Mardi Gras. Great to be in a city which isn't sleeping. A lot of fun to be had in the ridiculously simple task of trying to catch as many strings of plastic beads as possible (and to try and get the most 'special' ones). Why are such things so endlessly amusing? Five hours later and we were still screaming and jumping up and down for more. The new nickname for this activity is Bead Whoring, or chasing the title of Queen Bead Whore (bad pun intended). And then, drinking and dancing till the sun comes up, in small bars with good loud bands and real beer.

The highlights: getting the mother of all beads by dancing on the shoulders of a big man; a four-hour set from a band called Sol Fiya whose bass player was definitely the coolest; the stoned kitchen staff in one bar whose close shaves with sharp knives were seriously worrying; escaping Bourbon Street.



Back in Greensboro on Superbowl Sunday, we were too lazy to do the crazy thing and go to the Birds Nest (a black bar promisng exotic male and female dancers at halftime) so it was beers round the TV wondering why on earth I have to share a nationality with Paul McCartney and where it all went wrong for my one-time pop idol.