In the back room of what you could only describe as a dark and seedy strip joint, an extremely inebriated
Englishman is being expertly straddled by a pneumatic-breasted black American lapdancer. And while that
lucky, jammy bastard would usually leave me seething with envy, not so today. And why not? Because the
inebriated Englishman in this case is in fact me. And the pneumatic breasts are in fact smothering my own
inanely grinning face. Welcome to New Orleans! Finally, I've found the drinking capital of the USA.
Which, by the way, is less easy to do than you'd think. America is not a place particularly geared up for the
kind of unashamedly debauched boozing we're accustomed to in Britain. In fact, the only two groups of people
who seem to get regularly wankered over here are the college students, with their cute but impractically
undersized kegs, and the homeless raving derelicts, with their bottles of whisky in brown paper bags. And
neither of them seem to do it with half the class of their dipsomaniacal counterparts back home.
Until you get to New Orleans that is, way down south in Louisiana. Specifically, a place called Bourbon Street,
which feels as if it's not quite in America somehow, but in a kind of pissed parallel universe where the Yanks
understand irony, 'pissed' actually does mean 'drunk', and you are allowed to consume alcohol outdoors
(believe it or not, that's still a no-no in the States - a throwback to the days of prohibition). It's a mile-long
pedestrianised street, right through the heart of New Orleans' arty French Quarter, lined all the way down
both sides with bars, clubs and strip joints (universally referred to as 'titty bars'). Fancy a pint?
"A pint?!? You call this a pint?! What kind of stingy half-measures are you trying to pull?" Okay, just so
you don't make the same mistake as me, let's sort out a misnomer straight away. The Americans may
use the word 'pint' but don't be fooled; it refers to a lesser measure of volume than the British pint - 16
fluid ounces instead of 20 (because their non-metric system is avoirdupois, as opposed to Imperial - stick with me here; there are more massively-breasted naked women on the way). This, of course, means you have to drink five Yank pints to get the equivalent of four British ones. Or ten to get the intoxicating effect of eight. Or twenty five to get as smashed as you would with twenty.
Now I've realised that I'm basically just giving a maths lesson. Let's talk about the bars.
If you walk down Bourbon Street for two or three blocks, you'll hear a dozen different genres of music pumping out of the various establishments, most of it live. In just the first few venues where I indulged in some liquid refreshment I heard a cheesy rock band, a blues outfit (who seemed to be basically just jamming around on stage, as seems to be the custom with blues outfits), a Spanish-sounding group, and a comedy act playing Knockin' On Heaven's Door alternately in the styles of folkish Bob Dylan, reggaed-up Eric Clapton, and rocking Guns n' Roses. But all of these paled compared to the covers band I stumbled across in one bar, who had unquestionably the fattest lead singer on the planet. This is a gentleman for whom standing up was never really an option at any point in the evening. But he had the perfect soul voice, and the sort of vocal style that, when they pulled out a rendition of House Of The Rising Sun, he managed to drag out the line "There is a house in New Orleans" over about a minute and a half.
There are some things that everyone knows the Americans do better than anyone else - build really tall
buildings, eat unhealthily large servings of beef, invade middle eastern countries with little or no motive.
But it's a little known fact that they also lead the world at toilet graffiti. While relieving myself in the
conveniences of one bar I noticed before me that, beneath an almost illegible scrawl of "I fucked your
mother last night!", someone had rather neatly added: "Dad, you're drunk. Go home!" But my absolute
favourite has to be the surreal piece of poetry very deliberately placed above a urinal, which simply said
"Have a shit, you pussy!"
While I'm on the subject of toilets (not a statement you hear very often) I've just got to mention the vending machine I saw in the Gents at one Bourbon Street bar (I can't remember which one - they were all starting to blur into one at this point), which sold... condoms? chewing gum? not even close!... good sex guides! I have to say, that shows a faith in impulse buying that's possibly ill-founded.
One of Bourbon Street's most endearing traditions started as a part of the city's explosive annual Mardi Gras celebrations. A French-style balcony runs the length of the street's first storey, invariably occupied by a host of sizzled revellers, many of whom seem to be quite pointedly dangling bead necklaces over the edge, and trying to attract the attention of passers-by below. Puzzled as to whether there was a point to this, I lingered beneath one particular balcony for a couple of minutes, until my question was
answered by one of the women in a group that passed by. Her eye having been caught by one of the gentlemen
above, she beamed a huge grin at him before pulling up the front of her top and flashing her not inconsiderable
A few minutes later, as the blood started to return to my brain, I remembered hearing tales of this being originally a
Mardi Gras custom, and now obviously a general New Orleans custom. How fucking cool is that?! And, also,
doesn't it just say everything about the differences between America and Britain? They celebrate the last Tuesday
before Lent by getting as many women as possible to expose their knockers; we, meanwhile, eat pancakes. God
Anyhow, after watching a few more shapely breasts being displayed
to the world, I realised in my drunken state that I needed a slightly greater fix of female flesh. Thus, a strip joint I did seek, and I do believe this is where we came in. So I think I'll leave myself there, beneath that lovely lapdancing lady, and reassure you that this is truly a diverse and beautiful city, culturally, architecturally and spiritually a rewarding place to visit. It's not just about sex and alcohol.
It just so happens that's all I was interested in.
DISCLAIMER: Since this article was posted New Orleans may have changed somewhat. Apparently there was some weather or something, but I think the President sorted it all out. Please check with your Travel Agent/Pub Landlord before travelling.
