From April 2nd to April 19th 2016, six wee devils journeyed across six great American states, north to south and cold to hot, in the largest car in christendom.

Please enjoy the assorted adventures and misadventures of Andthesea, Silver, The Big Man, The Eagle and The Yankee below (as well as a couple of tales concerning yours truly).  Hopefully this chronicle goes a little way towards expressing what a quite sensational trip it truly was.

Chicago Fire ~ April 2nd

‘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.

 

Go Bears ~ April 3rd

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 Museum 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 undercutting 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.

 

The Eagle has (finally) landed ~ April 4th

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…

 

Hittin’ that ol’ dusty trail ~ April 5th

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.

 

Louis Louis(ville) ~ April 6th

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 automobile. 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 all hit at once and I have a heart attack.

Andthesea, upon 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.

 

Good ol’ boys drinking whiskey & rye ~ April 7th

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.

 

As smoo-oo-ooth as Tennessee whiskey ~ April 8th

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.

 

A great wailing and Nash(ville)ing of teeth ~ April 9th

‘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 collide 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.

 

All the world’s The Stage ~ April 10th

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.

 

Hotty toddy, gosh almighty, who the hell are we? (Hey!) Flim flam, bim bam, Ole Miss by damn! ~ April 11th

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.

 

Mississippi burning ~ April 12th

I wake quite sublimely refreshed and demolish the meatloaf I had placed on death-row (score another late win for Tommy). We then spend the whole morning in glorious Mississippi sunshine mucking around Dark Blue’s family cabin, which is pristine and splendid, with two floors (or a ground floor and a ‘mezzanine’ as Silver put it, to much hilarity from Mississippi locals) with large bedrooms and a number of sunny, well-appointed porches.

There is a large lake and levee and a damp meadow within the grounds. We fish (unsuccessfully) in said lake, hit a few golf balls off said levee and play out an epic game of American football on said meadow. Dark Blue, Silver and I suffer a narrow defeat against The Yankee, who (with annoying regularity) picks off passes to the six-footers Andthesea and The Big Man, the latter of whom takes significant pleasure in taking me out off the ball. Happily I manage to deposit him in a large, swampy puddle at one point, covering him head to toe in stagnant ooze. Sadly, I’m sure The Big Man’s vengeance will be swift and severe, should there be a rematch.

*

We drive around in the sun for a short spell, discovering that Tuesday early afternoon is not the busiest time of the week in Northern Mississippi and much is closed. However, we are able to slip into Yalabusha Brewery in the small town of Water Valley where a fine fellow by the name of John shows us around an increasingly successful Southern craft brewery.

This gives us quite the taste, so we go purchase a good few of their offerings at a nearby BBQ joint called Lamar Lounge. The BBQ itself is tasty and plentiful, and I am able to chalk up a win by taking down a a big old pile of high quality local cuisine. The waitress today also doesn’t seem much of a fan, and I fear a pattern is emerging. I should really spend some time writing some better jokes. Come to think of it, I guess y’all feel pretty similarly as well…

*

We drop off Dark Blue, hit a liquor store to buy him and his family liquid thank-you gifts, then drive to a close-by gun range. It is time for us to fire powerful weaponry and finally become truly American. We get our hands on a 9mm semi-automatic, an old-school revolver and an M-series semi-automatic assault rifle (the single loudest thing I have ever come across in my life, even more than Silver after a few ales).

Comparing targets at the end, Andthesea seems the most preternaturally gifted, and The Big Man points out that such talents are wasted on a Quaker. The Yankee is less deadly, as is the Eagle, who was shooting with his wrong hand following an embarrassing football injury from that morning.

Personally I found two things quite concerning with the experience: Firstly, that the minimum age at the range was eight years old..EIGHT!! Secondly..was how much I enjoyed it…oh the power…oh the titillating, captivating, overwhelming, intoxicating power of it all. On the way out I sign a petition against gun control and attempt to join the GOP over the phone.

Putting aside our new-found Republicanism, we went back to bid farewell and give gifts to the notably Democratic Dark Blue and his family. A couple of their friends were visiting so we have a brief but sweet little gathering before heading up to Memphis for the night.

*

Back in Tennessee on the outskirts of Memphis we find a decent enough motel (The Baymont Inn, for those taking notes) then head downtown to Beale Street – the main strip for bars and live music. We go to B.B. King’s Blues Club and (unsurprisingly) the band is fabulous, with a peerless, top-quality guitarist and a singer with lungs the size of punching bags. It’s not a particularly late night, though a few beers may or may not have been enjoyed. However, the music will live long in the memory.

 

Walking in Memphis ~ April 13th

We endure an early start this morning and, unused to such foul hours, a few of us make a real hash of the Baymont Inn’s breakfast offerings. Silver, for example, explodes an oatmeal in their microwave, and yours truly creates some very, very questionable waffles. The day can only get better from here and, true to form, it does indeed: for our first stop is Graceland!

The home of The King is a surreal, gauche, enlightening, kitsch and fabulous place, and it’s an odd ol’ experience walking his halls with a throng of genuine Elvis aficionados, all following along to John Stamos (no idea) on the iPad-guided tours. As with Louisville’s Ali Museum, it’s all unsurprisingly hagiographical, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little touched by the place, especially when you exit the Jungle Room, wander through Graceland’s grounds and find the grave of The King in his ‘meditation garden’.

There are private planes (x2) to explore and countless automobiles of varying levels of taste and utility. Some exhibits fall a bit flat, and there are eleven (count them…ELEVEN) gift shops slinging unbelievable levels of tat. However, overall, highly rewarding.

Even more rewarding, though in a very different way, is the exceptionally powerful Civil Rights Museum, which is to be our next stop (after another swift Chick-Fil-A of course). However, as we drive towards downtown we spot the historic Sun Studios, so The Eagle and I hop out to take a quick tour around the birthplace of ‘rock & roll’:

Content-wise it is similar enough to the Sam Phillips exhibition at the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville, but it is well worth it for the exuberance of the tour-guide, who has some strong gags and fine anecdotes. Standing where Elvis, Johnny Cash, B.B. King, Jerry Lee Lewis and countless others recorded huge hits is a bit of a thrill, no doubt about it.

There’s a complimentary shuttle bus downtown and it ferries the pair of us to the Civil Rights Museum, where we find the other four in quiet contemplation inside a fantastic, troubling, exceptional exhibition: Built around the Lorraine Motel where Dr. King was assassinated and the lodging house across the street where the fatal shot was fired, it is an emotive location for a thorough, no-holds barred examination of the struggle of African Americans for equality, especially here in the Deep South. Obviously we all went in with the highest levels of respect for the great man, but coming out we are all just knocked backwards by the majesty of Martin Luther King Jnr. The drive out of Memphis is a quiet, rainy one.

*

I drive us south to Clarksdale, MS, along some of the strangest, dullest roads man has yet laid. I don’t like the car, the car doesn’t like me, but we make it work. Our accommodation this evening is fantastic: We are all staying in the enormous Bill’s House at the Shack Up Inn, just outside of town. It’s a huge, two-level wooden cabin, filled to the rafters with odds and ends, stag heads and guns, huge wooden desks and cabinets. All genuinely bizarre.

We are heading first to Morgan Freeman’s own blues bar, Ground Zero, and they send a car to pick us up…I say ‘a car’, it’s a 1980s-era limousine chauffeured by the irrepressible Abraham, who is a hundred gallon barrel of laughs.

Ground Zero is a cool place, though sadly Morgan is nowhere to be seen. We have a bite to eat and school the locals at pool, but then head across to the town’s other main bar, ‘Red’s’, in search of higher quality blues. And find them we do, in that little neon dive, which serves us beer by the bottle and music by the crate.

MVP of the three-piece has to be ‘Hollywood’, a surly teen named with deliberate irony who could not possibly look any more bored. However, he’s a far better drummer with one hand than most are with two.

Well past midnight Abraham returns, sans limo (electrics died, hopefully nothing to do with us..) and he takes some of us back to the Shack Inn in his own car, legend that he is. The Big Man and Silver stay on in town to head to a curious after-party in some sort of art gallery fixture, but I forewent this attraction – so you’ll have to ask them for a full appreciation of the Clarksdale art scene.

The Eagle has (somehow) managed to source a full rack of smoked ribs, so we feast on these in our eclectically and eccentrically decorated cabin, feeling supremely southern.

 

Old man river ~ April 14th

We potter around Bill’s House and The Shack Inn’s grounds in the morning, enjoying a final look at a singular and memorable place to lay one’s head. Then it is to the motor, for we have a long day’s drive ahead down some celebrated roads: Highway 61 – The Blues Highway; Route 1 along the great Mississippi; and finally the Natchez Trace, the most beautiful stretch of road in our whole trip.

The group stop for a mesmerically disappointing lunch at ‘Garfield’s’ in Greenville – one of a succession of somewhat impoverished towns in Western Mississippi. The service was achingly slow – while White Castle served undoubtedly more evil fare, at least its cruel punishment was swift and expeditious…

Our time well wasted we speed off towards Vicksburg, the ‘key to the South’ to quote big Abe Lincoln. And when I say ‘speed’, I do mean ‘speed’. One of the many annoying things about my crashing of the car back in Bowling Green is that it has stripped me of all critiquing privileges vis-a-vis the driving of m’colleagues. This is scarcely a problem in regards to The Big Man who is somewhat masterful behind the wheel (despite the fact that today, on a flat, empty, ridiculously straight bit of road, he coaxed the beast north of 120, the bastard). No…’tis Silver who would suffer my disdain, were circumstances different, for he drives like an eighteen year-old Essex boy with five WKD Blues in his belly and one in his hand.

Now you might say, ‘Tom, isn’t it equally churlish to criticize his driving on these blog posts, rather than face-to-face?’ And to that I would say, ‘Thank you so much for reading the blog, I do hope you are enjoying it!’

*

On the outskirts of Vicksburg we take a driving tour around the historic battleground – an extensive and highly impressive thirteen-mile monument to one of the Civil War’s defining clashes. The whole place is littered with obelisks, gravestones and statues of varying sizes, and red and blue plaques are placed hither and thither to show the Confederate and Union battle-lines.

The Yankee is in his element here. He demanded at least one battlefield at the start of the trip, and the trip (as is its wont) has delivered manfully. We then march into the town itself and have a drink by the wide and muddy Mississippi. It’s a big river, there’s no denying it.

We leave pretty promptly from Vicksburg (not a town, in my opinion, deserving a 47-day siege) and take the beauteous Natchez Trace to the lovely riverside town of Natchez, full of grand antebellum architecture and wide, pleasant streets.

Now The Eagle has been hiding something in his feathery nest, and that something happens to be over 100,000 Holiday Inn reward points from his travels and travails at his work. So, being the very finest of birds, he sorts us out complimentary rooms, much to our delight.

However, we promptly squander those savings in Natchez’s only casino – which doesn’t even have the good grace to be a riverboat. However, we do enjoy a meal and a few beers there right on the surprisingly peaceful riverfront, and we all have a decent enough time, despite our periodic losses to one-armed bandits (fruit machines) and two-armed bandits (blackjack dealers). The casino puts on a shuttle-bus back to the town’s hotels and we use this to get an earlier night than usual. It is to be our last pre-New Orleans night, so a good eight hours of the dreamless is absolutely imperative!

 

Louisiana purchases ~ April 15th

Coffee etc. is sourced in Natchez central then we sally forth across town to do a quick tour of Longwood House, one of the grander antebellum piles for which the place is so famed. It is certainly quite striking, a massive five-storey octagon with a central Byzantine dome balanced on top – and it would have been doubly impressive had the plantation-owning son-of-a-bitch who built the place not gone bust during the Civil War.

There is something rather satisfying about the thought of an impoverished slave-owner having to live in his own basement (the only portion of the house successfully finished). There he sits, cursing the ‘damn Yankees’ (but not our damn Yankee of course) for robbing him of his ill-gotten wealth, struggling to feed his eight racist little kiddies, contracting ‘the consumption’ etc. etc.

Gay, our elderly tour-guide, seems less pleased with the whole outcome, lamenting the lost prosperity of Mississippi rather than celebrating freedoms won and cruel injustice defeated. But she can, as we say in Essex, ‘go do one’.

*

The Big Man, Silver and I drive in rotation during our final journey in the beast, and I hand over the reins to Silver in Baton Rouge, LA. Whilst there we purchaseourselves some very tasty local cuisine at ‘Poor Boy Lloyd’s Seafood Restaurant’ – which, coincidentally, is a favourite of one Barry O’Bama. The 44th President of the United States favours fried oyster po’boys, just in case you were wondering. Andthesea and The Eagle try some alligator. It gets mixed reviews.

We take a bit of a detour post-Baton Rouge in order to cross the mammoth Pontchartrain Causeway into New Orleans – the longest continuous bridge on the planet at 25 miles plus.

…

It’s a big bridge.

..

There’s no denying it.

*

Finally, New Orleans. Our very final destination, reached at last. At some points during the trip I didn’t think we’d make it. I certainly expected The Yankee to meet his maker along the way…I guess I owe The Eagle five bucks..

We find our hostel ‘Atlas House’ in the Garden District just west of the city centre and drop off our kit. Silver and I then go to hand over the Suburban, but the car rental folks have seemingly knocked it on the head for the evening. Being well brought up young gentlemen, we choose to abandon the vehicle there and wash our hands of it until tomorrow at the earliest. We have more important matters to attend to..that is to say, drinking.

We therefore wolf down a quick pizza or three back at the hostel and get ready to hit the town. Andthesea insists on playing the guitar. We recognise very few of his tunes. Sarah, a hostel employee, is keen to come along too, and she shows us a few choice spots on Frenchmen Street with decent live music and readily available beverages.

I must confess, the rest is a bit of a blur..I think some of us made it to the infamous Bourbon Street..though, Your Honour, I am a most unreliable witness…I think various hard liquors may have been involved.

So a good and grand start then, let’s see what tomorrow will bring.

 

Baby please don’t go, baby please don’t go-oh, baby please don’t go down to New Orleans, you know I love you so, baby please don’t go ~ April 16th

This Saturday morning sees the latest start yet for some of our number, with The Eagle and The Yankee knocking on the door of 3pm before they drag their sorry hides out of bed.

Silver and I, however, rouse ourselves somewhat promptly to go face the music regarding the car we abandoned yesterday eve. The ladies at the desk are undoubtedly unimpressed, but once again our smooth English tones pour oil on the choppy waters of potential opprobrium and all is well. So it is a final ‘bon voyage’ to the Suburban…goodbye old girl, you were a worthy foe.

Back to the hostel for a bit of downtime. Eventually Silver, Andthesea and The Big Man get up and decide to take a taxi out east to the parts of the city worst affected by Hurricane Katrina. The Eagle and The Yankee, once up and about, join me in exploring the Garden District around our hostel – a lovely, leafy part of town with ancient streetcars and huge overhanging trees draped with sparkly beads. Very nice indeed.

Early evening we three head to town and stand in line for the famous Acme Oyster House. Their specialty is char-grilled garlic oysters, and The Eagle is somewhat sceptical about this offering…until he eats the first one that is. They really are fantastic. I had a half dozen but really could have demolished a thousand more. Highly suggested fare.

All six of us are reunited at a nearby bar and we begin an epic tour down the vile Bourbon Street. Now I flatter myself to say that I’m a humble fellow, a man who remembers his roots and seldom gets above his station. However, I can say this categorically: I am better than Bourbon Street. We are all better than Bourbon Street. Even Silver and The Big Man are better than Bourbon Street, and they’re just the worst!

The sights and sounds and smells (oh the smells..) of that place will live long in the memory, but are not suitable for a PG-rated account such as this. I will, therefore, bring this post to a close with but one final comment: altogether another top night all round.

 

Let’s all go to the ball game ~ April 17th

We wake to find The Yankee has gone off for coffee. It seems he had difficulties in sourcing himself any as he is away for some seven hours… A mysterious fellow is The Yankee. He is becoming more and more enigmatic by the instant. Distant…unknowable… poor on the text-back. Perhaps he’s gone ‘native’. The swifter we get him back to the UK the better, in this man’s opinion.

The rest of us, simpler and more present men, travel way, way across town to attend a baseball game: the New Orleans Zephyrs verses the Omaha Stormchasers. We are quite taken with America’s Pastime, even if the quality of this windy match-up is not spectacularly high. We see one home-run (Omaha) and our beloved Zephyrs go down 3-2.

The highlight of the occasion is that The Big Man and Silver are picked to take part in a mid-innings race of no little hilarity. The Big Man, resplendent in a large, inflatable burger bun, lies supine next to his rival. Silver, swift as coursing lightning, has to run back and forth collecting outsize plastic condiments and fillings to place on The Big Man’s chest, before donning a bun-suit of his own and throwing himself atop the completed burger (and, of course, atop The Big Man).

Things are neck and neck between the two teams until the very last, when a burst of good, English pace sends an airborne Silver home by a yard. Our boys win a $50 voucher for a restaurant we shall never visit..but they also win glory. Sweet, creamy glory.

*

Some time later (damn the public transport in this country – or lack thereof) we return to the hostel laden with beers. We were promised that the hot tub would be nicely warmed for us, but it lies tepid and uninviting. Just as we ponder our next move The Yankee returns, sans coffee, and with no explanation as to his lengthy absence.

We decide to grab a streetcar deeper into the lovely Garden District and find some food, and this we do after a sizable wait for said streetcar. Have I already cursed the public transport in this country? I have? In this very blog post? Smashing.

A very fine meal is enjoyed by all, save for The Yankee who ordered the cheeseburger at a restaurant named (quite appropriately) ‘Superior Seafood’. Many of the lads have char-grilled oysters and all are well-pleased. The Eagle, hip young thing that he is, has raw oysters. He then has a comedically large allergic reaction, much to our gratification.

Back at the hostel the hot tub is still icy as a second-hand igloo, so we sink our beers in the communal area and listen to music of inconsistent quality. Andthesea has another crack at the guitar, with a little more success than his Friday set. Clapton, Hendrix, Andthesea – it’s only a matter of time. The Yankee disappears again, wearing a very smart purple shirt as yet unseen on this holiday. We ask him where he heads but he leaves without a word, a faraway look in his intelligent eye. Curiouser and curiouser.

Soon after this the other four head into town for more carousing and rambunctious high-jinks, but my tank, I am sad to say, has run dry. There is a flickering red light a-flashin’ on the Mansfield dashboard, and it is time for me to head to bed. It is our final full day in the States tomorrow, and I’ll need to be on tip-top form.

 

And now, the end is near ~ April 18th & 19th

This morning I am as refreshed as can be. My decent spot of sleep has hit the figurative F5 key on the keyboard of the Mansfield corpus, and I’m ready for anything the day might throw at me.

The same cannot be said for the others. It seems that without my sage and guiding hand at the tiller New Orleans night #3 got somewhat sordid and very, very boozy. I am, however, unable to wring any details out of them due to my previous journalistic endeavours. I guess we, my friends, will have to imagine it…

A little later I stroll downtown with Silver, Andthesea and The Big Man to do a bit of shopping. We are scheduled to be picked up from the hostel ‘between 12.45 and 1.15’ for a ‘swamp tour’, but we are confident we can get in, get the necessary kit and get out again in a prompt and manly fashion. I buy some last minute souvenirs, and Silver and The Big Man source some good value vestments. Andthesea purchases a handsome Cleveland Cavaliers jersey, and, somewhere in Ohio, LeBron James smiled broadly.

Inevitably we are now running a little late, and this is exacerbated by the swamp tours bus driver fellow – who I shall call ‘Billy-Bob’, despite this probably not being his name – turning up ten minutes early and being annoyed we made morning plans. The Eagle calms everything down and we hop aboard to go a-swamping with ‘Airboat Adventures’.

Now airboats are, in many ways, the most awesome things mankind has yet conceived, and Bobby (actual name) our pilot and guide really lets it rip as we leave the little port and head out to the bayou. It tops out at 45mph, which feels swift enough I can tell you, especially around tight bends in between tall banks of green reeds and old cypress trees, turned white with salt.

Eventually we slow down a touch and we do some successful ‘gator spotting. It really is a mesmeric, verdant, wonderful landscape, and the idle sun has finally deigned to get his arse into gear and make with some rays. All in all a top way to spend an afternoon – one which was ‘capped’, so to speak, when The Yankee’s new baseball cap flew off his dome and dived into the muddy waters some forty, fifty, sixty yards back. We turn around to get it and The Eagle, that true Briton, goes to fish it out. We all pray that he topples in, but on this occasion The Almighty is abstemious with the divinely ordained physical comedy. One cannot, as they say, have everything.

*

Back at base camp we pick up some BBQ and enjoy it with beers (quelle surprise) in the garden of the hostel. The Big Man and Silver sling a ball around and somehow manage to bring down a whole ten metre string of fairy lights onto my head. The Yankee comes downstairs wearing a full suit and tie. He rolls his eyes at the mess of broken lights, then leaves before we can press him on where he got the suit and why he was carrying a violin case.

We meet a few folks at the hostel and night #4 in NOLA looks like it is taking shape. But once again I will not be in attendance, for tonight I have to ‘go see about a girl’. I imagine that without my calming influence the lads will once again overstretch themselves and fall into sin and/or vice. But where better to do so than New Orleans, Louisiana?

***

Late, late on the morning of April 19th people are traipsing back to the dorm room. Bags are beginning to be packed and there’s only a few hours until our taxi to the airport. Then, finally, awfully, lamentably, it will be back to Heathrow via Miami then…and I type this with dread…work first thing on Wednesday morning…oh lawd..what a vile, ghastly thought…

But to strike a happier final note, what, WHAT a holiday! Quite sensational from pillar to post, and a tip of the hat to The Yankee, The Eagle, The Big Man, Andthesea and Silver for making it such a riot. And thanks to all who have come along with us through this here humble blog. It’s been a pleasure to write, and I hope it has been an enjoyable read.

Until next time my friends, adios! God bless you all, and God bless the United States of America.