2005-06-18 - 12:23 a.m.

New Orleans, LA.

We�re not in Arkansas any more, Toto. So back from the non-internet sporting environs of The Natural State, where simple country folk live close to the land, with only religious bigotry and an obsession with firearms to get them through the days.

All I could think about was Bill Hicks: �Don�t get me wrong. They�re nice people. What would you call them? Rural? One guy walks up to me after the show. 'Hey man, you were great, I almost spat.' 'Oh, I'm sorry.' 'No that's cool. I'd like you to meet my wife and sister.' And there's one girl standing there. Not a thumb between them."

We passed through a million small towns with more churches than residents and shops that sold t-shirts bearing heartwarming messages such as �There�s a place for all God�s creatures�Right next to the potatoes and gravy!� It�s this love of all living things and the desire to blow them to sweet kingdom come at the same time that gives the place its charm.

Most of the places we stayed were on the top of hills in national parks and looked like the Overlook Hotel from The Shining except with more bibles in the lobby. The dining arrangements consisted of buffets with as much fried everything as you could cram into your arteries�deep fried pork, chicken fried chicken (?!) and, for all I know, lard fried lard. Hearty fare, though, and it seemed to go down a treat with the locals, especially the one good old boy who swallowed a slab of fried catfish whole, belched furiously and then proclaimed �Man, that was so good you wanna slap the missus!�

Thankfully, massive coronaries were kept at bay by the outdoorsy lifestyle. We hiked up and down hills, lead by strapping park rangers with arms like genetically modified hams, who would introduce themselves with lines like �Now ah know it�s early and ah�ve got a gun, but y�all don�t be worryin��� Not that I was until she mentioned her gun. We also did a Deliverance-esque kayak down the mighty Caddo River, ears finely tuned for banjo riffs from the undergrowth, each of us thinking we were Burt Reynolds, but in reality were more Ned Beatty.

Best of all, we were staying in dry counties, so no alcohol. Man, that is a frustrating few days. It would get to about 7ish and I�d be thinking, OK, just time for a quick one before dinner, think I�ll just head down to the ba�I mean, watch some more TV. And then after dinner: �OK, who�s up for a dri�er, I mean, going to bed hideously early and staring at the ceiling��

So the last night in Hot Springs was a chance to cut loose. It�s an old gangster town, er, I mean where legitimate Italian businessmen used to meet to do their legitimate Italian business. As the name suggests, it�s big on baths, and before drinking myself back into the swing of things, I thought it was churlish not to partake. The baths are huge old buildings, and the bathrooms are cavernous white complexes with all manner of scary aquatic accessories. My bath butler, Bobby, whipped my towel away and plonked me into a steaming vat, an industrial turbine propelling scalding jets into the handy buffer of my scrotum. �This is where Al Capone came to cure his syphilis,� he reassured me, though I hoped he didn�t mean that exact tub.

Bobby, who looked like a session musician for Tavares left me to my own devices for a bit, my own devices being trying not to think about the third degree burns being administered to my nethers. He came back to drain the tub, leaving me exposed to his withering gaze. He then proceeded to soap me up with some kind of rough surgical mitt, circumventing any embarrassment by waffling on about what he knew of England, though I was grateful for anything that wasn�t focused on my obvious nudity. �Do y�all wear them big hats all year round?� �Er�I�m not sure what you mean�� �You know. Them big ass hats you wear to go through gates.� Oh, THOSE big hats. �Er�yes?� �I thought so. Lift them legs up boy.� �Anything you say Bobby.�

You�re then showered, steamed and poached to within an inch of your life, all under Bobby�s attentive supervision. Our time together at and end, Bobby flashed me a toothless grin. �You�ll never forget Bobby, boy�� and you know, I think he might be right.

I had also booked a massage, and was relieved to see the therapist�s name was Tracey, though it turned out that she was a he and had a moustache you could lose a badger in. At least he didn�t talk about Al Capone�s STD�s.

Anyway, one drunken night later and normal service has been resumed, though you haven�t suffered an awkward moment until you�ve got on a stage in Arkansas and sung a karaoke version of Neil Diamond�s �Girl, You�ll be a Woman Soon� � you�d think thinly-veiled references to underage sex delivered by a liberal fag limey would have gone down a storm in the bible belt, but that dance floor cleared like it was free drinks at the bar.

Oh, well. Order was restored when a local gal took the mic next and sung a song containing the line �If heaven was a pie it would be cherry�.

At least a night on the sauce gives me a running start now that I�m in New Orleans, which is pretty much the polar opposite of a dry county. Chin chin. As the best of the Arkansas church signs said: �Never give up. Even Moses was a basket case.�