Friday continued.
So having justified my upgraded presence as the difference between Mr MacG getting to his show and not getting there, I enjoy my first time in First Class. Which in this instance includes silver service meals and – oh joy – Afternoon Tea with scones. Plus the Aer Lingus Premier Class Toiletries Pack, the highlight of which is a tube of L’Occitane Ultra Riche face cream. Shane lets me have his.
I sit back, grateful for the extra leg room and general pampering, and watch the airline version of ‘Michael Clayton’. An excellent film, if slightly marred by the censoring required for in-flight movies. One particularly clumsy moment comes during Tom Wilkinson’s remarkable performance as a lawyer who plunges (or ascends) into a seeing-the-light style of madness, reminiscent of Peter Finch in ‘Network’.
‘… An hour later, I’m in a BROTHEL in Chelsea and two Lithuanian redheads are taking turns KISSING ME.’
The words ‘brothel’ and ‘kissing’ are not only dubbed over something much stronger, but the voice doing the dubbing is clearly not Tom Wilkinson’s. Not by a long shot.
I’ve never understood this aspect of air travel. You pay all that money for a plane ticket, you’re defying the forces of nature, you’re living the dream of your ancestors, and yet you’re still not allowed to hear a single swear word. Not even on headphones.
***
Staying alcohol-free on the flight in order to reassure the cabin crew, I think of a quote by Jeffrey Bernard, when he sacked his accountant for drunkenness:
‘One of us has to stay sober. It sure as hell isn’t going to be me.’
***
In America. We’re at JFK, waiting in the queue for Immigration. The mother of the pleasant family standing behind us behind recognises Shane, and thanks him for all the pleasure his music has given them. I hope this bodes well for our being allowed into the country. I think of Sebastian Horsley recently turned away on account of ‘moral turpitude’ (I see Mr H has made the Wikipedia entry on the phrase: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moral_turpitude). But I also think of tales of certain zero-budget Sarah Records indie bands, refused entry for trying to pass themselves off as tourists, because the work visa needed for playing gigs was too expensive, or too awkward to organise in time. Carrying musical instruments alone was enough to get them turned away.
While we wait, Shane tells me he’s never had problems with Immigration in the past. He’s been to New York many times before. Well, there’s that song of his, isn’t there. Fairytale of.
He says the officials are often Irish-American, which helps. That’s it’s English old me who’s more likely to raise eyebrows. My appearance and voice is closer to Sebastian H than Shane MacG. I start to worry – as ever – and for a second I seriously wonder if I should attempt an Irish accent to help get me through. Then I think of Alan Partridge – ‘Dere’s More To Oireland Den Dis’ – and decide against it. Wisely.
But we go through with no problems at all. I have my face scanned by one of those little spherical cameras, and for the first time in my life I have my fingerprints taken. Seems a bit overly zealous, but I’m hardly going to complain at this stage. Inside leg measurement, DNA sample, I’m ready to give America whatever it wants. I’m all too English that way. And then we’re through. Another hoop.
As we pass, I note the young policeman’s name badge. Officer McCann.
