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 Politics has never really interested me. Like
the angry wasp, great white shark, grizzly bear and blood-sucking
estate agent, it's a creature I've always tried to avoid. There
aren't enough hours in the day, as far as I'm concerned, to
comprehend the mechanics of how and why little people get screwed.
It's enough for me to know that they do, and leave it at that. The
one exception I'm prepared to make to my stranglehold on ignorance
comes when Hollywood gets involved, as US politics in particular
seems to have more to do with showbiz than getting things done. And
showbiz I understand.
From heavyweight dramas such as Dave through to
breezier stuff like All The President's Men, politics is only
palatable to me when it has a good soundtrack and all the dull bits
are edited out. That's why I'm a big fan of The West Wing, a
flag-waving small screen extravaganza which I'm proud to say has
taught me nothing but entertained me more than I ever thought
possible.
Presented
with the opportunity to explore the heart of darkness that is Washington D.C.,
I seized the chance to lord it over economy passengers
with an upgraded Virgin flight and made my way to Dubya's playground. Gripped by
paranoia since the events of 9/11, it's a city buzzing with the threat
of terrorism, and, scarier still, talk of the possible re-election of
a man routinely compared to monkeys. Built on a swamp by the French some
years ago, the air in DC is as murky as its politics.
A heady mix of splendour, street crime and brutal humidity, it's
Disneyland for eggheads with enough institutes, academies, galleries, museums, shrines, statues
and monuments for a year's dedicated study. I had a day, which I
figured was enough.
My guide was one in a
million, a secret service legend and threat assessment specialist
who, though professionally obligated to see the worst in everyone
(something I've always tried to do myself), remains cheerful and
courteous at all times. Armed with a lifetime of inside stories and
a gun he wouldn't let me hold, Kurt Wurzberger, 49, has been beaten,
stabbed and shot at without losing his composure, yet how he'd deal
with an obnoxious limey remained to be seen.
Dividing his time between
public service and his own security company, Kurt has lent his reassuring presence
to everyone from Ronald Reagan and John Wayne through to Oprah and various Sheiks
I'd never heard of. He's saved lives, though he won't name
names, and received countless commendations for valour. A specialist in tactical ops
and executive protection, Kurt's ".shot a few people. I've never killed anyone, but
I've wounded a few. We're not there to engage the enemy, though. We're
there to get away."
Thinking back on my day with Kurt, several phrases spring to
mind. "I can neither confirm nor deny." was one of my favourites, as was
"I'm really not at liberty to discuss it". In the interest of national security, therefore,
I insisted on a detour to the Exorcist stairs (St Mary's
Place, bordering on Georgetown University), the one location in the entire city with
no connection to politics whatsoever.
You know the Exorcist stairs, right? That
long, narrow, stone monstrosity that claims the life of the movie's
hero, poor Father Karras, after he yanks Satan out of Linda Blair
and takes the ultimate tumble. With Tubular Bells ringing in my ears
I ran to the top and, wobbling from vertigo and exercise, asked Kurt
if it had ever claimed any lives for real. Sadly not, it seems,
despite the best efforts of various extreme sports enthusiasts. "I
wouldn't be surprised if someone has skateboarded down the edge of
this thing," ventures Kurt. "I've seen people going down it on
mountain bikes." As we slowly made our way to street level, Kurt
humoured me with talk of Satanic worship. "A Devil cult once used
this as a backdrop to promote their organisation. They had a major
rally here which got out of hand after they lit up a bunch of
pentagrams." Kurt looks me square in the eye. "That violated local
code." The swines. I ask, "I suppose it's just a coincidence that
your secret service badge has five points like a pentagram?" Another
stare. "There's nothing to read into that," asserts Kurt, "although
I have been told to go to hell quite often". Back at the foot of the
stairs I try my best to recreate Karras's twisted pose before being
whisked off to my next destination.
You've seen the White
House. Like most other buildings in D.C. it's big, grand, and
totally overdoes it on the column front. To the north stands Freedom
Park, a patch of grass where people are free to yell their views to
the President. "Everyone has their right to free speech and this is
where it's conducted." Secret service are everywhere. Any more and
they'd outnumber the protestors, currently indignant about America's
dealings in Haiti. Passionate as they are their efforts are dwarfed
by staple of the community Concepcion Picciotto, a strange, dwarfish
figure fans know as The Little Giant. Framed by banners denouncing
pretty much everything, she's been out there for going on 23 years,
come rain, shine or police brutality. Besides the abundance of
government heavies, the White House has beefed up security of late
by tearing out every dustbin, mailbox and locker in the vicinity.
"We're not going to make it easy to hide a bomb anywhere around
here. It's inconvenient but we've learnt to adapt." Is it really
that dangerous in Washington? "Every day there's an attack. Every
hour possibly. This is an inherently dangerous place to live,
especially if you're a politician."
Walking around the outer
perimeter of the White House, past the Treasury Department, the
President's baseball court and that 'McDonald's' Clinton used to
keep in business, Kurt finally caves under the weight of my stupid
questions and more or less admits the White House has a contingency
plan for alien attack. What it is, he won't say. Running away,
probably. "It wouldn't surprise me if there is a provision in some
manual somewhere, most probably with defence, because in our
business we plan for the worst but hope for the best." He's seen
Mars Attacks. And Independence Day, rubbish though it was. And I'd
like to think that every now and then he wakes up screaming from
nightmares of General Zod's brutal takeover of the White House in
Superman 2. "The rule of thumb I live by is that everything is true
until proven otherwise. Nothing surprises me any more." Another
steely glare. "Nothing."
Moving on, I pressed Kurt for
information on his undercover activities. Little did I know the gift
he was about to bestow upon me. "Let me tell you," he begins, "I've
never been so uncomfortable than when I'm wearing pantyhose."
"Business or pleasure?" I asked nervously. "Definitely work, a
disguise thing, though I have known agents who enjoyed dressing up a
little more than they should have. I wore this god-awful blonde wig,
terrible pancake make-up with thick rouge red lipstick, horn-rimmed
sunglasses and tube socks in my bra for boobs." If you're struggling
with a diet right now, why not picture Kurt as a woman the next time
you're feeling hungry? That should curb your appetite. "You don't
want to make yourself too attractive," explains Kurt. "You want to
encourage people to look away." "You really don't sound that
attractive," I reply. "You sound like a 50c hooker." "Actually,"
Kurt reveals, "I modeled her after my grandmother".
It was at this stage that Kurt told me he'd
been trained in "ten minute medicine", a short-term life-saving
technique for emergencies only, and that if the situation arose, he
could keep me alive with ".a rubber glove and some duct tape", or,
if I preferred, perform a tracheotomy with a biro. I was thrilled by
the sophistication of Kurt's intimidation. No one has ever masked
their threats towards me with such care.
Having finally figured out that I had no
interest in politics or even sensible conversation, Kurt took me to
romp around some pretty statues. On the way he fulfilled his
contractual obligation to talk about the West Wing. "They take very
good care to make sure that things are as authentic as they can be,"
he said, and failing to get a response from me, fell silent until we
reached Haines Point, a remote spot at the end of East Potomac Park.
"Back in the old days," he remembers, "this was a famous drop and
meeting point, hard to bug and full of espionage opportunities."
Today it's home to an amazing statue, really a collection of
statues, called The Awakening, an ecological thing about the earth
coming to life in man form and bursting out of the ground, ready to
kick our butts for poisoning the environment. Or something. To me,
it's a scene out of a Harryhausen movie, with a giant hand to squash
me, a big mouth to chew me, and a great big foot in need of
deodorisation.
Here's some information for you which I hope
proves that I listened to Kurt at least some of the time. Check out
Lincoln's Memorial, specifically his hands. It's a sign language
in-joke. His left is spelling A, his right L. Oh yeah, and whenever
you see a statue of someone on horseback, and believe me there are
plenty out there, when the horse has four hoofs on the ground it
means the guy died a natural death. If it has one hoof off the
ground that means he died in battle. And if it has two hoofs off the
ground he died a hero in battle. Presumably, three hoofs means he
was in the circus, but don't quote me on that.
Towards the
end of the day I began suffering from serious tourist fatigue, so
Kurt agreed to take me back to my hotel, citing severe Marshall
fatigue. One last question then. Maybe three. "What's it really like
in the secret service?" "It's hours and hours of boredom," he
replies, "highlighted by seconds of fear and adrenaline." "What do
you eat on stakeouts?" "Burritos." "Could I please pose for some
pictures with your gun?" "No you can't, but if you ask me again,"
says Kurt with a final steely stare, "I'll show you one of the
bullets real close."
See you next week!
Marshall
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