America, Land Of The Paranoid, did not disappoint.
Having enjoyed a steak at Gallaghers at Newark Airport with a metal fork and plastic knife (evidentally the fact that broken glass can also make a lethal blade has escaped the authorities. I look forward to the day when one cannot board a plane unless swathed in a cotton wool to the extent one resembles a strait-jacketed cloud) I pottered to the boarding gate.
With my new found patience, I let the lemmings queue up. Guys - the seats are reserved. I can promise that you will be able to sit down. Unless you're one of those idiots that insist on carrying on a Volvo-sized bag and calling it 'hand luggage'. Eventually, and buoyed by the now compulsory anti-jetlag concoction of alcohol and industrial strength painkillers, I pottered through the gate and found myself confronted by 8 armed policemen posted at various points along the tunnel.
I mean - really. What do they think is going to happen? I might lunge at a stewardess with a plastic fork and napkin from Gallagher's?
One stopped me, and asked to see my passport (it was only the eightyfirst time a uniformed official had asked in the last three hours. Clearly I look shifty. I wondered if I'd left a towel on my head from my last shower or something.)
He asked the usual questions:
"Where are you headed?"
"London"
"Anyone meeting you?"
"No"
And so on. And then he threw in a new one:
"In the US we have Attornies and Lawyers. What do you call those people in the UK?"
Alcohol removed the barrier between brain and mouth and I answered:
"Arseholes?"
For the first time, an armed and uniformed official laughed: "I was looking for solicitor or barrister. But I prefer your answer. Carry on, sir."
He was still chuckling as I boarded the aircraft. Perhaps there's hope for his kind after all.
