On a day off from playing a bank robber in the film Kansas in 1987, Matt Dillon was keen to drive me around the movie's location, a town called Lawrence in the titular state, despite the expletives scratched large into the paintwork of his car ("Some girl," he shrugged).

Wearing a Jack Daniel's cap backwards, he soon homed in on "the poorest part of town" and cruised and mused on the lives of "drunk and armed folk" on crumbling porches. Speeding into countryside, to a soundtrack of religious radio ("Do you believe in sowing & reaping?"), he exclaimed: "Wheat! As far as your mince pies can see. Feeding a nation!"

I asked what he'd be doing if back in his home town of New York. "The greatest pleasure for me is to grab a Post, read it backwards, sports first, then hit some bacon and eggs, and corn beef hash." Yet Lawrence, he felt, was, "a chicken nuggets sort of town", so we "hit McDonald's". As we sat eating – Matt a Caesar salad and fries – a butch policeman, thumbs in gunbelt, one boot up on the seating, informed us that, responding to a suspected burglary, he'd just been attacked by a large vicious racoon. "You might wanna go get a rabies shot, officer," deadpanned Dillon, squeezing dressing on his lettuce.

We "hit" bars, where Matt discussed Parisian gangs, the IRA and barstool sex while swigging beer. In one bar, 100 students craned their necks to enjoy the teen idol's presence. Stacey, studying biology, trilled: "You're my biggest fan, Matt [sic]. I must just ask – what did Rumble Fish mean?" "You're bugging me, lady," said Matt, flicking a nut and catching it in his mouth. "So just shut the fuck up."

"I know you – you say that to everyone," she smiled.