sort of higher power it was now. Just when all hope seemed lost, I saw the light. And a sign. The light was coming from the Uncertain First Pentecostal Church. And the sign, it read Super Bowl showing here.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
At the door I was greeted by a lady who can only be described as a nicer, less gossipy version of Helen Lovejoy. She was charging a five dollar entry. All proceeds go to the church. Why the hell not.
In a town of 94 people, I’m pretty certain that 90 of them were there watching this non-event unfold. After agreeing that yes, Mel Gibson has let himself down lately and no, I’m 100% certain that the band Tool are not from Australia, I was once again accepted into the fold as an honorary Texan. This time I pretended that I and all my fellow Australians love the Super Bowl. It’s just easier that way. There was even a good ol‘ fashioned Texas BBQ on the church grounds… steak, buffalo, catfish, crawdad with all the fixin’s. Budweiser and Coors was also served, thank God. One dollar a tall boy (big bloody can) all proceeds going to the Uncertain First Pentecostal Church. Only alcohol could make this sport interesting.
Which segues me beautifully to the half-time show. It may have been the copious amounts of alcohol now punching the hell out of my liver but, wasn’t the Katy Perry half-time show just brilliant! I’m being serious by the way. It had everything. Dancing sharks. Fireworks. Tigers. An insane amount of pink. Three thousand costume changes in 10 minutes, some dude named Lenny Kravitz and the highlight, the always awesome Missy Elliott. Child and geriatric alike were left speechless in our little congregation. What a performance! And to all you guys out there whose wives and girlfriends seem to take an eternity to get ready, just show them the Katy Perry half-time show. Those costume changes were incredible! Katy, you are awesome.
OK, show‘s over, time to go home. Wait… what? Oh yeah. The “game”.
Now, I’m sorry if you are expecting a comprehensive match report. (Who was playing again?) It ain’t gonna happen. In honour of that great Simpson’s Super Bowl episode (Sunday, cruddy Sunday) where there was not one iota of football action to be seen throughout the entire episode, I hereby declare a ban on any reporting on the Super Bowl in this particular Super Bowl related article. To be completely truthful, I would just be making it all up anyway. I can honestly say that with what little of the game I actually did see, I had no bloody idea what was going on. Every time I looked up at the screen, nothing, and I mean nothing, was happening.
Geena’s Catfish Gumbo
So, instead, here is a great recipe for Catfish Gumbo that Geena, a lovely octogenarian born and bred in Uncertain, passed on to me:
1/3 gallon water
ground black pepper to taste
cajun seasoning to taste
chicken stock to taste
hot sauce to taste
1/2 clove fresh diced garlic
1/2 diced brown onion
1/2 cup diced celery
2 fresh okra or zucchini
4 tomatoes
1 can tomato paste
1 bell pepper
splash of canola oil
2 tablespoons plain flour
1 to 2 catfish (depending on size, cut into big chunks)
1/2 to one packet of white rice depending on taste
Combine bell pepper, garlic, cajun seasoning in a bowl. Add canola oil. Fry.
Heat canola oil in pot. Add bowl with bell pepper, garlic and cajun seasoning. Add onion and celery. Cook and stir. Add flour. Stir until mixed through. Add water. Stir.
Add okra or zucchini, tomatoes and paste. Stir.
Bring to the boil, reduce heat and simmer for one hour.
Add catfish. Stir.
Simmer for 30 minutes.
Can be served with rice mixed through or with rice separately.
Thank you, Geena.
Stupid bloody sport.
