LETTERS FROM A CLAPHAM COUNTY CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
In an attempt to contribute to Dave’s ever-improving, always entertaining website, he and I agreed to create a new column produced by yours truly, a kind of foreign correspondence if you will. Throughout the next five months, I hope to provide humorous accounts of my goings on, an American’s viewpoint of all things British, and an update on the state of our fair nation in the eyes of the British…an opinion that should remain as consistent as the weather here, dark and dreary. Furthermore, this column will hopefully keep me out of the pubs and sober for at least a few more minutes each day. Strike that second one…I is amphibious…I can drink and write at the same time.
Having spent a significant amount of time previously traveling to and from this “second home” of mine, I foolishly assumed that the flight over would prove non-eventful save a few fits of air turbulence. Once again, I was wrong. Ladies and gentlemen, let me give you fair warning…it is absolutely illegal to serve yourself liquor on trans-Atlantic flights. From the collective intake of breath I just heard, I assume you all are as shocked as I was. The bleeding heart liberals love to beat the dead horse of lost rights, and for once, I agree. Not only must we start purchasing alcoholic beverages on trans-Atlantic flights, now we can’t even purchase duty free and enjoy it on the plane. But apparently, Ms Verucca Salt sitting next to me on the plane could enjoy the entire junk food aisle of your local grocer before ever taking flight. Where’s the justice in that I ask you! So as I’m enjoying a fine glass of whiskey, the stewardess proceeds to grab the empty bottle, bang it on my tray table, and loudly exclaim, “Sir, you cannot do that!” In the words of Tupac, “All eyez on me!” Now given our current “travel aura (bright orange I think),” you can imagine the fear that other passengers must have felt upon hearing her. Who’s to say that the guy sitting next to me looking like a smack junkie on a three day bender wasn’t geared up to snap at any sign of trouble. For all that fucker knew, I could have been trying to ignite my shoe, which could have been possible given the storage pouch on my “Roos”! But I digress, as usual. The stewardess proceeded to tell me that technically she should have the plane grounded and me arrested…definitely something doable given the fact that we were in the middle of nowhere over the ocean. She looked frazzled so I apologized, downed the last of my whiskey, and politely asked her if she wanted to join the mile high club. Did you all know that sexually harassing a stewardess is illegal as well? So the next think I know, I’m waking up in handcuffs…not a souvenir from the mile high club. Apparently the smack junkie next to me is an air marshal who pistol whipped the hell out of me. Long story short…after a three hour pow-wow with the marshal and stewardess, they agree to release me and return me to my seat only after I gladly agree to never fly U.S. Airways again. Just as I sit back in my seat, the pilot announces our initial descent into London. Forget looking out the window; London has extended its usual welcome in the form of a blind landing amid a sea of fog and drizzle. But of course, that could have just been blurred vision from the pistol-whipping.
Well, I feel that this will be sufficient for my first installment. Pictures will be available soon as well and look for a diatribe against the French around the middle of February! The next installment should have a bit on the North Mississippi All-stars and Robert Randolph concerts that I will be attending, as well.
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