Los Angeles, November 18th 1997 - January 31st 1998

In diving headlong into my Green Card period I've overlooked a couple of (innocent) cruises, a month as chief conductor of Sunset Boulevard in Germany and inducing a stroke in my mother-in-law when I finally met her at the end of October, 1997. She was so excited that her daughter was finally coming home (with new boyfriend) that she went the whole hog the day after we pitched up and had to be taken to hospital. Thankfully, she turned out OK and is going strong to this day, February 25th, 2012.

I'd been invited to join the music staff of The Phantom of the Opera on tour in the USA. First stop was Los Angeles (yeah, I know: bummer), a place whose legend was bigger than its reputation, but sufficiently honeypot-esque to nearly induce a seizure on the scale of my future mother-in-law's, so off I went. My ex was fabulous and played ball superbly so I could go. Courtesy of Air India (Extract of conversation with booking clerk: "Can I smoke on the flight?" "You can do anything on our planes") I landed at JFK, then Burbank, picked up my little Pontiac Sunfire which was literally waiting outside the door for me, and set off to find Barham Boulevard. "Head straight down to Warner Bros. on Olive and turn right". These seemingly anodine instructions containing words of legend took me to my new apartment, whose complex I then shared with Pierce Brosnan and Brad Pitt (for a while). Coyotes patrolled the car parks, high-octane porn stars showed up at the store for breakfast. I was a long way from home. And loving it.

One of these days…

…I'll get around to talking about touring the USA with The Phantom of the Opera and sharing a house in Providence, RI with ex-cons and heroin addicts, bumping into Diane Keaton on Rodeo Drive and appearing on the Jerry Springer Show. No extra-curricular shagging, though; I was a saint in God's Own Country. How could I behave otherwise, knowing my Green Card may be at stake, arf arf. That year was split between Los Angeles, Providence, RI, Chicago and Minneapolis, and a great time it was, too, not least because our time in Illinois coincided with the very last Seinfeld episode, a deal up there with the capital city's all-conquering Bulls team, led by no other than His Airness himself, who were also crowned champions that year (1998). He retired fairly soon after and seems to have since descended into obscurity. Sport is not kind to its stars.

Some time soon…

There are a few holes to fill, metaphorically speaking, in this story, so do keep abreast of developments should you be so inclined. We've not yet addressed anal sex in the Pacific or appalling shenanigans in the Azores, so don't give up if you've a life to spare or time to barter on eBay; I just need to be ready…