THE GUESTS greeted the wedding party on a chessboard dancefloor outside the Gothic-style carriage house and it was soon apparent this was not your average Brit wedding. For a start the poor British groomsmen weren't allowed to bury their embarrassment with copious amounts of strong booze before getting up to make speeches, or take to the dancefloor. Danny Boy, the Poipes the Poipes, entered like Peter Kay, the British Comedian who does a good impression of kids at a wedding party. Still accompanied by his harem, he leapt high in the air and I was quite expecting him to slide along on his knees too. The other groomsmen had to make similar choreographed entrances, although I'm not quite sure who did the Choreography but they won't be invited onto Strictly Come Dancing very soon. Then the bride and groom followed and had their first dance, even before the speeches.
By this time I was tucking into a nice little tipple called Bridal Bliss, which contained Vodka, Cranberry and Selzer and was going a little way to easing my stomach still suffering as I was from the hangover which had been painstakingly nurtured the night before. The dancing was good, the music a bit too American middle of the road, though some of the formation dancing moves of our fellow guests were something to behold. I wondered for a second if we could return the favour by performing that 70s hit Tiger Feet by the group Mud but I somehow doubted the DJ had it.
Anyway, the night wore on, there was a little film in which Sufia and Nick explained how they met, then we were all handed sparklers so that we could made a guard of honour as the bride and groom led the way to the American Picture House next door. Thank God none of the stray "sparkles" fell on Sufia's dress or we would have been reaching for the fire extinguishers pretty quickly.
So on to next door and the highlight of the night. The band, Three Dog Dare, invited anyone who fancied their chances as a performer to take to the stage and that is when Nick took over on drums and Sufia belted a couple of rocky numbers into the microphone. Splendid stuff and so was the rest of the party even though the Wonderful Withers formerly of WoS whimped out early looking in a rather poor condition and the Fabulous Baker Boy announced four times he was leaving only to get as far as the bar. By the end of the night his Mick Jagger was losing its swagger but British and American relations were certainly getting on splendidly on the dancefloor. Some of Sufia's loyal friends took to the stage with her to belt out a few numbers and the night finished with the band returning for an encore of Honky Tonk Women, which went down fantastically with us Jagger impersonators.
As we filtered out shortly after 2 - some of us having lost our voices and others having lost any notion of who they were or where they were - it was time to say our goodbyes and wrap up the Wedding of the Century. At least, until the next one comes along...
Sunday 17 August 2014
Honey-lickin' good: The big event - The William Aiken House, Charleston, 6pm
HE STOOD there like a Roman emperor surveying his minions. The man of the hour, Nick Nicey Machin, could not have looked more content with life had his beloved football team Lincoln City won the Premier League. We were at the William Aiken House on King Street, a beautiful wedding venue accompanied by beautiful weather. At 6pm the humidity was still high but fortunately the guests all had hand-held fans placed on their seats to provide respite. This 1810 estate is one of Charleston’s most sought-after venues for weddings, private receptions, meetings and corporate events and was also featured in Hollywood film The Notebook.
To mark the occasion Nick and his bride made their own small film, explaining how they met in a bar in Boston when our intrepid traveller was in the company of an associate he still refers to mysteriously as Whitesnake. This Mullet-haired individual from England's Black Country was wearing a football shirt pledging allegiance to Birmingham City and they met in the hostel where Nick was staying the day before July 4, arranging to meet up for the very English tradition of a pub crawl to mark American Independence Day. They then split up until rendezvousing for their drinking session the day after.
Little did Nick know that the night before Whitesnake had bumped into three young ladies from New York City, who were partying like there was no tomorrow. One of them, Nick's future bride, serenaded him with the Whitesnake song Here I Go Again because that band name was emblazoned across the Brummie's tee shirt. It was in an Irish bar called Hennessey's that these two Worlds collided. Nick was minding his own business with his new pal when a shout went up from the bar. "Whitesnake! Whitesnake". His drinking buddy then disappeared in the direction of three women, while Nick twiddled his thumbs and imagined it was the end of his evening. Actually, it wasn't. It was the start of the rest of his life. One of the girls, Sufia, wandered over and admits to being smitten by the accent of this follicly challenged Lincolnshirite. Result. They met up in New York a few days later and things have never been the same since. Sufia has visited Cardiff for six months, with her "dog of honour" Ellie, and got to know Nick's friends and family.
So on to the nuptials which were staged outside the main house in the wonderful gardens. We found Nick standing on the elegant pergola and considering his dapper appearance in the reflection pool in front. There were seats on either side leading up to the pool and we were also provided with small bottles of bubbles to blow in the direction of the bride and groom after the ceremony. The Baker Boy had risen to the occasion by wearing one of his 20 pairs of Vivienne Westwood shoes, these coloured gold, which were a main talking point.
Taking our seats, Nick arrived with the Master of Ceremonies, followed by best man Gary "Bernard Breslaw" Rudd and the Maid of honour, Sufia's sister Meme. Somehow Groomsman Danny Boy "the Poipes, the Poipes" had managed to negotiate it so that he was accompanied by two of Sufia's bridesmaids and he was later joined by Dave "the Guitar" Prescott and Nick's brother Simon. It was all very tastefully done, the men looking dapper in suits and the girls splendid in purple dresses: Kyra Stewart, Giselle Duarte-Cohen, Alyson Gunn, Cari Bell-Deduke and junior bridesmaid, Nick's niece Annalise. Following on was little flower girl Kelsey who looked heartbreakingly cute as she laid petals on the route to the alter. Then came the big moment.
I'm afraid I'm not David Emmanuel or, for that matter, any one of those posh BBC presenters who describe Royal Weddings, so I can't adequately describe the shimmering white dress with gold braidings that Sufia was wearing. It's fair to say she looked like royalty, though, and Nick couldn't hide his delight. Interestingly, though, as the ceremony began, the four hours it took to put Sufia's make-up on that day was almost made irrelevant as "dog of honour" Ellie proceeded to try to lick it off. Anyway, the ceremony was all very beautiful, even featuring the traditional "finger-licking good" honey sucking. This is a Persian tradition where bride and groom lick honey off each others fingers to "sweeten" the wedding. Don't think it will catch on down the registry office in Boston, Lincs, but you never know. Still, ceremony over, the bride threw herself into a long snog with the groom and we applauded them out, before moving into the main hall for drinkies. Let the partying begin.
To mark the occasion Nick and his bride made their own small film, explaining how they met in a bar in Boston when our intrepid traveller was in the company of an associate he still refers to mysteriously as Whitesnake. This Mullet-haired individual from England's Black Country was wearing a football shirt pledging allegiance to Birmingham City and they met in the hostel where Nick was staying the day before July 4, arranging to meet up for the very English tradition of a pub crawl to mark American Independence Day. They then split up until rendezvousing for their drinking session the day after.
Little did Nick know that the night before Whitesnake had bumped into three young ladies from New York City, who were partying like there was no tomorrow. One of them, Nick's future bride, serenaded him with the Whitesnake song Here I Go Again because that band name was emblazoned across the Brummie's tee shirt. It was in an Irish bar called Hennessey's that these two Worlds collided. Nick was minding his own business with his new pal when a shout went up from the bar. "Whitesnake! Whitesnake". His drinking buddy then disappeared in the direction of three women, while Nick twiddled his thumbs and imagined it was the end of his evening. Actually, it wasn't. It was the start of the rest of his life. One of the girls, Sufia, wandered over and admits to being smitten by the accent of this follicly challenged Lincolnshirite. Result. They met up in New York a few days later and things have never been the same since. Sufia has visited Cardiff for six months, with her "dog of honour" Ellie, and got to know Nick's friends and family.
So on to the nuptials which were staged outside the main house in the wonderful gardens. We found Nick standing on the elegant pergola and considering his dapper appearance in the reflection pool in front. There were seats on either side leading up to the pool and we were also provided with small bottles of bubbles to blow in the direction of the bride and groom after the ceremony. The Baker Boy had risen to the occasion by wearing one of his 20 pairs of Vivienne Westwood shoes, these coloured gold, which were a main talking point.
Taking our seats, Nick arrived with the Master of Ceremonies, followed by best man Gary "Bernard Breslaw" Rudd and the Maid of honour, Sufia's sister Meme. Somehow Groomsman Danny Boy "the Poipes, the Poipes" had managed to negotiate it so that he was accompanied by two of Sufia's bridesmaids and he was later joined by Dave "the Guitar" Prescott and Nick's brother Simon. It was all very tastefully done, the men looking dapper in suits and the girls splendid in purple dresses: Kyra Stewart, Giselle Duarte-Cohen, Alyson Gunn, Cari Bell-Deduke and junior bridesmaid, Nick's niece Annalise. Following on was little flower girl Kelsey who looked heartbreakingly cute as she laid petals on the route to the alter. Then came the big moment.
I'm afraid I'm not David Emmanuel or, for that matter, any one of those posh BBC presenters who describe Royal Weddings, so I can't adequately describe the shimmering white dress with gold braidings that Sufia was wearing. It's fair to say she looked like royalty, though, and Nick couldn't hide his delight. Interestingly, though, as the ceremony began, the four hours it took to put Sufia's make-up on that day was almost made irrelevant as "dog of honour" Ellie proceeded to try to lick it off. Anyway, the ceremony was all very beautiful, even featuring the traditional "finger-licking good" honey sucking. This is a Persian tradition where bride and groom lick honey off each others fingers to "sweeten" the wedding. Don't think it will catch on down the registry office in Boston, Lincs, but you never know. Still, ceremony over, the bride threw herself into a long snog with the groom and we applauded them out, before moving into the main hall for drinkies. Let the partying begin.
Saturday 16 August 2014
Nice day for a white wedding: Nick and Sufia (Fri, August 15)
SO HERE IT is then, and I am hardly feeling up to the mark. I have a massive hangover and only wake up the morning side of noon because the phone rings and it is my bank back in London asking me all sorts of security questions. In the state I'm in it's like having to compete in Mastermind, or perhaps Jeopardy if you live in the States. The bloke on the other end seems satisfied with my answers and two hours later Visa ring to approve an emergency cash payment. Hurray.
I take a bike taxi to the local supermarket. It is on the same street as our hotel, King Street, and I think it's going to be an easy walk, but in searing heat I am soon suffering. I have to reach no 1,015 and I'm at no. 500 or there abouts when I give up the ghost and flag down a young lady on a pushbike with a seat behind it. She charges about a dollar a minute and happily takes me to my destination. On the way we pass the American cinema where Nick and Sufia will later celebrate their nuptials. Outside is a car belonging to the Charleston police department and the cinema sign announces: It's a Wonderful Life, starring Sufia and Nick. Quite brilliant. I wonder if the cops have already been warned about our reputation.
I take the opportunity to complete some of the shopping I'd planned the day before when I was rudely interrupted. I pay way over the odds for something called the American Doll, quite beautiful and she comes with a complete wardrobe of accessories depending on how much you can afford. My little 4-year-old Livvy, who loves dressing up as a cowgirl, will be delighted that she now has a doll with the same attire, although to kit her out costs about as much as Kim Kardashian spends on clothes. A few other odds and sods purchased and I take a rest before getting booted and suited for the frivolities to follow.
I take a bike taxi to the local supermarket. It is on the same street as our hotel, King Street, and I think it's going to be an easy walk, but in searing heat I am soon suffering. I have to reach no 1,015 and I'm at no. 500 or there abouts when I give up the ghost and flag down a young lady on a pushbike with a seat behind it. She charges about a dollar a minute and happily takes me to my destination. On the way we pass the American cinema where Nick and Sufia will later celebrate their nuptials. Outside is a car belonging to the Charleston police department and the cinema sign announces: It's a Wonderful Life, starring Sufia and Nick. Quite brilliant. I wonder if the cops have already been warned about our reputation.
I take the opportunity to complete some of the shopping I'd planned the day before when I was rudely interrupted. I pay way over the odds for something called the American Doll, quite beautiful and she comes with a complete wardrobe of accessories depending on how much you can afford. My little 4-year-old Livvy, who loves dressing up as a cowgirl, will be delighted that she now has a doll with the same attire, although to kit her out costs about as much as Kim Kardashian spends on clothes. A few other odds and sods purchased and I take a rest before getting booted and suited for the frivolities to follow.
Salsa with the locals - meet and greet (Thursday August 14)
My marvellous friend The fabulous Baker Boy rode into town like the cavalry to come to my rescue tonight. Having spent three hours on the phone I was still lost in the States with no disposable cash. I stumbled along to the wedding meet and greet feeling pretty sorry for myself.
The wedding party had already gathered at the Southend Brewery on East Bay Street for a pre-wedding meal and the rest of us rank and file riff raff turned up later to join in the festivities. Walking through the door the first person I clapped eyes on was the Baker Boy who flounced towards me and handed me a vinyl copy of a Rolling Stones album he had purchased for me in New York. What a nice chap. The cover has a picture of Jagger sticking a giant pen in his heart, taking from the It's Only Rock and Roll album. Baker Boy and I share a love of the Stones and he has been to far flung places like The Stade de France in Paris to see them play. Explaining my financial predicament he disappeared and ten minutes later returned with $200 to help me out of my immediate fix.
I was so relieved I went straight into full party mode. I can't remember what we were drinking exactly, some rather hoppy light ale I recall, but pretty soon we were being introduced to Sufia's wonderful family and friends and American-English bonding was soon in full flow. I am not sure what they must have made of us. Sufia's two sisters Meme and Kyra certainly found the Fabulous BB a rather larger-than-life figure and took to him immediately. As the night wore on we moved the party downstairs where a full-on Salsa night seemed to be taking place.
Of course, the Fab BB and I couldn't resist joining in, the beer having taken its toll. Fortunately I had my old work pal Danny Boy(the poipes, the poipes are calling) and his wife the Solicitor to keep an eye on me and pour me into a taxi at the end of the night. At one stage, I'm told, I fell asleep on a table only to rise when everyone thought I might be dead. Can't confirm this, though, as don't remember it. It's fair to say though the Brits have made an early impression in the Southern States.
The wedding party had already gathered at the Southend Brewery on East Bay Street for a pre-wedding meal and the rest of us rank and file riff raff turned up later to join in the festivities. Walking through the door the first person I clapped eyes on was the Baker Boy who flounced towards me and handed me a vinyl copy of a Rolling Stones album he had purchased for me in New York. What a nice chap. The cover has a picture of Jagger sticking a giant pen in his heart, taking from the It's Only Rock and Roll album. Baker Boy and I share a love of the Stones and he has been to far flung places like The Stade de France in Paris to see them play. Explaining my financial predicament he disappeared and ten minutes later returned with $200 to help me out of my immediate fix.
I was so relieved I went straight into full party mode. I can't remember what we were drinking exactly, some rather hoppy light ale I recall, but pretty soon we were being introduced to Sufia's wonderful family and friends and American-English bonding was soon in full flow. I am not sure what they must have made of us. Sufia's two sisters Meme and Kyra certainly found the Fabulous BB a rather larger-than-life figure and took to him immediately. As the night wore on we moved the party downstairs where a full-on Salsa night seemed to be taking place.
Of course, the Fab BB and I couldn't resist joining in, the beer having taken its toll. Fortunately I had my old work pal Danny Boy(the poipes, the poipes are calling) and his wife the Solicitor to keep an eye on me and pour me into a taxi at the end of the night. At one stage, I'm told, I fell asleep on a table only to rise when everyone thought I might be dead. Can't confirm this, though, as don't remember it. It's fair to say though the Brits have made an early impression in the Southern States.
Wally without a wallet - Thurs, August 14
IT All went horribly wrong when I tried on my wife's shoes. Oh. Sorry. You misinterpreted me. It being Liz's birthday on the day after I return to the UK I had agreed to buy her a pair of Converse trainers and, as her feet were about the same size as mine, I tried a pair on to make sure I had the American sizes right. So no scandalous exhibition of Cross Dressing from me. No sir. Anyway, finding the perfect pair I took them to the counter, only to find that my wallet, which was in the very shallow pocket of a pair of shorts I was wearing, had gone AWOL.
I searched everywhere with Withers and his other half, Nadine, turning out boxes of shoes onto the floor of the shop until those serving obviously thought it was some kind of British ritual, like those in Iraq who beat the Saddam statue with shoes to celebrate his downfall. This was no laughing matter, though, to be honest. It had all my credit and debit cards in them, plus $200 in cash, and without them I was lost in America, completely skint. Back at the hotel I proceeded to use what little credit I had on my American sim card to spend the next three hours contacting the bank and cancelling them all, while also trying to arrange an emergency cash payment. I kept getting that annoying automated service. You know, the one that says "please key in your account number". Even though you know no one is listening you still find yourself shouting: "I don't know it - that's the whole point! I'VE LOST MY CARDS!"
Finally, I am through to a human who wants to know everything including my inside leg measurements before proceeding to cancel anything. Eventually it's done, but I have to check with the credit card company to see if anyone has used the missing cards. Trouble is, I get caught in a loop and listen to inane music for a while before being returned to the exact same department I have already spoken to. Finally, I'm through and it's good news, but I still need cash. The Credit Card people try to patch me through to Mastercard, but it is another automated service seemingly on a different planet, the person on the other end of the line speaking swahili. I give up, kick a few pieces of furniture, shout at the wall, and go through the whole process again. When this time I get through to Visa the man sounds like he is trapped in a tin can, the line awful, and I have to spell out my name with my very poor version of Nato's Phonetic Alphabet. Unfortunately the bloke hasn't got a clue at what I'm saying and I have to spell out every word of my longish name, address, etc. B is for Bertie, P for Peter. Hardly Alpha, Victor, Tango but after about an hour - desperately hoping my SIM card Pay As You Go minutes don't run out - I have done it.
Then I am told I have to wait and Visa will contact me at some stage to tell me if my request has been successful. So, no money and it's the wedding meet-and-greet. I will have to throw myself on the mercy of my friends...
I searched everywhere with Withers and his other half, Nadine, turning out boxes of shoes onto the floor of the shop until those serving obviously thought it was some kind of British ritual, like those in Iraq who beat the Saddam statue with shoes to celebrate his downfall. This was no laughing matter, though, to be honest. It had all my credit and debit cards in them, plus $200 in cash, and without them I was lost in America, completely skint. Back at the hotel I proceeded to use what little credit I had on my American sim card to spend the next three hours contacting the bank and cancelling them all, while also trying to arrange an emergency cash payment. I kept getting that annoying automated service. You know, the one that says "please key in your account number". Even though you know no one is listening you still find yourself shouting: "I don't know it - that's the whole point! I'VE LOST MY CARDS!"
Finally, I am through to a human who wants to know everything including my inside leg measurements before proceeding to cancel anything. Eventually it's done, but I have to check with the credit card company to see if anyone has used the missing cards. Trouble is, I get caught in a loop and listen to inane music for a while before being returned to the exact same department I have already spoken to. Finally, I'm through and it's good news, but I still need cash. The Credit Card people try to patch me through to Mastercard, but it is another automated service seemingly on a different planet, the person on the other end of the line speaking swahili. I give up, kick a few pieces of furniture, shout at the wall, and go through the whole process again. When this time I get through to Visa the man sounds like he is trapped in a tin can, the line awful, and I have to spell out my name with my very poor version of Nato's Phonetic Alphabet. Unfortunately the bloke hasn't got a clue at what I'm saying and I have to spell out every word of my longish name, address, etc. B is for Bertie, P for Peter. Hardly Alpha, Victor, Tango but after about an hour - desperately hoping my SIM card Pay As You Go minutes don't run out - I have done it.
Then I am told I have to wait and Visa will contact me at some stage to tell me if my request has been successful. So, no money and it's the wedding meet-and-greet. I will have to throw myself on the mercy of my friends...
Thursday 14 August 2014
Thursday, August 14 - 9.30am
IT'S the day before the wedding of the century. An American Wedding. I've landed in the beautiful city of Charleston, South Carolina, to see my old friend Nick 'Nicey' Machin and his bride-to-be Sufia Shabani tie the knot. I've checked into the Francis Marion hotel in downtown, a wonderful old establishment that drips southern elegance. But more of that later.
Let's meet the happy couple. Nick and Sufia first met when Major Machin headed off on a tour of world domination in a rickety old bus after taking a sabbatical from the glorious Western Mail and Echo in downtown Cardiff. With a group of like-minded fools, including his trusty sidekick Lieutenant 'Smashy' Freeman, they gave up on all the things most coveted by the rest of us mere mortals - like hygiene and toothpaste -to take their own brand of repartee and humour to places as far-flung as Russia and Mongolia. Little did the Major know at that time he was destined to meet the love of his life, having spent months on buses, trains and boats to eventually find his way to America. There, in Boston on July 4, 2010, the Major was ambushed by the wonderful Sufia, and life would never be the same again...
When I first got the invite it was a case of looking at the bank balance, scratching my head, crying, shaking the computer a bit to see if anything else would drop out and then crying again. It just wouldn't be feasible in the current climate for myself, my wife Liz and our lovely 4-year-old Livvy to afford the trip. Fortunately, Liz 'volunteered' to stay at home, leaving me to make the arrangements. I couldn't stay away too long with it being Liz's birthday on August 19 so I arranged to fly out on Wednesday and back on Sunday. When I got the itinerary I realised it probably wasn't my brightest idea - 14 hours travel in both directions with only a short break in between to relax and enjoy the wedding.
Things didn't start well either. First the computer said no when I tried to check-in. Apparently a seat was blocked. I asked why. "They just block them sometimes," I was told. It took another 30 minutes or so until it was 'unblocked' - the two people responsible for 'unblocking' having taken their phone off the hook. We knew that was what they had done, we could see them across the airport concourse! Finally booked onto the flight, I got to security to find my ticket wouldn't scan. I got some funny looks which became even funnier looks when I went through the X ray machine and beeped having removed everything bar a rib. I felt like one of those blokes in the film The Final Destination, that I was not supposed to be on the flight. I still don't know what was causing the problem, but eventually I was let through to sit with other disgruntled passengers while the boarding gate number failed to come up. We waited... and waited... and waited. It was a bit like the X-Factor wondering if you were going to get through to the next round, but finally it happened. Philadelphia, Gate 26.
Taking off three quarters of an hour late, at least it was a trouble-free flight and after touching down in Philly there was another four hour wait for my connection, time I spent wisely trying to get my mobile phone to adapt to its 'new' US sim card. At one stage my mobile rescue app kicked in and locked me out of my own phone, informing me that someone in America had stolen it. Doh! Still, squeezing onto the Charleston flight at around 7pm American time, an hour and a half later I touched down in the balmy heat of the south. A quick taxi ride to the hotel and I had arrived.
The first person I saw was my old mate, The Wonderful Withers formerly of WoS, sitting by the front door looking suitably grumpy. "What's wrong with you?" I asked. "Left my bag in a taxi and I've been waiting two hours for the driver to bring it back." And so it begins...
Let's meet the happy couple. Nick and Sufia first met when Major Machin headed off on a tour of world domination in a rickety old bus after taking a sabbatical from the glorious Western Mail and Echo in downtown Cardiff. With a group of like-minded fools, including his trusty sidekick Lieutenant 'Smashy' Freeman, they gave up on all the things most coveted by the rest of us mere mortals - like hygiene and toothpaste -to take their own brand of repartee and humour to places as far-flung as Russia and Mongolia. Little did the Major know at that time he was destined to meet the love of his life, having spent months on buses, trains and boats to eventually find his way to America. There, in Boston on July 4, 2010, the Major was ambushed by the wonderful Sufia, and life would never be the same again...
When I first got the invite it was a case of looking at the bank balance, scratching my head, crying, shaking the computer a bit to see if anything else would drop out and then crying again. It just wouldn't be feasible in the current climate for myself, my wife Liz and our lovely 4-year-old Livvy to afford the trip. Fortunately, Liz 'volunteered' to stay at home, leaving me to make the arrangements. I couldn't stay away too long with it being Liz's birthday on August 19 so I arranged to fly out on Wednesday and back on Sunday. When I got the itinerary I realised it probably wasn't my brightest idea - 14 hours travel in both directions with only a short break in between to relax and enjoy the wedding.
Things didn't start well either. First the computer said no when I tried to check-in. Apparently a seat was blocked. I asked why. "They just block them sometimes," I was told. It took another 30 minutes or so until it was 'unblocked' - the two people responsible for 'unblocking' having taken their phone off the hook. We knew that was what they had done, we could see them across the airport concourse! Finally booked onto the flight, I got to security to find my ticket wouldn't scan. I got some funny looks which became even funnier looks when I went through the X ray machine and beeped having removed everything bar a rib. I felt like one of those blokes in the film The Final Destination, that I was not supposed to be on the flight. I still don't know what was causing the problem, but eventually I was let through to sit with other disgruntled passengers while the boarding gate number failed to come up. We waited... and waited... and waited. It was a bit like the X-Factor wondering if you were going to get through to the next round, but finally it happened. Philadelphia, Gate 26.
Taking off three quarters of an hour late, at least it was a trouble-free flight and after touching down in Philly there was another four hour wait for my connection, time I spent wisely trying to get my mobile phone to adapt to its 'new' US sim card. At one stage my mobile rescue app kicked in and locked me out of my own phone, informing me that someone in America had stolen it. Doh! Still, squeezing onto the Charleston flight at around 7pm American time, an hour and a half later I touched down in the balmy heat of the south. A quick taxi ride to the hotel and I had arrived.
The first person I saw was my old mate, The Wonderful Withers formerly of WoS, sitting by the front door looking suitably grumpy. "What's wrong with you?" I asked. "Left my bag in a taxi and I've been waiting two hours for the driver to bring it back." And so it begins...
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