The morning work-out routines are now gathering serious pace, with Andthesea, The Big Man and Silver leading the charge. The press-up record now stands at 54 in a minute (Andthesea), and yet still the collective lbs pile on. It is almost as if alcohol were somewhat calorific. Fortunately we know that this is patently untrue.

An Uber arrives to take us to the car hire place, and ‘Drives’, as Silver nicknames our pilot, is treated to six hungover Anglo-Irishmen giving a loud, spirited and notably harmonious rendition of ‘All of Me’ as we drive away from Chicago’s mighty skyline. We arrive at Midway Airport to collect our auto, and The Big Man immediately drops a bag chock-full of craft beer onto the ground. My bag (of course it was my bag) becomes a soupy tureen of yeast ale and broken glass. He looks suitably sheepish. ‘Drives’ drives off.

We negotiate for our hire care with the exuberant and glorious Debbie, who spends 45 minutes telling us about her own trips to Kentucky and New Orleans and 5 minutes booking our vehicle. We love Debbie. The large line behind us do not.

Away to the car-park and thar she blows. Debbie has come through for her boys enormously. It is a Chevy Suburban – the very biggest car I have ever seen, with a square footage larger than most London flats. It corners like the QE2, but eventually we get it out onto the Interstate. The Big Man is driving, for his is the most masculine of us. Not a particularly strong field, of course, but The Big Man, despite his propensity to fling beer onto taxi ranks, would certainly medal in most manliness races.

In search of some foodstuffs we pass a ‘Hooters’. ‘Did you go to the Hooters in Nottingham, Silver?’ asks Andthesea. ‘Yes mate’. ‘Ah [a little plaintively]…I knew a girl from Quaker Camp who worked there…’

We actually end up eating at Portillo’s, a famous Chicago fast-food chain drenched in Americana and famed for its hot-dogs. To my knowledge it is not affiliated with the former Tory politician with whom it shares its name, but one never can tell.

*

We drive through Indiana. Nothing to report. We reflect that growing up in rural Indiana (‘a one horse state’ – The Yankee) would have made us very different men.

*

We cross a large river and enter Kentucky and Louisville, and things get a mite more interesting. We negotiate decent enough rates at the Hampton Inn – a bit fancy for slobs like us, replete as it is with a pool and gym. Then we hustle along to Doc Crow’s where we enjoy a Kentucky feast (hands down the best meal of the trip so far) and drink bourbon like men – that is to say, in cocktails and/or with glaciers upon glaciers of ice.

The night sees a bit of a bar crawl a little way away from downtown, including racist ‘comedy’ singers, a college death-metal dive, a late night pool & darts place with the most furiously strong drinks, and then, lastly, Louisville’s premier gay bar – where (perhaps ironically) our luck with the ladies turns for the better.

There is an open mic and a portly, bald fellow in his fifties gets up and knocks ‘All of Me’ out of the park, much to our collective delight and astonishment. One of Our Number is so impressed that he went off with the gentleman’s daughter to discuss metaphysics and the finer points of Kierkegaard in the back of her pickup. He came back grinning ear-to-ear (Kierkegaard will do that to you) until he realised that he’d left his wallet in the back of said pickup. But into each life, as they say, some rain must fall.