American idols

It's day 80 in the Big Brother House - sorry, the US - and the van-mates' sanity has taken a turn for the worse. But the good news is that the beautiful South has taken Guernsey's very own Thelma and Louise to its heart. Nicci Martel continues her letter from America

It was just going to be a matter of days - a ticking time bomb of silliness. Hutch and I tend to spend most of our time in cloud-cuckoo land anyway. How else would we have thought up this ridiculous escapade?

But our strange, erratic behaviour has now become increasingly frequent.

It's got to the point where sometimes we communicate purely by making strange noises. And I'm not exaggerating.

That's just the tip of the iceberg, though. Gone are the days when we would dig into a good book to amuse ourselves, or whip out a nice board game.

Now it's in with the Cher Karaoke and Hutch's Guerning Cabaret. So, I warn those of you with a sane disposition: stop reading now.

The karaoke option involves both of us, two of the world's most horrific singers, warbling along to any song of our choosing, but in the mannish style of Cher.

See what I mean? We've totally lost the plot.

The cabaret is on the same level of absolute mindlessness.

It involves the audience (me) shouting out an emotion or a scenario and Hutch pulling the corresponding facial expression, while manoeuvring her chin in ways unknown to most human beings.

Absolute insanity. And the saddest thing about all this is that we play these games for hours.

We never cease to be entertained by them. I tell you, cabin fever - it's the only defence I can use.

The problem is that we spend every day together in a 17x8ft tin can. The longest we're ever apart is when we have our morning showers. We're like an old married couple: we eat together, make each other cups of tea, brush our teeth in unison - even share a bed.

If our behavioural deterioration proves anything, it's that we're in desperate need of social situations that involve someone other than just us.

It's not as if we haven't tried.

If there's one place in the world where you can strike up a conversation with a stranger, it's America.

Instant friendliness is a national trait. You could be sitting at a bar or a shop counter and, before you've even had the chance to process what's happening, the bartender or sales assistant has regaled you with his or her entire life story.

And some Americans have no concept of appropriateness. For example, Hutch was checking us into a motel on Sunday and the receptionist wished her a happy Father's Day.

Hutch politely said thank you and before she even had time to blink, the woman had confided that her father no longer recognised her and was on the brink of death.

How do you reply to something like that?

Hutch uttered a remorseful 'I'm sorry' before making a quick exit.

I sometimes wonder if Americans do it purely for their own amusement - to see how the British psyche reacts to a bombshell like that.

No, socialising with Americans isn't hard to do at all. It's getting them to shut up that's the problem.

Another hurdle we've encountered is that we naturally attract weirdos: which, of course, raises some unsettling questions about our own personalities.

But I guess since you now know about the Cher Karaoke, this will all make perfect sense to you.

We have met some genuinely nice people, but there have been so many times when, within minutes of getting sucked into a conversation with someone, we have regretted it.

Take, for instance, a guy I'll call Bob, because it sounds like blob and he was on the heavy side - as well as being sweaty and the victim of an odour problem.

We met Bob on a little island called Ocracoke, off the coast of North Carolina.

It was a picturesque little place, the only claim to fame of which was that it was the death place of the infamous pirate, Blackbeard. As you can imagine, there was a wide range of tacky souvenirs commemorating that fact.

Bob cornered us in a bar, as so many Americans shamelessly do.

As well as being smelly and fat, he also wrestled alligators in a Florida tourist show.

He was weird, touchy, pushy - and did I mention he was smelly?

Unlike Americans, who would have told him in no uncertain terms that they weren't interested in conversation, Hutch and I took the British approach.

We sat there politely, wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt: after all, how bad could he be?

And surely he'd get the message sooner or later?

He misread our good manners as reciprocated interest and we eventually had to make some excuse and leave the bar to be rid of him.

Why we couldn't have just walked away I've no idea. But there's always that in-built necessity to avoid being rude - the same necessity we couldn't overcome when some hick wanted to be in on our poker game on the train up to Niagara Falls. He was wearing a trucker-style baseball cap and checked shirt, had missing teeth and, we suspected, was probably married to his sister.

We let him join in, thought we'd be sociable - even though he kept whooping, was completely off his rocker and liked shouting uncontrollably.

I think there's always that fear that the stranger a person seems, the less you want to tick them off. After all, a spoilt game of poker is preferable to someone short-circuiting and shoving a gun in your face.

But if we are to succeed in making social contact with normal people, we have to deal with that fear and learn to say a polite 'bog off' to the weirdos.

Talking of which, the Deep South. We crossed into North Carolina roughly three weeks ago, marking the beginning of our journey in this infamous area.

I'll admit, we did enter it with a certain amount of trepidation. After all, nearly every film I have ever seen about the South - Easy Rider, Deliverance, Cool Hand Luke - depicts Southerners as murderous, incestuous, backward bumpkins who lament the Civil Rights Movement and long for the return of the Confederacy.

But having been through both North and South Carolinas and Georgia, I've found the South nothing but charming.

There is a certain atmosphere to the region, and I'm not talking about the 60% humidity and 90-degree heat that has earned it the nickname, The Devil's Armpit. There's a laid-back, make-do vibe that you just don't find in the north of the country.

Spanish moss adorns the trees and scattered along the highways are handwritten signs advertising shrimp and live bait for sale. Strangely enough, not even Hutch was ever hungry enough to want to buy shrimp cooked by a man who also deals in live bait.

Southern hospitality is something special, too. Wherever you go, there'll always be a 'How yew laydeez doin' today?'.

The drawl is a completely new language - we thought New Yorkers were hard to understand, but at least there were the occasional familiar sounds or words.

Southerners not only talk at a tenth of the speed of the rest of the English-speaking world, but they add extra syllables to just about every word they use.

Day becomes 'daya', my turns into 'mya' and so on. If you stop and ask a Southerner for directions, make sure you're not in a hurry because you could end up being there for some time.

But they are equally fascinated by our accents. The only time we've ventured inland in the South was to avoid a storm on the coast of Georgia.

We found a small campsite on the outskirts of some town, the name of which was utterly forgettable.

We went to a KFC nearby and, for the brief time we were there, we might as well have been Posh and Becks.

The staff just couldn't get over how we spoke.

'What's Engaland like? I've alwayz wanat go'a Engaland. Kenny, you getta over here, meet these laydeez from Engaland.'

It was an uncomfortable, not to mention embarrassing, experience. Five workers just staring at us in utter wonderment, bombarding us with questions. It's not that these people were simple or anything, but it had been so long since anyone from another state had paid their small town a visit, let alone people from another country.

I'm just glad they didn't get to spend too much time with us. They'd only have been disappointed. KFCs in the South are entirely different from anywhere else in the world.

You can buy a chicken pot pie or chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy. You can't buy chips - but you can get wedges, baked beans or corn on the cob.

And with your thigh and leg combo feast you get a side order of rice and a biscuit.

Southerners love their biscuits. In fact it's difficult to buy anything without it including one. The cakey, buttery, English muffin-type things taste really good, especially with a cheesy-bacon filling. But you half-expect a coronary minutes after eating one.

Stodgy food is all the rage down here and they deep-fry just about anything. Take Hush Puppies, for example - little balls of deep-fried cornmeal. Deep-frying cornmeal does little to make it more appetising, let me tell you.

Then there are grits: creamed corn served with everything, from fried shrimp to pancakes.

It sounds like something fed to children in Victorian workhouses. And it looks like it, too.

But despite its strange taste in food, the South boasts some of the most impressive cities we've seen, namely Charleston and Savannah. Both are low-rise and residential, with opulent antebellum architecture.

They're often referred to as sister cities and if this is the case, then Savannah is definitely the rebel of the family. There's an air of scandal and eccentricity about it. It's no wonder author John Berendt was so taken with it when he wrote Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, which is set there.

It's also one of the few places in the States where you can buy alcohol from a bar then walk around the streets with it in plastic cups.

Talking of drink, I'm now in Key West, the southernmost point in the continental US. And my word, does this town like to party.

I got heckled the other day for having water in my water bottle, not vodka. There's also a man who sits on a fold-out chair on the pavement all day long with a big sign that reads, 'Dirty jokes $1 - a man's got to drink'.

But for all its wicked ways, it has managed to remain remarkably wholesome. It must be something to do with the idyllic houses, smattering of palm trees and the sense of community spirit - it's a very friendly place.

Of course, before we got to Key West we had to do the obligatory stopover in Orlando for an appointment with the world's most famous mouse.

I'm not really one for theme parks -

I always enjoy them, but big rides scare me.

But there's not much that Hutch won't try and she managed to persuade (bully) me into going on most of them.

I did panic on pretty much everything except the carousel. But I guess that's the point and I genuinely enjoyed them, too.

So, having done the east coast, it's time to move on up the west coast of Florida, towards New Orleans - marking a whole new phase in our journey.

Before it was all about heading south. Now we're slowly creeping towards our final destination out west.

It's still a very long way to go - in fact, I kind of shudder to think about it.

At least now, when I look at a map, there's a certain satisfaction in physically seeing the distance we've covered. It feels as if we've done our six months and should be on our way home by now.

Don't get me wrong, though: I'm very glad that we're not.