In 1960s England a lot of little boys grew up infatuated with America. Some of us dreamed of living there one day. It looked like "England on steroids"; bigger, wealthier, and lots more sunshine! Trudging through the rain soaked streets of my working class, medieval, Northern English village, dodging malevolent old Church Ladies and pissed off Grebos, I fantasized about partying on the beach with The Monkees. Optimistic reverberations from Motown, drug fueled California Rock and the cartoons of Robert Crumb furthered my resolve to one day live there.Most people mature, become more practical and grow out of such dreams, but my own uncertain progress through life has been unhindered by pragmatism. And so it was, during the winter of 1977, a man-child of nineteen, I headed for the promised land of New York City. Undeterred by the citys New World extravagances of size, sound and sleaze, even by deportation! I returned a few weeks later and set off, by Greyhound bus, to find America.I became eagerly absorbed into the mysterious and mythological topography, populated by people of great generosity, drifters, gay vicars, prostitutes, imaginary Hells Angels, a girl of my dreams, gangsters, aristocrats, and Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll. Ride with me, along the rudderless trail of a wannabe American lad.