Highlights from recent visit to the United States

Miss Pillsbury and I were back in the US for Easter this year - a quick, nine-day visit to Chicagoland and Big Rapids, Michigan. Some highlights follow.

Karaoke at Bobby Love's, a cheesy gay bar in Chicago. Attendees included my non-gay brother Nick who, after crooning a Jack Johnson song, was propositioned by the eponymous landlord, a large sleazy moustachioed man who holds court. "I'll pass," was my brother's cool-as-a-cucumber response. Alas, I had mostly lost my voice, but it didn't stop Miss Pillsbury and me from doing our signature version of the Spice Girls' "Wannabe".


Lunch at Hot Doug's, home of the best hot dogs in Chicago. Doug Sohn studied at the CIA but opened a hot dog place; consequently, he makes all kinds of unusual sausages as well as duck-fat fries (he also got in trouble for flouting Chicago's silly foie gras ban). I always order the Chicago-style hot dog because I can't get them in Britain, but my friend Mr Rosanova was trying to decide between "bacon sausage" and another variety. He asked Doug, "Which is better, the bacon sausage or the--"

"The bacon sausage," Doug interrupted. "It says bacon sausage, right?"


Running into former Accenture colleague Miss Kahn, now also an English teacher, in the elevator to the Signature Room on the 95th floor of the Hancock building. We were with Nick and Zachary, who was very good about everyone else ordering booze.


The Sawmill Saloon in Big Rapids, a bar with an enthusiastic recommendation from Miss Pillsbury's brother. However, we were there fairly early on a Monday night and it was empty. After being served Leinenkugel's lager out of jam jars, I enquired of the barmaid whether there was a jukebox. There wasn't, but she put on the local university radio station, Bulldog Radio. The DJ was actively soliciting requests, so I called in, using the hilarious brick phone I use when in the US. He was thrilled to have a call and I requested "Jet" by Wings and asked for it to be dedicated to Rachel. I did not give my name. The song came on almost immediately.

Encouraged by this, Lesley borrowed my phone to request a song: "Back in Black" by AC/DC. The DJ asked if she was the guy who just called. "No, I'm a woman," she replied. "Can you dedicate that song to Rachel?" He agreed and said, "Thanks for calling again."

This tickled our whole party so much that Anton, unable to get a signal on his phone, called from the bar's pay phone and requested "The Final Countdown" by Europe, dedicated to Rachel, of course. "Wow, Rachel's a really popular name tonight," said the DJ. On the air, he mentioned getting two requests from "Illinois" and one from "a pay phone somewhere."


And, as usual when we're in Chicago, having two enormous meals with Mr Safanda, including a quantity of sushi in the private room at Kamehachi roughly equivalent to emptying the Atlantic.

Woo-hoo!

Yesterday felt like my lucky day (at least in terms of laziness and cheapness).

I was in the middle of teaching Year 8 last period, dreading the four-hour parents' evening that lay ahead of me, when a colleague came in and announced that not only would the parents' evening be postponed but school today was being cancelled.

Apparently, the city instructed the head to close the school to conduct repairs to damage caused by yesterday's high winds. This is the second time this year that the school's disrepair has caused us to miss a day.

In the meeting that followed school, I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from grinning.

So Rachel and I decided to go out for a meal to celebrate. We went to Wagamama where we had a two-for-one voucher and then decided to go to the pub. We went to the Roebuck where I ordered a pint of Old Rosie cider. Because there was only about nine-tenths of a pint remaining, the barman charged me half-price.

Then on to Wetherspoons, where Christmas-themed beer was only £1 per pint.

Too bad the lottery wasn't on yesterday; I'd have won it.

Here's what else I hate:

Christmas.

And the cheap, tacky Christmas lights in Slab Square being switched on in November.

Also being forced into "Secret Santa" at school against my wishes, also in November.

One should never have to hear about Christmas before about the 20th of December.

Here's what I hate:

Calling holidays by some traditional celebration of them rather than the actual name. For example: Poppy Day, Bonfire Night, Pancake Day, Turkey Day.

A tirade after a lengthy commute

I'm sure this has been written about better elsewhere, but is anyone surprised that Bush and Blair are rejecting The Lancet report which estimates that 655,000 people have been killed as a direct consequence of the invasion of Iraq?

What I hope is that it's not just trying to save their political hides but that they are, deep down somewhere, decent enough to realise that those deaths are on their consciences and that blood on their hands and they can't stand the idea that it might be that many.

I've read that that's 2.5% of Iraq's population killed for this folly. In America, that would mean 7.5 million killed, almost as many people as live in Chicagoland (excluding Indiana). In Britain, the figure would be 1.5 million, or about as many as live in the Leeds-Bradford conurbation.

I have no idea if the figure is accurate but no matter how many have been killed it's too many. I've said before that if you "support" the Iraq war you should be willing to die for the cause yourself, or have your family die, because that's what you're asking of tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of Iraqis. If you're willing to have your brothers or sisters of children die to remove Saddam Hussein then I won't argue with you.

However, Bush and Blair are monstrous war criminals and mass murderers (and in the case of the former, a remorseless plutocrat to boot). There is no excuse for them and I hope the rest of their lives are plagued by unhappiness and guilt.

Calm down, you’re as guilty as can be

On Wednesday night, Miss Pillsbury and I went to see Cerys Matthews, formerly of Catatonia fame, at the Rescue Rooms. When we arrived, the support act was performing and there was already quite a crowd. As Miss Pillsbury is a foot shorter than I am, she found it impossible to see, so we went upstairs to the small balcony where we had a clear view.

I was encouraged that Miss Matthews opened with two Catatonia songs, Godspeed and Lost Cat, hoping to hear a bit of Road Rage or Mulder & Scully later. No such luck, but the performance was still extremely enjoyable, folksy and understated, with most of the songs coming from her first solo album, Cockahoop. Suffice it to say my crush on Cerys Matthews is back on.

What was less enjoyable was the two loudmouthed idiots standing near us who were sucking down bottles of Peroni like Coca-Cola and chatting loudly throughout. I occasionally shot them a glare, hoping they'd recognise it and think, We are disturbing others' enjoyment of the music; let us silence ourselves. I had as much luck there as I did in hearing Road Rage. Despite my looks and those of the classy fiftysomething couple next to me, they kept flapping their lips.

After growing increasingly annoyed, I eventually went over two them and said, undoubtedly in a harsh tone, "Will you either stop talking or go somewhere else, please?"

They were immediately indignant and, after I'd returned to my former spot, the man -- fortyish, plump and balding -- put his hand on my shoulder, gestured to the door and said, "I want a word with you mate."

I thought I might get my arse kicked, but I just firmly said, "No, I'm here to enjoy the concert," and fixed my stare on the lovely Miss Matthews. I was thinking he must be a complete moron if he thought I'd rather have a conversation with him when what I clearly wanted was for him to shut the hell up. He went back to his girlfriend and after that, they were quieter.

When the show ended, the guy approached me, getting right in my face. "Listen, pal," he began, causing me to stifle a chuckle. (People familiar with Angela Kelly's "Evil Graham" will know why.) He continued, "You appear to be labouring under a few misapprehensions: this is a 'gig', you're stood at the back of the gig, you should expect people will be talking freely."

Obviously, I had a decision to make. He had not ingratiated himself to me by his knowing use of the term gig, which I feel pretentious people use in the same way some people refer to Paul McCartney as "Macca" as if he's their friend.

So I could have either explained why we'd chosen the balcony and that his insistence on carrying on an audible conversation was the height of impertinence both to the performers and the audience and that he was therefore an insufferable cretin. I was tempted to ask whether he talks bullshit through the symphony or at the theatre. Just who the hell do you think you are? I wanted to ask.

Instead, I said, "I apologise for being confrontational." That was all I was prepared to apologise for, but I wanted to end the conversation quickly. He looked briefly perplexed, nodded his head and walked away.

So who's right? Is he right that one should be able to jaw with one's bit of stuff through a folk-rock "gig" because we're in a night club? Or am I right that such a person is a clod who deserves nothing less than a swift kick in the shins and possibly a good deal more besides?

Before and after Ofsted

So, on Friday the 15th of September my school got the call that Ofsted were going to do an inspection last Wednesday and Thursday. Panic and terror set in for all my colleagues and me. The low point was struck on Monday night, when, after finishing work at 10:00 pm, I had to drive Rachel to casualty to have a deep cut on her finger seen to: the result of a broken glass. Luckily, we were home by midnight. Rachel said my eyes went bloodshot and she thought I was going to have a heart attack. At least I would have been in the right place for it.

By Thursday night's open evening for parents, Ofsted had come and gone and I hadn't been observed by them. That is fine by me. Although the report hasn't been published yet, the general feeling is the school came off well. A bonus for me is that somehow, despite the lack of exercise, the Ben & Jerry's and the gin and tonics, I managed to lose five pounds in the last week.

On Friday after school, the headteacher brought in champagne (well, E&J Gallo sparkling wine) for the whole faculty and staff to celebrate the end of Ofsted. I have never seen her so happy. Later that night, I decided not to make the trek back to Derby and instead Rachel and I went to the Royal Children and the Hole in the Wall, then met Lucy, Richard and Joey Chickenskin at the Lincolnshire Poacher. We finished the evening at the New Foresters, a very cheesy gay pub that always makes me feel, despite the clientele's consisting primarily of middle-aged lesbians and transvestites, as though I'm in a cheesy, working-class ITV drama.

Yesterday was a marvellous day:

1. I woke with a slight hangover and went to Ranby's caff to get a bacon sausage cob (for me) and a bacon egg cob (for Rachel)
2. We had a nap then picked up Prêt à Manger sandwiches for lunch
3. We met Michelle for a quick drink in the Castle opposite the castle
4. We went to see The History Boys at the Theatre Royal. I adored it, finding it to be exceedingly clever and witty; Rachel enjoyed it but had ethical reservations
5. We met Lesley and Anton and two of their friends for dinner at Squeek, where the food was creative and tasty as usual, but sadly the service was a bit slow. We had to leave before my dark chocolate tart with thick cream and raspberries could arrive because we were going to...
6. The Rescue Rooms to see The Pipettes, who were thoroughly enjoyable, especially RiotBecki who was more enthusiastic and clearly working harder than the others. Just as on record, Pull Shapes was the best song live
7. As always, an engaging and delightful conversation was had with Lesley before we left, fairly early, to come home to bed

N.B. I have elected, for this post, to dispense with my usual practice of using surnames only.