Night Of The Living Rednecks

I know that, back in the 17th Century, Cumbria exported some of its finest citizens to the Carolinas (how else would all those Nixons, Agnews, Grahams, Jeffersons & Jacksons have got there?). And I know that in this American century we're swamped with transatlantic culture. But do you think we could be a little more discriminating about just which aspects of Americana we choose to take back over here?
Yesterday morning on the A595 I was passed by an enormous brand-new pick-up truck which sported five (count 'em) headlamps on its roof and a Stars & Bars flag draped across the windscreen. I was too astonished to spot whether it had a 'Governor Wallace For President' bumper-sticker.
More charmingly, as I drove back in the evening from a day on the hill (see forthcoming post) I took the Cockermouth backroad along the Derwent valley between Isel and Moota, a secret part of le Cumbria profond that few enough locals seem to frequent, let alone tourists. A group of lads had pulled their cars over to the side of the road and were hot-rodding go-karts on the long straight stretch north of the Hay. We stared at each other with incredulity, both parties surprised beyond words.
Summer's here & the time is right to go racing in the street . . .