I switch off the television set.

Then I switch it back on again, to double check what I am hearing. It is startling. We do not have advertisements like this in Britain, not even on Sky Sports 3.

Personally, if I have an erection that lasts for longer than four hours, then I will not contact my doctor. I will contact all my mates.

US television is utterly technically inept. The picture is rubbish, the graphics are Clive Sinclair-standard, they regularly cut away accidentally from the end of bits they shouldn’t cut away from, or leave long pauses where the producer presumably should have done something. This ineptitude partially explains why many people think the content itself is useless. Whereas we have stuff like Jeremy Kyle, and ‘Meanwhile, a man in Hull…’ local news.

I find it disconcerting, but I can appreciate that it is probably a Good Thing to maturely and openly address the medical condition concerned. I switch the television off once more and go down to breakfast.

“There is an ad about having a stiffy for four hours!!!” I hiss at the LTLP, over a bizarre parallel-universe type breakfast.

They do not have normal things like black pudding in Tennessee. Instead, they eat scones with their bacon and eggs, covering them with weak mushroom soup.

“Would you like to try some of my grits?”

“No.”

“That is the right answer.”

I accept the proffered free refill of coffee – the reason that America is such a great nation – and lean back in my chair. The tickets nestle safely in my pocket – the time approaches to take my family to the very heart and soul of the USA.

“Today,” I tell the Toddler importantly, drawing her grandly in to the conversation. “Is our big day. I hope you will remember this day for years to come. It is time to see the birthplace of a nation.”

We finish our breakfast and set off for Dollywood.

“No. I’d have needed to ask what buttons to press and all that.”

I’ve been writing this for almost six years now. Occasionally, funny things happen. Bizarre, flattering, alarming, lavish or just plain barking mad things. Like Simon from Hungary’s bizarre Private Secret Diary lawnmowing stunt (sorry – can’t find the exact link). Or the mind-boggling A-Level Mock Exam incident.

I can’t recall anything that would have taken anybody so much time as this.

“It definitely wasn’t you?”

“Definitely not.”

“I don’t know whether to be pleased, or go on the witness protection scheme.”

[Travel reportage fans do not fear, I shall be continuing 'Across Tennessee. By Kia' very shortly, where I will detail how I discovered the REAL America.]

To get to Tennessee, you have to drive across a bit of North Carolina. I gun the Kia into action. It is a woman’s gun.

North Carolina turns out to be a very pleasant place. I may go back there one day, and explore a bit further. We are headed for ‘Ghost Town in the Sky,’ which is a theme park based on the wild west, situated up a mountain.

My plan is that if I can incorporate lots of theme parks, zoos etc. into our schedule then the LTLP will realise that I was right all along, and a great family holiday does not consist of going to a swanky beach resort in Florida with loads of facilities, pools and stuff for children, but getting in a Kia and driving across Tennessee in search of traditional banjo music.

She studies the map, her face still not quite having lost its original air of dry scepticism.

“There is a town called ‘Batcave’ coming up,” she announces. “Can we visit Batcave? It sounds interesting.”

“I would like to visit Batcave,” I agree. “We could stop there for dinner dinner dinner.”

Silence descends. We do not visit Batcave.

‘Ghost Town in the Sky’ turns out to be brilliant. You get to it via a mountain chairlift, which has no seatbelts or anything and brings the exhilarating thrill of wondering whether your wriggling Toddler might end up smashed to bits on the rocks below. At the top, there are loads of rides, a reconstruction of an old wild west town, and regular gunfights staged by actors.

And banjo music.

The bluegrass bands playing in the ’saloons’ are incredible. I mean – let’s face it, banjo music is quite thrilling when you hear it on disc, or as the soundtrack to a car chase on the TV. Everybody knows that. But live, it is a totally different proposition. It fills the space and grabs you with a cocktail of excitement and history, and you suddenly understand how this music came to be and why it has been so core to the way of life of these parts of rural America.

I do not quite expect the Toddler to understand this yet. But she is clapping along with the banjo music, a delighted look on her face. I am almost in tears, I am so proud.

The fiddle player is introduced to us as Georgia’s state fiddle champion (twice). I am impressed by that. If there is entertainment at British theme parks it is usually some twat singing bad cover versions to pre-programmed Casio organ tracks. Here, you get Georgia’s state fiddle chamption, and legendary banjoist Steve Sutton. It is like turning up to the Dinosaur Adventure Park in Lenwade and seeing Martin Carthy playing a set with Yehudi Menuhin.

I am not saying that Martin Carthy and Yehudi Menuhin never gigged at the Dinosaur Adventure Park in Lenwade. But it strikes me as unlikely.

After that, the staged gunfight is mere dressing. A small child standing beside me is equally blasé.

“That’s nothin’ – they’re not even real bullets,” he complains.

“That’s right,” scolds his mother. “You show the man what happens with real bullets.”

The child turns to me to demonstrate a horrible scar on his face.

I chat to the man operating the kiddies’ carousel as he waits for it to complete its rotations. He leans back on a fence and we survey the scene together – miles upon miles of the dramatic Great Smoky Mountains – the sunshine, the wisps of cloud, the trees of green and red.

“They’re starting to let folks build houses up there,” he complains. “If you ask me, they shouldn’t let houses into that view.”

We nod slowly at the sadness of despoilation as we stand with our backs to the acres of theme park, gift shops and roller coasters that have been hewn into the mountainside.

The carousel slows to a halt. The Toddler reappears. I hurry her along. There is time for more banjo music before we leave.

I am one of those people who are still enamoured by the idea of transatlantic air travel being glamorous. I like Britain, and I like the United States, and I like going on holiday, and I like the fact that you can do so quickly and with people bringing you drinks. I also don’t fly very often, so airports are still a bit of a novelty; and people are very rarely polite to me, especially women, so I like air stewardesses.

I once who had a friend who was upgraded to first class on the way to America, and basically they were all over him as soon as he got on the plane, and the seat converted to a proper bed, and there was free everything that you could possibly wish for even before taking off, and just as he was thinking ‘things don’t really get much better than this,’ Debbie Harry turned up and parked herself in the seat next to his. This is sort of how I imagine flying to be, although I am more into the romance of early commercial flying, with seaplanes and cocktails and perhaps Hercule Poirot turning up in the next aisle on his way to solve a mystery, although I would not turn my nose up at Debbie Harry at a push, even if she was not solving mysteries but just sitting there looking like Debbie Harry and humming some songs to herself (except ‘The Tide is High’). The golden age of aviation made a big impression on me.

We are shown to a Boeing Ninky-Nonk.

“There is a bit of a problem,” admits the driver, as we turn back towards the airport after sitting on the taxiway for an hour. “I’d just like the technicians to have a look at this light that’s come on.”

We wait for some further time, whilst the technicians poke around trying to get the light to go out. Meanwhile, my knees are jammed up against the seat in front, and a fat man beside me keeps jostling for the armrest.

The 143-hour flight to Charlotte goes by in a flash.

*

I am sure that there has been someone, somewhere, at some point in time, who has signed car rental documents and yet not driven away feeling that somehow and in some manner they have been ever so slightly ripped off. On the face of it, it is very simple. You want to borrow a car for x amount of days, and you agree to bring it back and try not to crash it. At which point they produce loads of extra documents and waivers and disclaimers and legal things, and you are too weak to argue as you are tired from your flight and have lots of bags and a disruptive toddler, and even when you have signed everything and read it twice you still have no idea whether you will be ruined should you accidently run over somebody or leave the petrol gauge a grillionth of a millimetre off the ‘full’ mark.

It was like that again this time. I will not name the rental company concerned, as they are all the same. But it always hurts.

Even so, I am in a fantastic mood as I sign off the final ream. I have requested a proper S.U.V. (nb this is an American term) – a stately, rugged, high and manly ride to befit the fortnight ahead. A deep, rumbly, lots-of-cylinders-in-a-V engine, bags-in-the-back essence of Americana.

I can see the logo from some distance away as the assistant manoeuvres the vehicle slowly up to the pick-up point.

There is no sinking feeling, no dismay. Just a tidal wave of resignation that this is my life, and it is always going to be like this.

The stage is set, the curtain rises. It is time for one of the great road trips of our time.

Across Tennessee. By Kia.

I am very tired, due to the jet lag. There is a pile of post on the floor!!! This is exciting. I sort the post.

There are three items for me. Two of them are a mobile phone bill and a new debit card. There is also an invitation to purchase some Christmas cards, from a charity.

Booooo. Still. The answerphone light is flashing. I have messages!!! I press the button. There is one message. It is from a financial adviser that I spoke to two years ago, asking if I am all right.

Booooooooo and thrice boooooo. I have been away for ages, and I have three bits of post and a single phone call. Nobody likes me, except the financial adviser.

I will write up my Private Secret Holiday Diary when I am a bit more with it. In the meantime, has anything of note happened whilst I was away? You do not get UK news in America, as they have so much of their own. It would be good to catch up with events.

The LTLP had to be talked round, and is still a bit dubious with parts of my itinerary, but she will come round when we get there. We all need a holiday. Her, as she is a bit stressed and tired, and didn’t get any birthday presents apart from some lipstick that makes her look like a prostitute. Me, because I have been working so hard. The Toddler, because it will be educational, and she will love visiting the home of the banjo oh dear I have given the game away.

I will be back at the end of the month.

I consider this through my beer. It is, indeed, true.

The Miniature Barman shrugs his shoulders good-naturedly. “You’d be very welcome,” he says. “If you can get tickets.”

“And it is the LTLP’s birthday,” insists Mrs. Short Tony. “It would be a great birthday surprise. She must know all the Johnny Cash songs, like ‘Ring of Fire,’ and… um…”

“‘Folsom Prison Blues?’” I add, warming to the idea of going to a Johnny Cash tribute evening. “And ‘The Mercy Seat.’ That is my favourite. It is a bloody brilliant song.”

“We don’t do that one,” says the Miniature Barman.

“And all the others are basically the same,” I continue, finishing my pint and waving the glass in the general direction of the pumps. “The ones that go:”

(4/4; allegro; adopt low mumbling voice)

[I] “WellImummmdemummmdeeedamummdemum

[IV] andImummdemummandImummdemumm

[I] andImummdemummandmummdemummm

[V] dumm dooo.”

Mrs Short Tony looks blank. “I don’t know that one,” she says.

“And ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky,’” I add, helpfully.

“It should be a good night,” prompts the Miniature Barman. “It was a sell-out last year.”

I take a deep swig of my refilled pint. “The thing is, that the LTLP is not that keen on Johnny Cash,” I reflect. “But then she is a bit down about her birthday, and me not really getting round to getting her a present and stuff, and in fact not getting any presents except from the Toddler, who chose some lipstick for her that is in the shade of red worn by prostitutes. So I reckon it might cheer her up.”

“Am I the only one that doesn’t think this a great idea?” interjects Short Tony. “And I am normally the one who…”

“The problem is going to be getting her there,” I continue, ignoring him. “It would have to be a surprise.”

“She would love it,” says Mrs Short Tony.

I have a brainwave. “She has always wanted to go to the Michelin-starred restaurant Morston Hall,” I say. “And I have always said I would take her there. So what we could do would be to book the tickets for the Johnny Cash tribute evening, but tell her that we are all going to the Michelin-starred restaurant Morston Hall for a special birthday dinner. And then, when we are in the cab, we would pretend that we have to pick somebody up at the theatre, or fetch something, or something like that, so she wouldn’t suspect. And then when we actually arrived at the theatre, we could all jump out of the cab and say ’surprise!’ and it would be a special surprise Johnny Cash birthday treat instead.”

“That sounds like a really good plan,” says Short Tony.

“We’d be quite happy to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ at a break in the set,” offers the Miniature Barman. “That’s always good, as the rest of the theatre will join in.”

I am excited. “She would really like that,” I exclaim.

*

Firstly, and interestingly, I have discovered that I am enjoying writing again. I didn’t for a while, mainly when I didn’t have much free time due to a Demanding Baby, and it became a bit of a ‘thing that I felt I ought to do’ rather than a ‘thing that I loved doing’. Plus, when your job involves writing for money, sometimes it is not quite so easy to write for fun.

If anybody would like me to do some writing for them, for money, then do get in touch.

(If anybody would like to offer me money to STOP writing then I will consider that as well).

I’m trying to work out at the moment if I should write a bit more on here, and do it in different styles, and not worry about whether it’s much good or not… or whether I should stick to the particular approach that everybody knows and is used to. The chicken guide thing was very popular, for instance, but I don’t know if it was out of place and should have gone in a separate ‘chicken’ section. Should I have a different blog for different things, for example? Or put things on different pages, or on a different RSS feed? I do not know. I would be interested in your comments in the comments box, if they are sensible and do not basically say ‘give up, your shit.’

*

I met one of my Twitter followers the other day (the pie lady). It was disconcerting, as I hadn’t expected to, despite the circumstances (I was at her pie stall). Plus I had a hangover and was thinking that I might be sick, which I thought would not be great publicity for her, and all I could really think of to say was ‘I am a fan of your work’ which even though it is true was a bit weak and possibly made me sound like a bit of a dick. Anyway, I didn’t realise it, but she mail-orders her pies, so if you want to share in the top-notch pie experience then I would heartily recommend it. Here is her pork pie website.

*

A commercial break for two more friends and readers of Private Secret Diary:

I have never read a chick-lit book before, so French Kissing by Catherine Sanderson, who is mainly famous for not blogging any more – worried me a bit, as it has a pink cover. Plus I had to use pliers to uncurl my toes after reading the advert the publisher had put at the back for their ‘fiction for women’ promotion (’And of course we realise that even when she’s reading, every girl wants to look her best, so we have heaps of beauty goodies…’).

But blimey!!! It is a real page-turner – I can see why people like this sort of thing – genuinely. I ended up annoying the LTLP by exclaiming things like ‘OMG! OMG! She’s going to shag the bloke in the other apartment!!!’ I hope it does well, as Cath’s a good friend and far from being a publicity-hungry velociraptor, she will be a bit embarrassed that I have written about it. Buy it for a female companion, then sneak a read yourself under the duvet.

Neil Forsyth’s Let Them Come Through is gripping – big time. I’ll stick my neck out and say that I think he’s been slightly ill-served by the publishers. The cover doesn’t match the content, the quote on the front doesn’t really say anything and the whole package seems to want to give the impression of some Ben Elton take on spiritualism.

Whereas actually it’s seriously well researched, and hits you with a pacy and plausible world of small-time crookery, casual corruption, cruel lies and general seediness. Neil’s background is in crime journalism (as I recall) and it shows – he pulls off the difficult trick of making you root for an unsympathetic character, and the end leaves you wanting to spend more time in his world, which is always a good sign. It’s his first novel – I hope he’ll write more. Buy it for a male companion, then sneak a read yourself under the duvet.

*

Commercial break and round-up over. I shall be going on holiday in a week or so. Remind me to turn the comments off before then, as there are a lot of Evil Spammers around at the moment.

The thing is, I am not much interested in cars. That is to say, I am not much interested in cars that a) I can afford, and/or b) that do not come from the classic era in car making (ie from the invention of the car until about the Ford Sierra, after which all cars started to look the same.) (Although thinking about it, the Ford Sierra looked fucking futuristic when it first came out, and I’m sure was cited as such by leading opinion-formers, eg John Craven).

So actually, I have nothing against getting a Kia Ninky-Nonk, or a Suzuki Pootle, or a Daihatsu Chihuahua © or whatever, as millions of people drive around in these every day and they are perfectly happy and I would not like to look down on them. Except I am a very very shallow person and I worry that people would point and laugh and think that I am less of a man.

“Are you all right in the back?” asks the LTLP, who is in the driving seat, next to the man from the garage.

I consider this. “It is surprisingly roomy,” I reply honestly.

“That is because of the upright driving position,” assures the salesman. “There is a lot more room than you think. Although the boot is a bit on the small side,” he admits. The car climbs the hill to the dual-carriageway like somebody has forgotten to untie the big elastic that holds it to the showroom.

When we are a few miles on we stop, and the LTLP and I swap places. I turn the key to re-start the engine. There is an alarming noise!!!

“Er, the engine is already running,” explains the salesman. “I didn’t turn it off,” confirms the LTLP.

I apologise. “It’s – erm – a very quiet engine,” I report.

I drive around for a bit. The salesman has lots of impressive facts. Basically it will do about a grillion miles per gallon, or, if you don’t have any petrol, will run on cress. The driving is not too bad when you are not on fast roads, but it is time to be getting back.

“Where’s the clock on this thing?” I ask.

“Aha!” replies the salesman. “There is a clock as standard on the de luxe LX model.”

I check my watch.

Later on, I confess to the LTLP that I am not sure that I am ready to buy a car like this. It is nothing really to do with any machismo or false male sense of dignity, image etc. It is just that I do not think that sort of car really suits the manner of driving that we do or the type of roads that we do it on.

The following day, I mention to one of the fit milf mothers that we have test-driven a Kia Ninky-Nonk, as we pull up together at the nursery in our standard issue nursery-attending black middle-class sporting estate cars.

A pool of wee forms underneath her as she collapses in gleeful mirth, pointing at me and laughing and covering her mouth with her hand.

The thing is, that I do try to make a bit of an effort. I walk through the town, staring hard at each shop. It is an extra-special one this time, as it is ten years – and so I want to get something doubly magnificent to mark our decade together.

I realise that this might be a bit of a shock for some people, as I do sometimes tend to play on the fact that I am a bit hopeless at things for a cheap comic effect. But in reality I am a bit more switched on than I might come across, and I do take my responsibilities seriously, especially where it comes to the LTLP.

I am a bit stuck, so I ring my mum. “I can’t decide what to get the LTLP for our ten year anniversary,” I tell her.

“That was last year,” she replies. “It is eleven this year.”

I return to my search.

In the end I am a bit stuck, so I get her a new trowel. Eleven years is ’steel’ according to the tradition (or ‘fashion jewellery’ if you are using the modern lists, which I suspect might have been put together by interested parties). And the trowel is made of steel, apart from the handle which is wood, so it is an appropriate present. She is very lucky.

I return home to wrap up my gift.

As I go to bed after her, I leave it as a surprise on top of the kettle. The next morning, I pretend that I am not feeling well, so that she will go downstairs to get me a cup of tea first thing, and will find her secret surprise trowel. This will make it extra-special for her, plus I will get a cup of tea made for me.

“Thank you for my present,” she says, accidentally spilling my tea as she bashes the mug down beside me.

“You are welcome,” I reply.

“I have a present for you as well,” she says. “I have arranged a little something for today.”

I am agog, and blink the sleep out of my eyes. We will be going to a nice restaurant or having some sort of surprise day trip. Or, actually, maybe what she has in mind is something more of a special man/woman nature. I recline back into the sheets in interest.

We test drive a Kia Ninky-Nonk.