Why not wet your whistle and practice using your mouse's scroll-wheel by reading the first chapter of the book, detailing the crime spree’s origin? After reading, you’ll be glad you came to your senses and decided against the impulse purchase.

CHAPTER ONE

Absolute Balderdash

‘A wanghee? What the hell is a wanghee?’
            The game had reached a critical stage and I delayed my response playing for time as I put pen to paper a definition to the word.
            Parlour games have never reached Olympic status and the acclaim one receives for winning is fairly minor – but if a civil board game amongst friends could ever host a significant and competitive finish, it was this one - and this final round was crucial.

It was Christmas Day and I had left my friends in the pub in order to play Balderdash with my 11-year-old neighbour Lewis Ellis and his family. The predictable anticlimactic, turkey-overloaded feeling of the holiday was taking over and I was glad to join the party where the joys of 25 December were still being felt.
            Balderdash is like a board game version of Call My Bluff and it’s a favourite yuletide game in the Ellis household. Everyone plays individually and makes up a definition of an obscure word. Your aim is to make your fabrication so credible that your opponent believes it’s the real one.
            As the game progressed, many of the family members fell by the wayside. Lewis and his brother Danny were strong competitors but their mum and grandparents struggled with the ever-increasing pace of the game and conceivable answers given. By the way she read out each definition and her general mannerisms throughout play, you could tell that Linda, Lewis’ grandmother, was the most in need of help. If her counter’s position wasn’t a clue as to how poorly she was performing, her countless shrugs of the shoulders, blank stares and an almost deliberate failure to understand the rules were a dead giveaway. Each of her responses were either an unwitting ‘Oh, the second one’ or ‘I don’t know. I’ll go for the same as Lisa’. These answers were always met with an ardent outcry from Lewis who was starting to become frustrated at his Nan’s inability to follow play or think for herself. She was in full possession of her faculties but when it really counted – playing board games – she lacked the relevant criteria required for victory.
            Lewis was in total charge. He was the youngest player in the game and the most competitive, but he wanted to win fairly and didn’t go in for the usual indulgence towards youngsters that normally accompany Yuletide parlour games. I respected him for his integrity and as he was just a mere point from victory, he obviously didn’t need any favours. I, on the other hand, was five points from being crowned Balderdash champ and not only required a definition that would fool everybody but also had to guess the true meaning of the word myself – achieve a ‘Jackpot’, in short. We were at a crucial stage in the game and as Lewis selected a card from the box, magnificently aware that it was a non-scoring round for him, he knew that only a miracle would stop him from claiming board game supremacy when it was my turn to play quizmaster.

            ‘A wanghee...a bloody wanghee?’ I thought to myself. I wouldn’t have worried under normal circumstances but this time my definition had to be a good one. Brilliant, in fact. Good just wouldn’t cut it.
            ‘Hurry up!’ shouted Lewis, becoming impatient in the build-up to his impending coronation.
            ‘OK, OK. Hang on. I’ve almost finished’ I replied. I had finished writing and my definition was believable. Possible at the very least. I read it back to myself: ‘Wanghee: A small South American bird that nests in the fur of other animals’. It sounded good. Very good. As I handed it to Lewis, he read it to himself to check that it was legible and he could pronounce each word. The usual smirk of confirmation that normally followed was not forthcoming and my submission was greeted with a slight shake of the head.
            What did that mean?
Lewis had played this game many times before and I was but a Balderdash virgin. I’d never had a shake of the head as a response from the boy at any time before and it worried me. Had this been used in a previous game which the members of his family were sure to recollect? Was it so stupid that not even Linda was going to choose it, even if it was read second or was the one that Linda chose?
            ‘A whanghee,’ Lewis began, ‘Is it..?’ The first four definitions followed.
            ‘…Chinese bamboo used for making canes; or a small South American bird that nests in the fur of other animals?’
            God, it sounded even better when accompanied by the other definitions.
            ‘Yep. I’ve heard of that. It’s the South American bird.’ There was an air of certainty about Lisa’s response. I liked it. She sounded convincing enough to plant a seed of belief in the minds of the others.
            ‘I’ll go for that too,’ added Cliff, the grandfather.
            ‘Oh, I’ll just go with what Lisa said.’ It was good to hear Linda’s trademark one final time.
            Lewis looked concerned.
            ‘It might be the bird one,’ said Danny cautiously. He wasn’t about to rush into any decision like his family. He was cagey and played the game logically.
‘That bird one’s yours isn’t it, Rich?’ he asked. He paused and waited for a crack in my poker-faced defence. Still, however hard he tried, he just couldn’t forget the comment his mother had made and in an act of allegiance to her intellect he eventually declared: ‘Yeah, I’m going for the bird one too’.
‘Well, the bird one does sound tempting,’ I said, trying to hide any signs of ownership. ‘But the only thing that stops me guessing that is the fact that I wrote it,’ I added. A toothy grin emanated from my already glee-filled face. The hard work had already been done – they had all picked my answer. All that was needed now was to select the correct definition from the remaining five.
‘It’s got to be the bamboo,’ I said to Lewis.
It had to be the bamboo. The others were ridiculous entries that I couldn’t even remember and it was the only one that made any kind of sense. ‘Yeah, I’ll go for the bamboo, Lew.’
Lewis didn’t say whether I was right or wrong but the direction of his gaze convinced me I was correct. His long glance at the board, counting the number of squares I’d be moving, was enough of an indication to confirm what I already knew.
‘And Rich wins,’ came Lewis’ disappointed drone of congratulation.
‘Sorry, mate,’ I replied sincerely.
I was sorry. I felt bad about my success. I had not only won the game but had snatched triumph from an 11-year-old’s grasp just when he could taste victory - and on Christmas Day of all days. I didn’t quite know what to say to cheer him up.
Stuff it.
‘WINNER!’ I yelled jubilantly at the top of my lungs, ‘I can’t believe you all fell for it!’
I figured you only get one chance to spoil a young boy’s Christmas Day – and I was going to make the most of it. Lewis knew I was only joking anyway.
‘Yeah, good game, Rich.’ Lewis had recovered from his upsetting defeat very quickly. The boy was competitive, there was no doubt about it, but he truly was a good sportsman. He knew he’d been beaten by a better man on the day and was pleased that he had come so close to beating his neighbour. A neighbour who was twice his age.
           
We chatted as we packed the game away. I started to flick through the box of cards. A previous round had intrigued me to such a degree that I found myself searching for similar ones. An obscure word didn’t have to be the subject: unknown abbreviations, films titles, people or, most bemusing of all, completely inane laws might come up as a question. Earlier in the game, myself and the entire Ellis family were left to wonder which activity was illegal for divorced women, in Florida, on Sundays. Many suggestions were made but no one was even remotely close to the truth. And for the first time that evening, the real answer was far more ludicrous than any of our manufactured ones.
            ‘It is illegal for a divorced woman to go parachuting on a Sunday.’
            What?
            Why?
            I still didn’t believe it.
            It simply made no sense. I spent the next few minutes or so thinking of reasons as to why such a law existed. Maybe women with failed marriages were heavily frowned upon from a reverent viewpoint in the state of Florida and God didn’t want them so close to him up in the clouds – especially on his day.
            The true explanation was unfathomable and I was sure there must be some sort of esoteric justification. Come to think of it, the reason didn’t bother me so much. What was fascinating to me was the fact that it existed. The most entertaining country in the world had given me yet another reason to smile.
           
By the time New Year had passed and 2004 was well underway, I still hadn’t forgotten about the astonishing discovery I had made on Christmas Day. I wanted to learn more. I wasn’t just content in the knowledge that certain people were banned from parachuting in Florida. I was in need of additional information regarding similar laws and was desperate to investigate further. I was hungry for it.
            Modern technology has taught us that if you want to find out anything, the internet will very often disgorge whatever you require. It is the one 20th century innovation that has changed the way we search for information and I was sure that I was just a mouse click or two away from laying my unsettled mind to rest.
            A simple on-line search for ‘stupid American laws’ quickly found dumblaws.com, a hilarious if vaguely alarming site filled with examples of these archaic decrees. I clicked on the ‘American’ option and was treated to a 50-page, state-by-state guide. I was starting to get excited, and by a website! A site where there wasn’t even a hint of nudity. Every page brought new laws and a bigger grin of delight to my face.
            In Atlanta, Georgia it is illegal to tie your giraffe to a telephone pole or street lamp; you weren’t allowed an ice-cream cone in your back pocket throughout the entire state of Alabama, and it is considered a felony in Arizona if you protected yourself from an intruder with any weapon other than the one the trespasser possessed. I pitied the man who decided on leaving a 9-iron under his bed only to find that his would-be burglar chose to break in with a putter.
            God, these were good.
            The site was easy to navigate and for each state there was a list of laws that existed throughout and ones that only applied to certain cities. There were literally thousands of examples on this site and I found myself staring at the screen as if not a single moment of my life was being wasted on this notoriously addictive activity.
            I began to wonder just who the last person was to break the giraffe tying law, or indeed if anyone had ever managed it. I reckoned the only way for the ban to be breached was to steal a giraffe from the local zoo first. I’d like to see someone try and smuggle a mammal that size out through the exit doors under their jumper.
            After several pages, I was beginning to focus on the laws that were either ludicrous or potentially enjoyable to break. Spitting on the floor of a church featured predominantly but was neither funny nor farcical and I could see good reason for its existence. But there were a few that sounded promising: bowling on the sidewalk was illegal in Chico, California, as was falling asleep in a cheese factory throughout South Dakota.
            Could you get arrested for committing these acts? Did the local police even know of their existence? Surely if I was aware that it was against the law to shout ‘Oh, boy’ in Jonesboro, Georgia, the residents must too. I wanted to know, I needed to find out and I was now seriously considering going to the States to answer these pressing questions. A little over an hour had passed since I’d discovered an abundance of these laws and now I was thinking of pursuing my investigation further on the grandest of scales.
            I decided I would invest in some more research and soon came across a book entitled ‘The World’s Stupidest Laws’, written by an ex-Salisbury magistrate by the name of David Crombie. I knew many of the laws which were posted on the internet might not be true, and if I was going to spend thousands of pounds on some pointless endeavour, I might as well get it right. Several of the laws which I saw on dumblaws.com but a good many of the funnier ones did and I decided treat the book as my bible - scriptures which I would have to live by throughout my time in the States. If the laws appeared within the pages of the book, I considered them a law, if they weren’t I didn’t. Simple as that.
           
I am no stranger to pointless endeavours. In June of 2004 I was bet £20 that I wouldn’t ‘storm’ a beach in Normandy on the 60th anniversary of the D-Day landings and, with June the sixth only an hour and a half away, I drove to Dover, boarded a ferry, had my photo taken whilst on the beach and returned home almost 24 hours after I had set off, a total of 42 hours without sleep. It had cost me £60 to win a third of that amount but the sense of personal achievement I felt more than made up for the financial loss. Sod the sceptics, as far as I was concerned I had accomplished something special.
            The travel bug stayed with me for the next week and I decided to nip over to Spain to surprise my neighbours. Their hired villa took six hours to find due to its secluded location in the mountains overlooking the Costa Blanca, but, using nearly every mode of transport available to me from trams and taxis to a free lift with a delightfully generous lady from Portsmouth, I was once again equal to the challenge and enjoyed three nights of free accommodation in picturesque Spanish seclusion with the family’s two over-the-moon children and their not-so-happy parents. I was sure that I would soon pay for the ordeal I had put them through when we all returned home, but as I slowly sipped a refreshing post-swim drink whilst gazing at the rolling, green hills of the Costa Blanca, I felt victorious and, although I felt an equal measure of guilt and sympathy towards my neighbours, I knew I had reached a personal high with a view of the mountainous coast as my reward. A little under eight hours had passed since I had stepped foot on Spanish soil for the first time clutching a scrap of paper with the name of my destination inscribed on it, but now I was reminiscing fondly about the monumental journey I had made to get there. I was proud of my actions and the bad vibes I had created with my unprepared hosts weren’t going to dampen my celebratory spirits.
             
I needed a companion for a trip of this magnitude as I was now contemplating not only a few law breakings but a daring crime spree - a journey that would take me from one coast of America to the other in a thrilling two-month adventure. I knew just the man.
Though Luke Bateman and I are best friends, we had only travelled together once before at this stage - a trip that neither of us would ever forget. A drunken arrangement in the pub one night had landed us in the port of Tallinn two weeks later to watch the 2002 Eurovision Song Contest live in the Estonian capital. Neither of us can remember why we decided that visiting a Baltic nation whilst it was hosting a risible talent contest was a good idea but we were glad this was the result and we were fully prepared to make the most of the situation. After declining the kind invitation to purchase a Russian passport and gasmask by an Estonian salesman, Bateman and I visited a brothel which masqueraded as a ‘strip bar/nightclub’(the flashing neon light above a secluded cottage should have been a big clue but I was still shocked when I realised what kind of place I was in), got drunk with a German photographer and a transvestite, and found our three day holiday was to be extended to four after missing our connecting flight to Copenhagen after passing out on a portside beach at 5 o’clock in the morning. This was the man I needed. Bateman would make a noble accomplice.
            The pitch had to be well thought out and elaborately explained. Bateman wasn’t just going to agree to an idea like this. I began to think I would be more successful if I plied him with alcohol, then, when he would more or less agree to anything, get him to sign a watertight contract for future ratifications to confirm that he did agree to accompany me on such a bizarre scheme. As I drove to his house I had the spiel all figured out. I had answers to all his possible questions and any comeback he may have presented was amply prepared for.
            ‘Hiya, Bateman. All right?’ I asked as I arrived at his house
            ‘Yeah.’ He yawned. ‘Bit tired though.’
            ‘I’ve got a great idea for us to do,’ I stated proudly. This wasn’t anything new for Bateman to hear me say. Quite often I’d turn up at his house with an absurd agenda for our activities that day.
            ‘Well, I’ve got to go to the gym at five so we can’t be long,’ he replied.
            ‘That’s OK, I wasn’t really thinking about doing something today. This is a bit more long-term.’
            This was it. No more small talk, it was time to use all my persuasive guile and chicanery to sway my friend. I was ready.
            ‘Um…how would you like to go to America some time and break some laws?’ That was well put.
            ‘What?’ Bateman looked nonplussed.
            ‘There are loads of stupid laws we can break. We could turn it into a road trip…’ I began to lose my argumentative mien, ‘…you know? It’ll be great!’
            Bateman just laughed softly. ‘Why are we going to do this?’
            ‘Because…um…I think you and me will have a great time filming it. We could try and get a TV series out of it or something.’
            ‘Yeah. Go on then. I’ve got nothing better to do. When we gonna’ go?
            ‘Next summer?’
            ‘Yeah. OK.’
            That was it? Was that all it took? Bateman was in. This whole trip was beginning to come together nicely. Briefly, I wondered if Guy Fawkes and the rest of the Gunpowder conspirators were just as easy to recruit.

The laws began to envelop me in the following months and I began to reveal my plans of a crime spree the following year to friends. My neighbours thought it was a great idea and were happy as long as they featured in the book. Mission accomplished. The invariable response I received, whoever I talked to, young or old, was that it was a great idea. ‘Smashing, excellent, cool’. Were they mad? They had all known what I had done in the past and were quite certain I would be equally successful this time. Not one person I spoke to labelled it ‘unrewarding’ or ‘wasteful’. Everyone agreed it was ‘stupid’ and ‘pointless’ but they were obvious features and weren’t up for discussion. Everyone believed wholeheartedly in the spree, and in me. If there was ever a doubt in my mind that I was going to do this, it soon disappeared when the consensus amongst friends and well-wishers was more than encouraging. Living vicariously, I suppose.
           
Bateman and I weren’t prepared to attach a giraffe to a lamppost or wait to be attacked by a weapon-wielding intruder, but we found about forty laws that we wanted to break. That was our target. I looked at a map and realised this was to be a journey of epic proportions and would take us cross-country from the liberal, laid back surroundings of San Francisco on America’s Pacific coast through the rugged, diverse terrain of mountainous Colorado and Utah, then through the country’s mid-west, to the verge of the Atlantic in Florida and South Carolina before we made our way to the culmination of the venture in the north-east, near Boston and Rhode Island. A trip of well over 10,000 miles was laid out before us. To me, the beauty of it all was that the majority of the law breaking would take place in towns and cities unbeknown to many people in ‘small town America’, in fact. I have noticed, from previous experiences, that these small, out-of-the-way backwaters of the country are where the true characters live, where the cogs of the country turn, and where the people are closer and the atmosphere is friendlier, unlike the anonymity of the larger towns.
Once upon a time, the prospect of embarrassment and possible incarceration whilst attempting to break these laws would have daunted us, but no longer. Our hearts were set on this journey; our time had arrived. This was our chance to do something admirable and courageous. Something we could be proud of; a tale to regale friends and grandchildren alike. Bateman and I were going to America and we were ready for anything.
Or so I thought.