N'Awlins right here right now

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N’AWLINS.
RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW

You know when you’re at the bottom of the social ladder when you’re leaving an airport in a courtesy minibus full of people who actually have reservations at their hotel.
You’ve got 11 stops until you get off.
10 stops for the others to alight at the ‘Sheraton’, the ‘Marriott’, the ‘Sorry Sir I regret to inform you that you are declined entry on the grounds of you being scum’, and all the other hotels that ‘welcome’ you with a revolving door guarded jealously by some twat in an outfit borrowed from that ‘Buttons’ geezer who was invariably played in panto by chirpy cockney type Charlie ‘Awight my Darlin’ Drake.
Stop 9 takes you out of the main tourist zone.
Stop 10 takes you into the ghettos.
The last tentative stop by the driver who had suddenly taken on a deathly pallor takes you to your stop, where the last piece of advice we needed to hear from him was “Mind how you go, be careful, and keep to the main road”.
Welcome to New Orleans.

We’d arrived a couple of hours earlier on a Take-A-Chance-Airways (TACA for short); an El Salvadorian Airline that employed Che Guevara look-a-like’s as hostesses, (beards compulsory) Our flight had started in Belize City. For those not really in the know about Central American flight times the duration of the flight is 1 hour 50 minutes. Those that have seen our in-flight film ‘The Hunt For Red October’ will possibly know that it is of a similar length. Those who more surprisingly managed to stay awake will definitely know it’s 1 hour and 20 minutes of pure tedium with the final half an hour making the film worthwhile renting for a Monday evening as it comes with a free Haagen Daas. Therefore when the aircraft switched off the film on the 20 minute to land signal, the film had just managed to gurgle to life, and Sean Connery had just started to kick some ass. Well that was it. The plane erupted in mayhem as if some nervous paramilitary had sprayed a rainbow of 5.56mm rounds into the cabin. The Captain obviously had heard the commotion from the rear and tried to appease the passengers with regurgitated safety messages. It calmed the hordes only slightly. Eventually after a term of one-way negotiation, there followed an air of uneasy silence, as if the flight deck had informed all that there was something not quite right with the workings of the aircraft. Maybe a wing had just unattached itself, or perhaps the Captain had suffered some mid air flashback to seeing his wife in bed with a young flight navigator and was now hanging from a coat hook with his tie turning his head the shade of an over ripe aubergine. No, this was the calm before the storm where Connery fans were waiting until the plane landed before executing the cabin crew. The nervous Air Stewardesses sweated like slices of beef in a cheap café salad. Paul and I looked at each other to see if the other was shitting himself as much as the other. On taxiing, there came a bi-lingual announcement hesitantly requesting that the passengers remember to take all their baggage with them. Paul and I became instant losers of the impromptu ‘musical statues’ contest. No one moved, they wanted to see ol’ Seany boy give it some. They’d been glued to the screen watching visual mogadon they now wanted the ecstasy. We just managed to get to the exit as the passengers turned violent. Men, women and children erupting as the film screen remained blank. An Air Stewardess was tossed aside as she tried to stop Mr and Mrs Irate from crucifying the Captain. Time for a sharp exit before we became hostages of the first hijacking in the name of mediocre film endings.

Out of the melee and through the rigorous customs check that all flights from Central America endure. Knitting needle prods purposely puncturing all my puncturables left me with a carrier bag leaking shampoo, toothpaste and shower gel through the concourse.

To choose a hotel seek advice from an information desk, not the information board as it is a lottery, needless to say we went for the latter and like all lotteries we came away losers. It would make life a lot easier for the independent traveller if they listed these hotels in league table format because we then would have ignored the South Devon Sunday Second XI league- sponsored by Poopascoop that our chosen hotel would have been fighting relegation in. It looked nice enough. Not the cheapest, NEVER find the cheapest apparently, but in a comfortable price bracket. We should have smelled a Rat, (and later we literally did); when the line wouldn’t connect when trying to book our room, but half the fun of travelling is not knowing what’s around the corner.

After stepping off the bus we confirmed that the picture in the Airport was the same building as the one now in front of us, only now it looked like something from the cover of ‘Drug Den Weekly’. Paul and I could only sigh, shrug and simultaneously look at each other a la Seventies jesters Mike and Bernie Winters as we journeyed into the grimy Abyss. We opened the rickety outer door.
Whoever said that insects were intelligent could not honestly say the same about themselves. If it were the case they wouldn’t eat shit for a start (insects that is not the local coprophagous freak). They would also steer clear of these meshed outer doors that looked responsible for the insect carnage that now obscured our view in front of us. Both were desecrated with dried crusty corpses, dead wings like microscopic leaves growing from the mesh suggesting a seriously high death toll, so why do these supposedly intelligent creatures still fly into them? And more to the point, why hadn’t the dirty bastards who owned these particular doors not cleaned them off? On opening the main door we saw why.
When you were about eight you’dgo out and play football, get covered in shite.
Go to school, play football, get covered in shite.
Return from school, go out and play football, get covered in shite, etc etc,
for about a week without once changing your clothes.
Now if you ever smelled the stained kneecaps of those trousers after day five you had a smell between piss-damp underlay and dog food. This is what the landlady; who now stood amongst the garbage of the porch like a stunned rabbit; smelled of. She would have been an ideal example to set for small children who had never voluntarily washed behind their ears. Her hygiene left a considerable amount to be desired and it would have taken a great amount for her to be desirable. However it was six o’clock and the night called. One night in ‘L’Hotel D’Underlay et provision de chien’ couldn’t be so bad. But it was, when we found that rubbing ourselves down with the damp wallpaper that had fallen from the wall was more refreshing than the shower that had decided it wasn’t going to work for us, we really thought about crying into out god-knows-what stained pillows. After changing our room; which, oddly enough, was pretty easy as we were the only guests there; we managed to freshen up to take on the task that lay before us - the taming of the French Quarter.

In a country where it’s easier to get crack cocaine after 2am than a Miller Lite, it’s refreshing to find a city where supping beer, falling down, and licking your stomach lining from the gutter is common place - 24hrs a day. If you follow the crowds you will invariably find yourself in Bourbon Street, made famous by a street lamp; but it is so much more. In the UK you have the Bigg market in Newcastle, the Mumble Mile in South Wales, Union Street in Plymouth, here you have a street named after a biscuit when it should be named after the God of pissing up (whatever his name is).

Catering for all tastes New Orleans has something for everyone. This was early September, not peak season but still busy enough to give it it’s world renowned party atmosphere. February’s Mardi Gras is the event of the US especially if you have a fetish for being pushed around hundreds of armpits, while watching the back of someone’s head, yes exactly like being in the pit at Pilton for a full weekend. This was just right, there were still women showing their tit’s from the Bourbon Street balconies, and there were still enough people for the pickpockets to feast on. At least you could see them getting away, then just as quickly getting caught by the super efficient police whose subliminal presence gave reassurance but not paranoia to the tourists. The locals on a whole though are friendly enough, particularly in the Irish theme bars. If you don’t mind listening to a drunken fool slurring in his Southern drawl about how Irish he is in between his rebel song renditions, you’ll find yourself being accompanied by many a free Guinness, surprisingly good Guinness at that. Due to this, we got absolutely shit-faced. No women tonight, just beer, just to overcome the fear of sleeping back at the Munster’s set. I cannot really remember much about the first night, my last recollection was talking to a strapping leather-clad chap who seemed very hairy but very friendly, inviting me to a bar where he would show me some good ol’ Louisiana hospitality. Paul, who was also shit-faced but more homosexually aware than I was, did his best not to offend this poor bloke by pulling me away from the door of this darkened cellar bar full of blokes.
“One more beer, just one more, come on he’s a good bloke” I recall retorting as I was being heterosexually manhandled away by Paul. “Come away y’ Nobber” was the last thing I recall hearing.

New Orleans tourists usually get up at 7:30am have a hearty breakfast to set them up for a fun filled day of touristy things. We woke at 2pm piss-wet through with sweat and left the hotel without delay to spend a fun filled day looking for a room. Remember I said it was not peak season and half the fun was not knowing what was round the next corner? Forget that. Good tip if you’re coming to New Orleans as an independent traveller - get your digs sorted for the duration of your stay whatever time of year it is. Believe me there is little worse than slobbering in high humidity heat in beer sodden clothes, stinking like your ex landlady, trailing shampoo, toothpaste and shower gel around dusty streets looking for somewhere to rest your head. Plenty of hotels yes, but on this particular day there were plenty of hotels that had all of a sudden just become fully booked as these two fuckwits stumbled through their door. By 6pm we’d drunk the town dry of de-caff in a misguided attempt at self re-hydration, so now we were bad breathed fuckwits. Luckily we managed to step into a Fuckwits-R-Us (bad breath optional) hotel on Canal Street which was surprisingly posh. Set in the usual French style, we were welcomed along parquet floors that echoed to give exaggerated space to a small lobby where the French-accented receptionist nonchalantly told us that a double room was a mere $125 a night, however they only had this vacancy for one night. “No problem”, we thought, we had money in our pockets, one night of luxury was well deserved although once allocated a room were disappointed to find it was as spartan as Sparatacus’ dentists waiting room and never worth the extortionate sum quoted. They did have the courtesy though, to find us a hotel for the next 2 nights God bless ‘em. So with our lodgings sorted, and a big hole in our pockets, it was with renewed vigour that we set out on our second night around the Quarter, we felt lucky but not in a punky sort of way.
Twenty minutes later out of a list of 100 feelings, lucky was somewhere around 99. I was kicking a wall repeatedly outside the bank where the hole-in-the-wall had just swallowed my card, (1st of those feelings was excruciating pain as my toe had bust in my anger-induced kicking frenzy followed by 97 expletive adverbs). Paul had reached the daily limit on his debit card after withdrawing $260 to buy a Noel Edmunds jumper that he’d seen in a small designer shop whilst drinking coffee. We had $35 between us. $35 doesn’t go far, especially when you tell the barman to keep the change from the $10 you gave when the round only came to $5.50. I think Paul slightly lost faith in my powers of money management at that point as he rightly pointed out that it was only 8pm, and we had approximately £7.50 each left to party the night away with, and also rightly pointed out that I was a complete Tosser. There would be no repeat of the previous night.
We sat in two chairs in Pat O’Brien’s like two sad blokes on a ‘Cheers’ set at the bar just so it would be easier to spend our fortune. Obviously the puppy dog eyes that we now sold to people around the bar worked, as before long two women appeared from nowhere with one thing on their minds - unfortunately that thing was us. Now I’ve no qualms about going with a girl with a severe weight problem. Nor a girl with ginger hair, or a hair lip or squint. But put them all together, add a tattoo classily placed on the breast, then it was with great relief that this particular girl latched straight onto Paul. Mine was slightly better; her tattoo’s were spelt correctly and only one eye looked at someone else. What did catch our attention though, were their bulging purses, which contained more notes than a slow typist’s in-tray. Rich women - Heaven. Rich ugly women - Heaven with some reservations about where it was all going to lead. Nevertheless they were paying for the drinks and the conversation did flow after the mandatory stupid American question “Are you Australian?”
“Oh English, do you live near London? I’ve got a relative in the Outer Hebrides - David Andrews. Do you know him?”
“What? Andy Andrews! Oh yeah I know Andy”
“You know him?!” incredulous.
“Yeah, pity about him dying like that”
“Dead? Oh my God” At this point I had to stop the conversation as she was about to phone Scotland to console her Great-granddads-second-cousins-nieces-husbands-step-sister.
More money than sense is a commonly used phrase in the United Kingdom. Over there it should accompany certain people’s details on personal documents such as their driving licenses.
Conversations should never go like this:
“So what do you do in England?”
“We’re both Elephant poachers on the Yorkshire moors.”
“You’re what?”
“Elephant poachers, you know, kill Elephants” Matter-of-factly.
“Oh gees, that’s awful, what makes y’all do that?”
I then nodded my head in mock agreement as she then proceeded to rant on, quite rightly, about the ivory trade and the threat of extinction caused by people such as myself.
“Well, I agree in principle to what you are saying, and Elephants do need a certain amount of protection, but do you know what caused the most deaths in young women and children in the Yorkshire countryside last year”?
Pause
“I’ll tell you……” another pause for the sake of encouraging anticipation.
“Tusk impalement that’s what”.
“Tusk what”?
“Tusk Impalement, Elephants get a load of good press but you ain’t seen ‘em when they’re hungry. They go banzai and end up stampeding through these small villages where the farmers live. ‘Cos they’re clever y’ know, oh yes they know where the crops are, and nothing can stop ’em.”
“Wow, really?”
“Yeah really. This is where we step in, we monitor their movements and as soon as we get wind of any trouble we go straight to the villages and protect the people.”
“Really?”
Paul decided to take over the mantle for added authenticity. “Yeah really. It’s quite scary, we have to make a human shield between the villagers and the stampedes and shoot the Elephants if they come too close. Sometimes it takes 10 or 11 shots to bring the big ones down by that time they’re only a couple of yards away.”
“Last year Paul got the ‘Elephant Cross’ for single-handedly culling a herd of Elephant calves who had gone berserk and stampeded through a dairy farm looking for milk.”
“Oh you’re so brave.” Paul’s eyebrows raised slightly as his partner pressed his crotch. He was in. Official.
So was I.
The film should have been titled ‘Dumb & Dumber & These Two’.
Two hours later; via various Dunkin’ Donuts outlets where Paul’s ‘thing’ amazed us with her amazing eating ability; we were drinking in a bar outside the Quarter which to this day I don’t know the name of. If you decide to go there, ask a taxi driver to take you to the bar where the ‘Miss Louisiana Wet T-Shirt Contest’ hold their post competition piss-up as that’s the only explanation for the wall to wall display of inebriated young fillies. Despite this I chose to ignore it as I was absolutely wankered, on for some mega dirty sex with a Jabbawooky, and my taxi was being paid for. Paul was slightly less enthusiastic and quite dismayed at the situation, but had now resigned himself to the fact that he’d have an over enthusiastic pork roast jumping on his bones in a short while.

In the morning I woke up aghast. When she woke up I thought she still had the pillow stuck to her head. She didn’t. Thinking back to that hairy nipple, then looking to the floor where her sanitary towel lay thankfully next to a used condom. I decided it was only fair to come up with a poor excuse. I could just have as easily said that we were about to join the local dyslexic Devil worshipping sect and so sell our souls to Santa, but settled for we were going to be late for the tour of the local Alligator Farm that we had booked. Stuffing pastries into our over-dry mouths we left as quickly as our taxi would let us, which at least they paid for, back to our $125 an hour hotel, via the bank to retrieve my visa card.

When you get round to sightseeing it’s quite an interesting place. There’s not just the French Quarter to explore but the smaller, more bohemian Spanish Quarter, fantastic for small out-of-the-way bars and craft shops. The Riverside walk takes in the modern Shopping malls and Aquarium of the Americas, to the more traditional where you can take a ride on the famous Paddlesteamer ‘Natchez’ along the Mississippi River. Actually visiting any one of the nearby Alligator farms on the numerous swamp tours could precede a morbid visit around the eerie mausoleums of the city’s famed cemeteries, or the voodoo tours straight from ‘Angel Heart’. The Superdome, for all you Sports fans is definitely worth a visit. It makes Old Trafford look like the council Rec. All interesting if you like that sort of thing. These were just a few of the many attractions on offer to the intellectual, but being simpletons we decided one morning out of the four was ample. Paul by now had realised that the purchase of a $200 jumper wasn’t such a great idea after all, and asked me to buy into it. I questioned the profitability of shares in a pullover and decided against it.
Bourbon Street had drawn us back by 3pm. The Strip bars were plying their trade as usual, having both done the rounds before we knew that we would have to take out a small mortgage similar to one that could buy a three-bed semi in rural Hertfordshire. Back then to Pat O’Briens. Sitting there is in itself an experience. Supposedly the busiest bar in the US, the atmosphere carries you away on the wave of R&B, Jazz, Country, or whatever they serve up at that time of day. Outside, the garden is the place to chill, to plan your day, to lose yourself from the bustle that is Bourbon Street. So we sat down to chill and to feast upon traditional New Orleans fayre, as we were now hooked on Gumbo, a stew-like soup that give you piss that smells not of Sugar Puffs but kippers. If you don’t mind eating anything that has crab shells and fish heads lurking in it’s depths Gumbo is the perfect snack although the generous portions meant that we survived on two bowls a day. We could also plan our night ahead which if went according to plan would mean we meet two rich and charming divorcees, have a foursome, get married, get US citizenship, get divorced, get half their dosh, then live on an island pissing up with their 18 year old daughters. Sorted.
By 9o’clock, part one of our plan had worked. We had met two charming women who were rich, well richer than us. God loved us. A few hours later I knew God had changed his mind and didn’t particularly like me at all. Paul hadn’t impressed his girl. I on the other hand felt like Ron Jeremy as my girl had my flies open at the bar and was massaging the temple of Mr E. Rection while suggesting we partake in illegal acts of depravity. Therefore when it came to the decision “do I go with this sex-starved Strumpet or go with my mate” being a real good friend I decided to leave Paul.
On his own.
At Midnight.
In New Orleans.
He couldn’t believe it. I did at least promise him $40 as a token of my gratitude that he should stay out of the hotel room until 6am. I did actually feel a pang of guilt as I turned and saw him dragging his heels, and bottom lip, along the sidewalk.
These ladies were in New Orleans on a short vacation from Alabama. They were staying at a relative’s house in the city suburbs, and being the Gent that I am decided we should all go by taxi to my hotel via the relative’s house to drop off the other girl. It was their first night in town so they were a little confused and drunk when we alighted by a bridge spanning a small canal a little short of our destination. They tried to get their bearings before leading off into the area on our side of the canal. It was no great surprise when we had gone about 50 metres it was decided that we were heading in the wrong direction. As we turned, I caught sight of 3 figures emerge from the shadows and casually remarked that we were going to get mugged to which the girls began to laugh, when the middle of these 3 guys stopped us in our tracks clearly high as a kite therefore doubly dangerous. Now I wouldn’t have been too bothered if this guy had pulled a knife or even a pistol, but when he pulled from within his coat a Heckler & Koch MP5K (for the uninitiated, the weapon used by the SAS in the Iranian Embassy siege) I expected to be another gangland killing statistic. As he threw my shagpiece against the wall muzzle thrust down her throat I expected the worst. Blood dripped from her ears after the mugger ripped off her earrings and necklace. The other girl offered her cigarettes in a vain attempt to win her friends freedom. I found this pathetic plea-bargaining quite amusing, as these hoods weren’t going to be satisfied with 20 Marlboro Lights. I then piped up that I had $250 in my wallet (really about $25) and they could have all it’s contents apart from my visa card. They seemed suitably satisfied as they scurried like Hyenas to a carcass to retrieve my wallet that I threw as far as I could behind them. As they turned tail I grabbed the girls and ran; inwardly giggling on adrenaline; back to the bridge. When we finally managed to reach home my woman was a bag of shit. She was shaking more than Shakeys cellulite and definitely not in the mood for a bit of rumpy pumpy. The cops came a couple of hours later, one leaving us safe in the knowledge that he had been shot in the back on that street corner last year and that we were lucky to be still alive. Lucky by now was definitely 100th out of a 100. I’d been mugged, lost $25 owing another 40, denied sex, and probably get a kicking from my best mate for leaving him in the Deep South crime capital on his own. It was about 5:45am by the time I got back to the Hotel room, just time for my head to hit the pillow and for the doorbell to ring. Paul.
I answered the door ready to adopt the foetus position. To my surprise he was smiling and had decided not to stove my head in as he had a woman of his own. Out of nowhere he had trapped the winner of ‘Miss Heaven’ competition and she’d come down to Earth for a night of gratuitous sex.
“Could you and your woman please vacate this room as I would now like to use it.”
“But I’ve been mugged.”
“Good.”
“But I’ve nowhere to go.”
“I do not care.” With a little negotiating we managed to come to an arrangement where Paul would pick me up and throw me into the walk-in wardrobe by the bathroom, where I would sleep upside down while he drilled his Air Stewardess into the deck.

The girl who I’d nearly shagged awoke me mid-morning. Amazingly despite her near death experience only a few hours before she had come to the Hotel ready to carry on from where we had left off. Now I don’t know if you’ve ever slept upside down in a walk-in wardrobe that has no ventilation at 100F, with a hangover and the shits. It doesn’t do much for your libido. Subsequently, no matter how hard she tried to impress me with what she could do with various toiletries, I could not rise to the occasion. She at least satisfied herself before leaving, leaking shampoo, toothpaste, and shower gel. I then went back to bed. As most losers do on holiday we awoke as it was time to go out on the town.

Back in our two lucky chairs we were picked from the meat shelf within 10 minutes, this time by a mother and daughter tag team. All sorts of permutations crossed our devious minds but after a whole night of heavy hinting and double entendres, it disappointedly ended up being one on one. Paul with the mother me with the daughter who looked unerringly like Marty Feldman with a wig.
When you enter a hotel bedroom you expect to find a few things lying on the bed, a dressing gown perhaps or McDonalds carton carelessly discarded forgotten in the rush to get out. What you don’t expect to find is a bloke the size of two brick shithouses welded together there spread-eagled on the only bed in the room. I thought it reasonable to ask who he was; and when she explained nonchalantly that it was her brother too ill to go out, and yes they usually shared a bed on vacation; I looked to confirm whether she had the correct number of limbs, fingers, and eyes. It was a little surreal, especially when she insisted on sex next to him. I suggested the bathroom, but to no avail, this girl liked her bed and only the small space the width of a gymnasts beam would do.
Try this experiment. Next time you go to a garden fete, go to the Scouts stall. They will undoubtedly have that piss poor game where you trail a metal hoop along a twisting length of electrified wire trying not to make the spotty little twat in charge of the game laugh and point at you when the wire buzzes as the hoop touches and you lose your 10p.
When you’ve finished punching his bin-wearing boat-race in, nick the game and take it home where you can begin the following experiment.
1) Erect a step-ladder in the doorway adjoining the dining room and the kitchen.
2) Saw 1” from one leg on the dining room side and cover it in creosote, balancing the ladder so it doesn’t touch your new wholemeal carpet.
3) Place the opposite legs on the kitchen linoleum on upturned margarine wrappers.
4) The untouched leg can be left alone. (For the more advanced you could place it on an upturned treacle can).
5) Place a comedy mirror in your kitchen, one preferably that makes your head look like the size of an old 7” single.
6) Strap the wire game to the top of your head using black masking tape.
7) Climb to the top rung of the step-ladder. (The rung that the instructions tell you not to stand on).
8) Now look into the comedy mirror and try to drag the hoop successfully around the wire and not leave a creosote stain on your carpet from unbalancing the ladder.
Now if you’ve done it you’ve probably realised it takes just a smidgen of skill and that you’re a complete Tosspot for ruining your new carpet. That is half the skill it took to fornicate with this catarrh suffering freakoid without waking Jonah Lomu’s bullying cousin, on a wrought iron bed in serious need of oiling. I managed to escape the next morning unscathed but was a little perturbed by the story that Paul had to tell. Apparently his woman shared her room with her sister who also was too ‘ill’ to go out, and she insisted that he shag her while her sister watched. Quite a normal family then, one would agree.

This, however was our last escapade as it was back to the humdrum task of packing our belongings, a task that took the same time as it would Paul’s first night ‘thing’ to eat a thimble full of chocolate mousse. Our departure was as uneventful as it was sad. To leave this place of ill repute was surely a wrench but it meant that you were another day closer to returning. Despite always saying that I would never return to the same place, I feel I may break this pledge by one day re-visiting.

Despite the underlying poverty, usually in the black communities outside the Quarter, as the racial divide is as obvious as anywhere in the Deep South, New Orleans is Goodtime USA. Americans can without question be stupid twats, but in N’Awlins they’re more laid back, more genuine, and the women? Well I’m ugly and Paul ain’t no trapping machine, but we’re British (or Australian or Kenyan or whatever they like you to be) and we’re still a novelty therefore fresh meat. The ‘Don’t give a fuck’ attitude is as popular here as it was back in the Sixties. So when you’re fed up with all the do-gooders back home telling you what the ‘in thing’ not to do is, take out a bank loan, and book yourself and your mates on the next available flight to New Orleans. Fuck the expense. You can’t buy your memories.

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