Our last action in Nashville is to wolf down a fantastic breakfast at ‘Another Broken Egg Cafe’. Well…it is the last action for four of us at least…The Eagle and The Yankee are struggling, both physically and existentially, and have lost consciousness on two hostel sofas, effectively dead to the world.

After poached eggs are defeated and a couple of souvenirs are purchased, the upright quartet pack up the car with our luggage and passed-out companions, and we bid a sad farewell to an utterly fantastic city. Nashville has been a blast – seemingly a fatal one in the case of two of our number – and, safe to say, it has been the undisputed champion of our trip so far.

The city seems sad to see us go as well, and unleashes a fierce rainstorm of despair as we drive away. It’s a long stretch today, down southwest all the way to Oxford, Mississippi. The Yankee has awoken and is an very dark place. Silver and I provide little sympathy, and while away the miles making various jokes of increasing vulgarity at his expense. Every so often we check that The Eagle still breathes. It seems that he does, which is nice.

*

Some time later we roll up to Oxford, MS, where we meet Dark Blue, a friend of The Yankee’s from Oxford, UK. [Oxford (Mississippi), it is hardly necessary to say, is superior to (Goddamn Bloody) Oxford is every conceivable way.] It is a pretty little town dominated by ‘Ole Miss’ – the University of Mississippi. It has a main square of lovely two-story buildings set up with large white porches and spacious balconies, and some of us enjoy a nice drink in the late evening sun with a few of the (very friendly) locals.

Oxford runs counter to the general reputation of Mississippi as a state, it being a wealthy, expanding and educated place. Many of our new acquaintances lament the direction their historic state is going vis-a-vis the whole systematic bigotry thing, though all seem to consider themselves blessed to find themselves in a bastion of relative liberality and prosperity.

We wander around the impressive campus of Ole Miss and discover that the Vanderbilt facilities which so impressed us back in Nashville were actually chicken-feed in comparison to other colleges in their conference. Ole Miss recently spent $96m on their basketball court, for example, which seems somewhat excessive..especially as it’s more of a football school anyway…

Next up is another gargantuan dinner at the aptly named Ajax Diner. I’m putting together a losing run, and my meatloaf beats me easily, so I bring him back that evening to knock him out at my leisure. The waitress, being a lady of taste, does not find me amusing. We all talk US politics, and my fervent beliefs that a.) Trump will make America great again; and b.) who’s gonna build that wall? Mexico’s gonna build that wall, are not in the majority.

Save Dark Blue, who is a consummate host, we are all spectacularly knackered. Therefore, we give Dionysus the night off and head back to Dark Blue’s fine wooden cottage deep in the nearby woods. More on this place in the next post, but suffice to say it’s a genuinely beautiful spot.

We all sleep as well as we have all trip. My final thought as I drift away is that ‘I didn’t consume a single unit of alcohol today’. I feel an odd mixture of pleasure and shame, and then all is dark.

 

The day starts just after twelve with large omelettes at the ‘Frothy Monkey’ (my friends, I don’t name these places…). After ‘breakfast’ I announce that, as much as I adore the lads, if I have to look at their idiot faces for one second more I’m going to go completely berserk. We therefore suggest a temporary parting of the ways, getting out of each other’s pockets for the afternoon, exploring a bit more of Nashville and avoiding a mass brawl.. (avoiding a mass brawl which includes Andthesea and The Big Man is of paramount importance).

Some head to the Tennessee State Museum, others to the Johnny Cash Museum and a few souvenir shops. Personally, I toddle gingerly across to the Country Music Hall of Fame – a vast temple dedicated to all things country. Even if, like me, one’s knowledge of the genre is somewhat limited, it’s a highly interesting visit and a damn fine set-up.

Heading back to the hostel I have the bright idea of taking a wee nap, recharging the old batteries etc. after a couple of sensationally heavyweight nights. Entering the dorm I discover that this plan has been mirrored by all five of the lads – so the band is quickly reunited by the sweet seduction of Morpheus…or by something less pretentious.. I can’t remember which.

*

It being the Sabbath and all, we plan a slightly quieter night: a nice bit of food, some live music perhaps, nothing too wild. That, in actual fact, it turned out to be bacchanalian in the extreme, with levels of debauchery not seen since the last days of Rome, is quite irrelevant. The intention was there – that is what matters.

We start off at Puckett’s for Southern food and a bit of music. I instantly fall head over heels for the singer, bringing the total of women I’ve fallen in love with on this trip to a round dozen. She does, in fact, come to our table for a chat after the set..but by this point I have other concerns at the forefront of my mind: for five of us have ordered a house specialty called ‘Piggy Mac’. [The Big Man, with uncharacteristic culinary wisdom, has dodged this gastronomic bullet.] Two bites in I know I’m in trouble, and by the time the lovely Rachael swings by to say ‘Howdy’ I’m in a fight for my life…

It is a rich combination of pulled pork and mac & cheese – unspeakably delicious, but severely challenging. I must admit that, for the first time on the holiday, I was comprehensively defeated, as was The Eagle and even that old two-meter Andthesea. The victorious Piggy Mac was boxed up and sent back to the hostel. I collect myself and ask Rachael the singer to marry me. She says that she’ll think about it and maybe see us at our next stop, The Stage on Broadway.

Now up until this point we had seen some decent Nashville acts..and some pretty abject performances (here’s looking at you, Johnny Carter-Cash). However, the band at The Stage this night are absolutely fantastic. The lead singer often goes onto radio mic and strolls around the dance floor, master of all he surveys, flirting with girls and shaking his tip-bucket. The fiddler and lead guitar hit song after song out of the park, and they even let a drunken businessman from St Louis on stage (after a cheeky $50 bill changes hands) to perform a spirited country rendition of ‘Gin and Juice’. All the hits are sung and they play late, late, late into the night.

*

5.45am, The Eagle (half-cut) and I wreak a terrible vengeance on the surviving Piggy Mac back at the hostel. It may have won the first battle, but the war…the war it very much lost. What. A Night. And what a city. Time to pass out, methinks.

‘But I can’t go to Hooters’ I whine, almost impossibly hungover, ‘I read The Guardian!’

But the tyranny of democracy speaks, and the tyranny of democracy wants tanks tops and short shorts. It is a strange and curious world within those orange walls. There are pictures of Wollstonecraft, Pankhurst and Greer above the bar, and all are wearing plaid.

Andthesea gets right down to business, asking the ‘entertainers’ (not waitresses, in order to get around breast-based employment law) about interview processes and career progression. Unsurprisingly, photos are involved at an early stage. Apparently gym membership, tanning and make-up are tax deductible for Hooters girls. Who knew eh? Who knew..

The food is 90% salt, 10% misogyny. In short, I ain’t a fan of the place. Others in our party, who shall remain nameless for the sake of their sainted mothers, are much more taken with the establishment.

*

Hoping to shake off the hangovers, we walk all the way across the city to a large park near Vanderbilt university. They have build a full-size concrete replica of the Athenian Parthenon. Of course they have. I know not why it’s there, but it undoubtedly is.

We then stroll over to the university where something rather special takes place: The Eagle, that prince of birds, gets chatting to a curious and friendly old fellow by the name of David, who offers to give us an impromptu tour of Vanderbilt’s frankly ridiculous sports facilities. He takes us all around their 44,000 seater (American) football stadium, including the press boxes and the roof. We then get to shoot some hoops (not particularly successfully) on an NBA-standard basketball court. It’s a fabulous, surreal experience.

Nearby there are two adjoining dive bars, one called ‘ Winners‘, the other called ‘Losers’. We try the latter first and it is, to no-one’s surprise, a bit rubbish. Winners is a little better so we stay there a short while before grabbing a taxi back downtown.

A quick word on Hershel our cabbie. 62 years of age, he is the filthiest old so-and-so we’ve ever come across. He tells one story about an inebriated lass he had in his car which is far, far too rude for this family-friendly blog, but which had us all howling with laughter. Absolute animal so he was.

*

Takeout pizza and beer for dinner at the hostel, then out onto the Nashville strip for round two. The Big Man insists that we stop by Coyote Ugly, which ensures that Hooters’s reign as ‘the worst establishment I have ever visited’ is a short one. What a hell-hole. His date for the evening shows up and we can finally leave for somewhere better.

Now..some of the reported occurrences in this account have been somewhat, shall we say, embellished. The Yankee, for example, did not actually receive a full body-cavity search back at O’Hare Airport (though in a more perfect world he surely would have). However, the following is absolutely true:

In the next bar, Tequila Cowboy (I know, I know..), we find the young ladies Silver and The Big Man met back in Louisville, KT, who had made a pilgrimage down to Tennessee in search of a second date. We also find a selection of girls some of the guys had met the previous night. All four groups: us; the Kentucky lasses; the Nashville girls; and The Big Man’s new date, all crash together at the bar, much to the delight of those not directly involved. Grinning ear to ear, I danced between factions, digging our lads deeper and deeper into their holes. The Eagle, arch-diplomat, attempts to pour oil on these choppy waters. He does not succeed. Various parties are unimpressed. I, on the other hand, achieve a genuinely startling level of transcendental ecstasy.

The party stretches on deep into the night. Andthesea and I drink bad cocktails and critique them loudly to an unmoved barmaid. Silver is thrown from a mechanical bull in less than three seconds, while The Eagle stays in the saddle for an impressively long stint. A third bar is sought, and a fourth. All in all, as the kids say, it was an absolute banger.

Angels and ministers of grace defend us, but we actually get away on time this morning! Downtown Bowling Green for a coffee-shop breakfast, then the road gets well and truly hit.

We trundle along the highway and our morning stupor is broken by an overjoyed Andthesea crying “Dicks!”

‘Eh?’

‘Dicks! Finally, thank Jaysus for that!’

A word of explanation. Andthesea has been most keen to do some shopping at the famous Dicks Sporting Goods ever since the beginning of the trip. Until this point his ambitions had not been realised, but with a store close by, now the time had come for Andthesea to get some Dicks.

We purchase an ol’ pigskin to toss around, and I get a pair of running shoes: a futile, piteous act of defiance against my ever-rising body-mass.

Next door is an Old Navy and the guys buy a large and floppy straw-hat, the kind which might sit atop the head of a morbidly obese Southern dame on an Arizona porch. They make me wear it as punishment for crashing the car yesterday. It is harsh justice, but justice all the same.

*

We drive to Mammoth Cave National Park and have a wee jaunt in the largest cave system on earth. Certainly not a small cave – they don’t seem to do ‘small’ around here. We also have a short hike above the caverns in some gorgeous woodland. A very large tree has fallen across a deep creek and we, the brave, tiptoe across it.

I stand with Silver at the far end of our natural bridge. I begin to pray: ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, let The Yankee fall in..’

And for once The Big Man upstairs (as opposed to The Big Man pottering on the riverbank) was listening. The Yankee stumbles on the log and falls across the tree’s wide trunk, his arms hanging on one side, his feet dangling on the other, four yards or so above the green waters below.

‘No..no..NOOOoo!’ he wails as, inevitably, he slips backwards. In he drops, going right under. When he resurfaces, cursing, the woods ring with wild laughter. Silver collapses, unable to breathe. It is one of those rare, perfect moments. Well..for five of us at least.

*

Off we drive in a torrential rainstorm, and the drumming beat of the droplets lulls me to sleep. ‘Where should we eat then?’ asks someone upfront, starting me awake. I look out of the window and see a fast-food joint I recognize. ‘White Castle?’ I suggest, slumber-addled, thinking of some movie or other which made reference to it.

TOM’S TOP TIP: Don’t, under any circumstances, go to White Castle. It is utterly vile fare. The ‘sliders’ are poison and the deep fried Wisconsin cheese curds (yes..really) are 100% cholesterol. The team are unimpressed and look daggers at me. The floppy hat stays on.

Back on the road we encounter terrible traffic on the road into Nashville, the first tailback of the trip. I fall asleep again and dream of large women in straw bonnets eating piles and piles of cheese curds.

*

We arrive in Nashville, finally, and troop into the Nashville Downtown Hostel. It’s a grand place to stay, with a great quality pool table and spacious communal areas. We intrinsically disagree with the house rule of ‘no hard liquor’, but, being compliant souls, abstain to the best of our ability.

The six of us are sharing our dorm with one other fellow. He’s an interesting looking human, sharing a countenance with that bloke from the new Star Wars film. Let us set out the (one) conversation we had with Kylo Ren:

THE YANKEE: Hello there, I’m The Yankee, what’s your name?

KYLO REN: Kylo Ren.

ME: Ah, excellent. Where are you from, Kylo?

KYLO REN: Ohio.

THE YANKEE: Nice! And what are you here in Nashville for?

KYLO REN: Something.

He said not one word more.He had hung towels and blankets from the bunk above and had made himself a little Starkiller Base, into which he burrowed. An odd chap, no doubt about it. Let us speak no more of him.

We head to Acme Feed and Seed, have some (many) drinks and a bite to eat, fall in with a few fellow revelers, and have the curious ‘pleasure’ of listening to a live set by Johnny Carter-Cash, scion of the great Johnny Cash.

Johnny Jnr. proceeds to butcher his great father’s back catalogue while high as a kite on MDMA. Chewing his own face off he dines out on daddy’s legacy for a while, before passing duties over to his much younger and much more talented fiancee. She seems a little less partial to the various naughty salts so loved by her betrothed. She also seems (to my untrained eye) to be a couple of months pregnant, so perchance in forty-five years’ time Johnny Cash’s grandchild will be on stage, murdering Ring of Fire with pupils like saucers, just like his da’.

We have never, ever seen so many lasses in one place. They outnumber the fellas three to one at least, and one cannot move for bachelorette parties.The fearsome combination of Irish brogues and English lilts proves somewhat popular. The lights are bright and the liquor flows. It is a famous night.

We oversleep, as is our want, and are away late. I drive us back to Barksdale and I drive slowly – I do not like this elephantine dodgem.

We grab a bit of lunch at a local diner then take a tour around the Maker’s Mark distillery, which is a lovely spot and surprisingly interesting, even if one is fleeced at the end for a bottle of bourbon one is too effeminate to drink. We do get to #justdipped our bottles in the distillery’s trademark red wax, which is nice. It’s always good to #justdipped things when one gets the chance to #justdipped them. They are beginning to experiment with social media and ‘hashtags’, and I agree to join the cause (#justdipped), despite hashtags being dumb and difficult to marry with correct grammar.

It is truly beautiful countryside around here. Kentucky is exactly how we hoped and imagined it would be. Our scenic route takes us past big Abe Lincoln’s childhood home and his place of birth, so we pull in to pay our respects to the Great Emancipator and noted theater lover. We also stop at these places because certain members of our crew have bladders the size of errant golf balls.But mostly it was the Lincoln thing.

*

I’m really starting to get the hang of driving this beast now. It skips and jumps along to my controlled and skillful touch. We dash together across the miles and dance towards the horizon. Truly we are one, man and car.

At this point I misjudge the sheer width of the bastard and career into the back of a much smaller vehicle with a hideous screech of metal and Silver (who was somewhat alarmed). Damn. Damn damn damn damn damn.

Fortunately no-one is hurt and the ladies I rear-ended (ooh-er vicar) are cheerful enough given the circs. A copper is summoned to complete a police report. Andthesea requests that Officer Owen tazes me. Happily she declines. He asks again, again she abstains. I tell Andthesea to shut up. He replies that if I’m not more polite Officer Owen will taze me.

The damage (to our sodding whale at least) is minimal, so after all details are exchanged we continue on our way and stop at the Cardinal Motel in Bowling Green, KT. Were I given over to cliche I would describe the lodgings as ‘cheap and cheerful’. But I’m not, so I won’t. It was, however, both better value and better quality than the wretched Days Inn back in Louisville.

It is now time for some Real America, so we go for some feed at a Red Lobster (actually quite good) then hit up ‘Southern Lanes’ – the enormous local bowling alley-cum-all purpose arcade and hangout. There are batting cages as well, and our belief that we are all future World Series winners is reaffirmed.

Bowling-wise I lose the first game quite comfortably. I blame this on a dixieland supermodel bowling in the next-door lane who distracted me. However, this vision of loveliness leaves and I duly lose the second game by an even greater margin.It must, therefore, have been something to do with misshapen American balls (ooh-er etc. etc.).

We indulge in an earlier night and slap ourselves on the back for having had a mostly teetotal day. Apart from the whiskey tasting. And the beer with dinner. And the three pitchers The Big Man, The Eagle and I demolished during the bowling. All in all, splendidly Methodist.

Two of Our Number go to pick up One of Our Number’s missing wallet and are successful, though only after going into another state along the way. We have a celebratory splash around in the pool, save for The Eagle who is hanging like a hound and who would surely have sunk.

We then have to switch hotels and head to southern Louisville to drop our stuff in the city’s Days Inn. $30 less a night truly does manifest itself, but what it lacks in charm it makes up for in regular police visits.

Now for the excellent Muhammad Ali Museum to be taught a little more about The Greatest, Louisville’s most celebrated son. Then across to the Louisville Slugger Factory to attempt some baseball in the batting cages and to learn a bit extra (that is to say, ‘some’) about bats.

Following this we drive south to Bardstown through lovely Kentucky countryside, and we scope out a couple of potential bourbon distilleries for tomorrow. We then have a (large) dinner at the Talbot Tavern – a 1779 join where Lincoln once stayed and Jesse James shot a bunch of holes in the wall (‘wonderful house-guest’). The Big Man, true to form, ordered poorly. I had some Kentucky fried chicken (when in Rome, etc. etc.) and we all try some ‘beer-cheese’, which turns out is cheese made with beer, not (as One of Our Number believed) a cheesy beverage.

I try to drive the car. I don’t like it. It feels like driving a three-ton bumper car.

*

We head out late to a dive bar, for Silver has arranged dates for himself and The Big Man with a couple of lasses he met at the college death-metal place. As one does. I am passing weary so forgo bourbon and drink 4-5 Red Bulls. We jog on later to some den of iniquity and copious underage twerking, where the Red Bulls hit and I almost have a heart attack.

Andthesea, upon (sort of) realising that drinks are but $1 (after he had brought five rounds) buys seventeen more drinks. He asks the long-suffering barmaid what the total is. ‘$17…I’ve told you five times already..drinks are a dollar..’ ‘Unreal!’ cries Andthesea, who has already forgotten what he owes her. He then flies to the dance-floor, which he dominates with great prejudice.

It is time for me to go. My chest is tight and shooting pains run up and down my right arm. I am not long for the world. I bundle into a cab driven by, God bless him, the single stupidest man in Kentucky. In the end I have to direct him back myself, despite my massive coronary. You might have thought some knowledge of the city would be a requirement of a Louisville cabbie. However, you would have thought wrong.

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.

We wake up much earlier on the third day and pop across to a nearby patch of green to ‘toss the old pig skin around’. Only when there do we notice that winter has seemingly returned, and with a vengeance. Snow even begins to fall. We retire, shivering, to a local breakfast place, where even ‘The Healthy Option’ consists of a gargantuan stack of syrupy pancakes, each comfortably the diameter of a fat man’s face. The Big Man, that great devotee of caffeine, gets outside five-six refills of coffee then flies back to the Airbnb, never less than a few inches off the ground.

*

Being ‘suckers’, as they say, for punishment, we brave the sleet and ice and get on a riverboat, all the better to enjoy America’s second city’s sensational architecture. We pass Trump International Hotel and Tower (if ever a building had small hands it’s this one), the Tribune Tower and countless other landmarks. Our aged tour-guide almost expires from the chill and gets progressively more grumpy.

We head to the bar to ‘warm up’, then ride the L Train around the Loop. We all feel particularly Chicagoan, especially Silver, who loves, LOVES an L Train. We have a quick snack (Chick Fil A – who go a short way towards compensating for their less than enlightened thinking vis-a-vis ‘homosexual folks getting hitched’ with some high-level chicken sandwiches). Three of us (myself, Silver and The Big Man) have genuine, American haircuts. They are unimpressed by the amount ‘taken off’, suggesting that they’ve just paid quite a few bucks to have their hair brushed by a garrulous old man and to leaf through a few old Playboys. I, however, look sensationally sharp.

Now wait…what is this flap of wings..is it? Is it? IS IT? It is. The Eagle, just the 29 hours late, has arrived. First flight slept through, second flight delayed. What an idiot. Yet finally he lands and the half dozen is completed. We celebrate with an elevator up the 450m Willis Tower. There is a transparent and overhanging viewing platform set up right at the top. The Big Man, true to form, cranks out a tight set of press-ups over the void. Madman. I could barely step out over the ledge. On a clear day one can see, they say, into four states from the top of the erstwhile Sears Tower. We certainly didn’t have that, but the vistas were far from insubstantial nevertheless.

*

We accidentally end up going for deep dish pizza again, this time at the famous Uno’s. 50% of the group opt for pasta (weak decision – a champion should always accept a rematch after a good bout). The Eagle and I demolish the challenger set before us. The Yankee orders a broccoli pizza, which the octogenarian waitress (quite rightly I thought) forgot to bring over.

Then to a succession of bars. One had a dueling pianos set-up. Talent was in middling to short supply, the notes aimed at but generally missed by at least a third. Many fine, brave songs died that night. I get a little surly and occasionally heckle.

Avec les femmes, as they say in Italy, the lads tried their able best, having a red hot go with a very limited Monday night supply. Silver effected a sustained assault on the holy bonds of matrimony, but was defeated at the last. Finally we all bundled into a taxi, with Silver and myself exiled to the boot (or ‘trunk’, if one is to indulge in the local patois). I objected to my carriage somewhat vociferously, and the way back to the flat echoed with my sustained bitching. Another (long) day was knocked on the head. Tomorrow the journey itself would begin…

Late enough start today, though Silver and the Big Man do go off for a manly morning run. Where yesterday was bitter and snow-dusted, today we enjoy glorious Midwestern sun.

Today we begin in earnest our uneasy relationship with cheese, starting with lunch at a local Mexican joint (very good). Then it is time to spend some shoe leather as we walk all the way east to the shores of Lake Michigan. It’s a big lake, there’s no denying it.

We wander across to the Field Musuem for some culture, but think better of it. We then do a lap of Soldier’s Field, home of the Chicago Bears (Go Bears), couldn’t find the way in so go to the pub(s) instead.

Dinnertime, we pit our collective will against the largest ‘stuffed pizza’ at the famous Giordanno’s. When it arrived we, wrapped warm in our hubris, where a mite underwhelmed. ‘I reckon we could knock off one 50% bigger’ I suggest to Silver. He agrees. The wise head of the Big Man looks up. ‘Lads, we’re only half way through the first slice…’ How right he was.

These things are chiefly cheese, maybe two inches thick with pie crust bases and paper thin crusts. Halfway through conversation stopped and the sweats began. Looks of fear passed over all faces but the Big Man’s own. The Yankee gets his head down and races to the finish line, where he collapses. The Big Man puts it away, then Andthesea slowly summits. Then Silver crams it down leaving only me and the final slice.

The forces of lactose assail me. I slip in and out of consciousness. But it gets down and stays down. We have won.

‘Nice work guys’ says Sean, our high camp waiter. He then informs us that two high school kids (quite slim) had knocked off the very same pizza pie on their own three days back, somewhat undercuting our triumph…

*

Back home we make ready for another big ‘un. We have sourced some ‘Four Lokos’, an evil combination of energy drink and alcopop (very strong), which apparently has, quite literally, killed folks. However, just after the Big Man and Andthesea had sunk most of theirs the jet-lag hits back, ably supported by the vengeful cheese.

The night out is postponed until tomorrow, to celebrate the Eagle’s arrival. The Big Man, still levitating, endures a significantly caffeine-troubled slumber. Others however, including myself, slept like men long dead.

‘American Airlines’ said the Yankee, so many moons ago. ‘That’s what we need!’

It seemed a mad suggestion at the time, and he would be cruelly punished for his routine nonsense at the prying hands of the TSA (a story, my friends, for a little later). However, Silver and I acquiesced back in October, so found ourselves sat together on AA-somethingsomething with low expectations and little legroom.

Yet soon there appeared a pair of illicit, under the fold-out table gins, sourced by the amazonian Cayla, that queen of hostesses. Silver decides to cap this early victory by watching the knockabout comedy ‘Room’. He is quiet for some time.

Woody, the archduke of high-altitude bar-tending sedates me with a further quadruple gin, and I am still.

*

Reunited with the Big Man post-flight, we wait for the Yankee. We wait and we wait as Chicago O’Hare coughs up weary travelers and the Illinois sun slips across a snowy sky. We have a drink. We have another.

Eventually the Yankee emerges from security. He walks bow-legged, like a worn-down old jockey, late in his career. We ask him what kept him. He doesn’t wish to talk about it. It seems the TSA are somewhat ‘investigative’ when they put their minds to it. Quietly he begins to sob. We give him a drink and soon enough the weeping ceases. We all sit and drink. He stands.

*

Later we arrive at our Chicago homestead, drop bags and go out seeking food and beer. We find both, and in large quantities. My fare is so greasy it is practically transparent, but is tasty all the same. The Yankee’s misfortune is compounded when he loses a sports bet and takes a shot of hideous Chicago liqueur. He is less than happy, but in our group he is in the minority.

We troop back to camp where Andthesea has arrived and we enjoy a joyful reunion. We drink more drinks and some of us take short naps and then we’re out again, searching for nightlife.

There is liquor and noise and live music (poor) and women and sensitive bouncers and fast food (terrible) and drink. We make it to 5am (US time), 11am (UK time). Some succeed with the young damsels, to a certain degree, though I end up abed in the loving arms of Andthesea, as we snored and farted away our jetlag.

A fine, fine first day.