Going to America
Well, many years ago, when I was a mere lad of 21, I got sent to America to a conference (Tri-Ada '91, since you ask).

I learned several interesting lessons as I flew in. First, leaving London at Heathrow, all were sweetness and light. But I had to stop over and change planes in Chicago or somewhere. So I did. Only as I dragged my bags from one end of big airport to the other, I got lost, so I asked some guy in a uniform for directions. He gave them to me, then as an afterthought asked if I was travelling alone. I said I was. He then asked where I was going, to which I truthfully replied 'San Jose, California'. Then he asked if I was travelling for business or pleasure. Well, I was clearly enjoying myself, but I had to admit it was on business.

Well, I had no idea that being searched at gunpoint was quite so terrifying. In the end I was marched (still at gunpoint) to my destination, and put on the plane. At least I wasn't lost.

Now, any ordinary fool would have learned from this. But no, dear reader, there is literally no end to the f---wittery I'm capable of.

So, back at the airport for the return journey. I'm leaving San Jose this time. As I go to get on the plane, so far incident free, I'm asked the usual basic questions. Then comes the good stuff: "Sir, do you have a gun?"

"No, I'm British". The non-sequitur fazes the guard not at all.

"A knife?"

"No."

"Any Mace?"

"What," says I, in my best British accent, "Is Mace when it's at home?"

Well, being searched at gunpoint doesn't get any easier with practice, I can tell you!

I arrive back at Heathrow, bloody terrified. No need to worry, I'm back amongst friends. I wander nonchalantly through passport control and Customs, to be reunited with my native soil! Yaay!

Oh, and there was the time I went to the Caribbean, to visit my Mom's family... My brother and I were wearing non-pink skin (hard to change out of that one), proper shirts, and long trousers. We got mistaken for airline staff, and had our choice of hot sweaty tourists shouting at us.

Plus, there was the time my Dad discovered the joys of multiple-currency tills in Piaco Airport, Barbados. He bought some drinks, handed over a fiver, and after a bunch of beepy till noises, got a handful of local shrapnel change. He was dead excited (there, there, Dad) until I observed, using the full power of 17-year-old smugness, that it was a load of bannocks. I went back, ordered the drinks, and handed over a pound. The barman looked suspiciously at me, so I chucked in another 20p. And got the drinks. And change. And a nasty glare off my Dad.

It was worth it?

I'd add a size joke, but you've had it three times already.
(purplegod counting down for Christmas!, Fri 3 Mar 2006, 16:44, Reply)