Here's something different. I found this hiding in my Documents/Miscellaneous folder.

Enjoy. It's the thing wot I wrote after visiting you orrible lot in the USA in 2005. If the telly can re-run things, so can I!


Rather than rely on the British rail system to deliver us to Manchester Airport in time for a 10AM checkin (with a preceding two and a half hour rail journey), we elected to travel to the airport on Wednesday 29th June, overnight there, and catch the plane in the morning in an entirely more relaxed manner.

Folks who have taken the Trans-Pennine Express will know that it's a leisurely amble through some really rather pleasant countryside and quaint northern towns where, no doubt, the locals refer to each other as "me 'n' thee", and say things like "'ecky thump". The illusion is somewhat shattered by the local knowledge that most of the dark, satanic mills that one sees from the train window have been converted into loft apartments and are inhabited by people with names like Jared and Astrid who work on convergent new media projects, and who make podcasts that they write about on their blogs.

Manchester Airport was considerably larger and better appointed than I was expecting; it's got three hotels. We didn't stay in the SAS Radisson, although I maintain that for one night, it'd have been worth it. Bewley's was OK. I had the lamb shank for dinner, and while the meat course (lamb shank on a bed of horseradish mash) was splendid, the accompanying vegetables were a bit sad. The room was comfortable, but too warm. In the morning, we required a shuttle to the terminal. The Radisson is connected by moving walkways to all three terminals.

US Airways flight US197 took off at 12.20 local time, with a flight time of 7 hours 11 minutes and an expected arrival time at Philadelphia of 15.37 EST. We were on time. The food was the usual plastic stuff you get in Economy, but it tasted better than it looked and the cabin staff were friendly. The Airbus A330 was equipped with the Sony Passport video thing, and there was a reasonable selection of films and TV programmes. I watched National Treasure (unwoo and unyay) and Lemony Snicket's A Series Of Unfortunate Events (woo and yay).

Philadelphia Airport gave me my first encounter with US Immigration. You know, if a chap hadn't been invited, he might almost think that you folks didn't want anyone to come in. The conversation went something like this (after a 30 minute wait):

<immigration agent> Why are you coming into the US?
<pwhysall> I'm on holiday.
<immigration agent> Why Philadelphia?
<pwhysall> I'm visiting friends here.
<immigration agent> Where do these friends live?
<pwhysall> Just outside Philadelphia. Sicklerville.
<immigration agent> Where did you meet these friends?
* pwhysall thinks, "Don't say, "On the internet". That would be bad."
<pwhysall> They visited me in the UK.
* pwhysall thinks, "Not a complete lie".
<immigration agent> Putyourleftfingeronthepadputyourightfingeronthepadlookintothelense*stamp*haveaniceday.

Onward! To the baggage claim! Or, as I like to call it, "the big thing that borks frequently and makes me cross". The baggage conveyor broke down three times (a breakdown means a lengthy wait while the most junior member of the baggage handling crew gets prodded into the chute by co-workers, that he might locate and clear the jam).

Two hours after deplaning, we were in a taxi en route to our hotel, Club Quarters at 1628 Chestnut Street.

First revelation about Philadelphia occurred when travelling over the Big Bridge.

Philadelphia smells.

Sometimes it smells of chemicals, as you discover as you cross the bridge. Sometimes, it smells of the drains. At other times, the choking fog of petrol and diesel fumes overwhelms your nose. If you're really lucky, you'll get a good lungful of air that's been marinading in the rubbish in the alleys for most of a hot summer's day.

Philadelphia is not a pretty city, really; while places like Rittenhouse Square and the Historic district certainly have charm, I never got any sense of the place having a centre, either physically or emotionally. Some of this somewhat insipid first impression is undoubtedly the result of five hours of jet lag. While it may have looked like eight o'clock in the evening, my body was yelling something about it being one o'clock in the morning and don't you have to be up in the morning?

Club Quarters was very comfortable, but the room was miniscule and the shower was a bit wimpy. The shower in the room at Bewley's was capable of delivering a manly blast of icy cold Pennine water; the kind of shower that lets a chap know he's alive (even if he needs to reach the knob within the next twenty seconds or so in order to continue this state of affairs). The CQ shower delivered a rather plaintive stream of lukewarm water.
However, the air conditioning was truly military grade, and maintained a suitably frosty temperature inside even though outside, the temperature was nudging 34 degrees C. It was on this afternoon, wandering around downtown Philadelphia in a jet-lagged haze, that I laid the groundwork for some truly impressive sunburn.

I didn't really sleep too well that night, even though I was absolutely jiggered. I was excited at being in the country that has been such an icon in so many ways to me; it permeates the books I read, the films I watch, the music I listen to, and the things I own. I was unsettled, and was getting used to the fact that the money all looks the same, that there's no sensible coinage under a dollar, and that the people here can't really understand my accent very well. I also don't usually sleep well the first night in a new room.

Friday morning arrived, and we went for a wander downtown. We discovered that Starbucks does nice cake and reasonable coffee for a not-bad price, and so coffee and cake it was for breakfast. (By the third day, Starbucks lost its shine and I was sick of hearing about Alanis Morrissette and her upcoming look-ma-no-new-tunes-but-I'm-unplugged! album). We had a bit of a wander around the shoppingy bits and did a bit of ooh, there's a skyscraper (ho ho, more on that later). Slow day, still very jetlagged. The weather was, to my British sensibilities, unbearable. 34 degrees C, something in the region of 70-80% humidity, and it knocked me flat, to be honest. We retired to the hotel after being in the throng at the Independence thing (Here's the entire deal with the Liberty Bell: It's a bell, they rang it, it broke, they rang it again, it broke some more, the end.), and I got a much needed lukewarm shower.

It was round about now that I contacted BeeP and we agreed that, if nothing else, we'd go out for a beer or three. I'd been in touch with Mike Vitale, who advised at 7-ish that the Gregmobile was about an hour or so away.

At 8, BeeP turned up at CQ as arranged, with Box in tow. If you're ever in a hurry, don't start talking to Box. He likes to talk, and so will you. You'll be late. We wandered down to Monk's, a trendy bar-cum-restaurant. Hallelujah, Coniston XB bitter on draught. I'll have a pint of that, please.

Then things went a little crazy. Oh look, here's Barry Roomberg. Here's Greg. Here's Mike. Here's Drew. Who are you? Oh, Dan Reck! Pleasure, sir! Here's Scott! This venison thing is crap! What's that sour fizzy shit you're drinking, Greg? No, it's not nectar. It's revolting. Yeah, I bet you like it. It's about ten dollars for half a pint and I would like it for that price. No, Drew, don't tip your beer into Box's lap. Barry, you just got told to keep the noise down in a pub at 10.30PM on Friday when everyone else is yelling. Excellent.

We wobbled off home. Things bode well. Some reprobates stayed out late.

Party day arrived, and BeeP very kindly collected myself and SWMBO from CQ at about eleven. When we got to the Patient homestead at about 11.45, Dan Reck was agonising over whether it was too early to drink. (Answer: It may well have been, but I wasn't aware of any other plans other than drink, eat the charred flesh of our fellow mammals and shoot shit, so might as well get started).

Turns out that Mr Reck is a very funny chap who should be plied with ale early and often, should you have the good fortune to meet him.

Skip was working on the "it might be too early to drink, but I'm too big to argue with" principle. A gentle giant of a fellow, he's your first indication that you and the pool might be about to become intimately acquainted. Remember, his hobby is hitting people with big swords. And drinking.

The afternoon rumbled on. We drank. We ate. We drank. We shot shit. We met Arkadiy, who looks absolutely nothing like his picture on here (in a positive way, I hasten to add). I met Duncan, who stood, arms akimbo, and reminded me of a nightclub bouncer who was about to look at my feet and say, "Sorry mate. Not in those shoes".

We met Major, who's about ten feet tall. We met Dave, who likes blowing things up. We met another Dave, who knows more about Barry than it's probably polite to mention, and who is an EastEnders fan. We met the hostess with the mostest, Rita. I discovered that BeeP Jr is called "Bil-AY!" long before I saw him. I got chucked in the pool. We met Chris Rathman and the irrepressible Amy. Chris drank with a dedication that only a Brit could truly appreciate. He says he's from Texas, but I think he's really from Huddersfield.

Everyone denied being Marlowe.

The afternoon pleasantly dissolved into evening, and things became amusingly blurred. I lost at dimes to everyone. Barry is the master here. His dime-fu is strong, and yours is weak. By this time, my face and left arm are in silent torment; I will discover this in about 24 hours. Beer + sun = sunburn, folks.

The night rolled in, and people blew things up, and in some cases, almost themselves. I was utterly pooped by this time, and wandered off to bed. Three hours later, I got up again. Mr Body Clock was a bit confused.

A few folk were still up, but slowly they dribbled off into the snoratorium. Consider a half-dozen or more grown men, all well-beered and fuelled with burgers and franks, asleep and their alimentary canals busily processing all these gas-producing materials.

Let's just say one didn't open the basement door unless one had to.

Night turned into Sunday morning, and a hungry Box + Explosive Dave appeared. I was about to have another new experience - breakfast from Wawa's. Now, in the UK, there are shops like Wawa's, but pretty much exclusively they omit the hot food counter, and if they open late at all, it's 11pm.

Sausage and gravy, on a biscuit. Now this is a weird thing, to me. The gravy is white, for one thing, and very peppery; whatever this is, it isn't gravy. The biscuit is certainly most un-biscuit-like, and the sausage was, well, sausagey.

The whole was substantially better than its parts, and it set me on the path to unhungoverness.

A lazy day proceeded to sort of happen, with people making their departures. At the close of play, there was just us, Ben, and the Patients.

BeeP took Ben and us into Philadelphia, where we had a good sandwich for tea at Costi's, and then we took a carriage ride/tour with a nice gentleman called John, who knew his Philly onions but had difficulty making himself heard over the very loud free classical concert (which jumped the shark the moment I heard the strains of the opening bars of the Star Wars Overture) and the traffic.

Ben left on Monday morning. We did a reasonable amount of absolutely nothing, and then around lunchtime the idea crystallised that we should do something, so BeeP and the clan took us to visit the battleship New Jersey (big, grey, interesting, hot) and then on to see the Camden Riversharks play Atlantic City Surf. Baseball is a fascinating game, and I could watch it for hours; SWMBO most vehemently disagrees with this assessment.

Tuesday saw Rita very kindly driving us to the 30th Street Station in Philadelphia, where we caught the train up to NYC. Amtrak has a sense of humour; rather than letting you know on which platform your train is due, you get to wait until about five minutes or so beforehand, and then you can enjoy the sensation of sprinting across the station with large suitcase in tow, to reach the track that is invariably most distant from your selected waiting position. If anyone can tell me what "This train's magic number is 9" means, announced over the PA, I'd be grateful.

We arrived at Pennsylvania station after an hour and a half, on time. When we emerged on 7th Avenue, blinking in the light, I had the first of several "that's bloody big, that is" moments. At this point I got my first real sense that New York is somewhat like that which you see on the telly, only more so. I hailed a taxi and was immediately impressed by the lightning reactions of the driver, which prevented a number of unpleasant crashes. Of course, if the driver had actually looked beyond the end of his bonnet, he might not have needed such rapier-like reflexes, but hey.

Somehow, we got to the hotel alive and unscathed. Hotel Park Central was good; the room was big without being intimidating, had excellent air conditioning, a most amusing comic which detailed the numerous and expensive ways in which one could be scammed out of large amounts of money with very little effort (it was called the "Hotel Restaurant Menu, room service until 11PM" I mean: $20 for a basic continental breakfast, plus 18% service charge, plus $3.50 delivery charge, plus tax. You know, there's a nice diner right across the street that's open 24 hours.)

For those who know NYC, it's on 7th Avenue at 56th Street West, right opposite Carnegie Hall, and on the next block from the Carnegie Deli, where 5 people were shot in 2002 in a drug deal that went wrong.

We stepped out into the warm NYC air, and walked straight across the street and down the block onto 6th. This is where I had my second "blimey, everything around here's a bit large, innit?" moment. Unlike 5th, 7th and 8th, 6th is quite wide and there's block after block after block of 50+ storey buildings.

We basically just wandered around Midtown for the afternoon; we turned a corner and to our surprise found ourselves in Times Square, which is an amazing place to visit. Once. More than that, and the sheer tackiness of it all just gets on one's tits.

We ate that evening at a nice family-owned Chinese restaurant at 6th and 48th Street, called Vega's. I had the steamed shrimp and pork dumplings, followed by Szechuan style shredded beef; Jo had a very crispy couple of spring rolls, followed with chicken with pineapple.

New York is a very odd place; on the one hand, everyone's SO busy and SO rushing and SO MUST GET THERE that the only reason, I think, that I didn't see any of the really fat people that infested Philadelphia is that they've been run down and squashed flat by Really Busy People in Gucci loafers. On the other hand, when walking through Central Park, we met a chap who guided us to the education entrance to the Met (hint: you don't have to play $12 to get in. Pay them $1. They'll get over it) who talked about the fact that he has friends who live in the same corner of England as us, and how he likes to walk in the park, and how the weather sucked in NYC (in summer, it seems to be either raining or the wrong side of 32 degrees C), and who, in general, seemed to be in no rush at all.

Here's another thing about NYC. Everyone's got an iPod. And no, I do mean an iPod. Not a Zen, not an iRiver. An iPod. I think they summarily hunt down and chuck into the Hudson people who have those Dell Jukebox things. I think I saw maybe two or three people with iRivers (and even then, it was the really, really tiny ones).

The roads are more-or-less uniformly terrible in NYC; I now understand why American cars are sprung like trampolines. Driving my little M-tech-suspension-equipped BMW around Manhattan would produce a sore back in no time. There is only one correct road position, and that's approximately two feet from the car in front. If you leave three feet, then a pedestrian will attempt to either cross, sell you something or dance in the space. Driving is a twitch-reaction sport, and I'm sure that there's a primitive code emerging in the use of the horn. Before long, it'll be a full-blown language. (At the moment it seems to be a general mechanism for expressing that one is frustrated.)

I was also struck with the courtesy and kindness with which we were treated, everywhere we went. When we dawdled in Brooklyn (the tour bus (excellent way to cover a lot of ground in a couple of hours, especially if your feet are sore) had dumped all the Americans into Junior's, to buy a piece of incredibly sickly cheesecake), the guide hung back and just chatted to us. Every establishment was inhabited by people who, if they were faking their friendly and well-mannered demeanour, were very, very good at it. I don't know whether this is because we were very apparently British (no attempt at hiding the accent; given that I know what Scott sounds like when he's faking an English accent, I'm not about to insult the locals by trying to emulate theirs) or whether they're like this with everyone. I don't really mind either way.

I've just hit 3000 words, so I'll wrap up by saying: great country, great people, bad roads, portions are too big, beer is too expensive, food is cheap, why did you elect that berk, and I'll be back.