7

Is it possible? I'm so sure and all the conditions and circumstances would point to it being credible, but surely not? It was downtown, the film festival is still on while I write this, so could it actually be that I saw Steven Spielberg cycle past me on the way into work? I suppose I'll never be sure unless I run it past the great auteur himself, but I'd like to think it is true. Therefore that's what I'll do. No one can ever question the validity of the declaration (were you there? No) and Al saw Daniel Craig outside his office in Covent Garden the other week, so why not? Yep, you'll never guess who I saw biking past me as I walked into work - only Steven bloody Spielberg! And he was wearing a Amistad cycle helmet adorned with boats and slaves from the film of the same name. Or was he? That could be merely embellishment strapped onto the end of an already outlandish statement, but the only person who'll ever know the truth is me - or anyone with half a brain. As if Amistad had helmety merchandise?! It was actually Schindler's List. Or was it? (It wasn't)

Anyway, onto today and to continue the theme of was it/wasn't it, I think I'm sitting next to Colin from Edith and Colin on Radio One at the moment, but I can't be sure so I've decided against asking. Plus, what would I say? 'You're that Colin, aren't you?' And he'd say, 'yes', if he was. But then what? Actually, what am I talking about? We would talk about the Beeb, how we both worked there and before you know it we'd be great, great friends laughing and joking and then he'd get me on the radio and into celebrity parties (finally) where I'd get drunk and end up having a photo taken of my shaved vagina as I got out of a car. Hang on. I hate Colin from Edith and Colin. He's a twat. Maybe that's what we'd chat about - about how he's a talentless self-satisfied twat who acts all dangerous and interesting, but that I've experienced more danger and interest last time I got out of the lift on the wrong floor. (Another one came along shortly afterwards, don't worry) So sorry, Colin, I don't think it's gonna happen - I ain't shaving my vagina for no man.

So how come I'm (possibly) sat next to Colin? Well, I'm sat next to lots of people right now cos I'm on a Greyhound bus headed for Buffalo, New York, where I'm getting a flight to Manhattan to see Rob (who I'm better at pool than) for his surprise 30th birthday party (surprise!) I've often heard about Greyhound buses - when I was in the States a few years ago I used to pick people up from the Greyhound station in Las Vegas for the hostel I worked in, but until now I've never been on one. God, he really does look like Colin. Anyway, they have a bad reputation and being the cheapest form of long distance transportation they attract a more pungent clientele, being the company of choice for convicts, murderers and sexual deviants of all… Wait a second, some Amish people just got on. We've stopped at Niagara Falls and a young Amish couple just got on the bus. Now I'm no expert, but I have seen Witness, which I think, I'm not sure, but I think qualifies me to make some wildly inaccurate and judgemental conjectures on the lifestyles of these natural odour embracing folk. I didn't think they were allowed to use the bus? I thought all the trappings of modern life were to be ignored and even scorned? Don't they have pig-drawn carts for all their transporting needs? Still, I wonder if he'll let me wear his hat. Personally I can't see it.

Now, back to the drivel. This is a real-time description as I'm travelling by Greyhound down to New York, kind of like 24, but over far less time (only seven hours) with a far lower body count and almost no threat of a nuclear attack. At least it gives me an idea for the title of this posting. So I'm heading into the US very shortly where I expect to be judged and eye-balled by rent-a-cop at customs, who'll no doubt make a huge issue of the fact I went on a day-trip into Detroit three months ago and conclude the proceedings by violating my prostate with his huge sausage fingers. Again. I'll let you know. Very shortly, in fact - we've just arrived at customs. Don't go away… (Beep, beep, beep, beep...)

Beep, beep, beep, beep...

A more self-important, brash, low-rent bunch of Neanderthals you could not hope to meet. US customs - probably the most deplorable group of people on the planet. These imbeciles carry guns! They give guns (which fire actual bullets, you understand - at great speed, I'm led to believe) to these knuckle-scraping dullards who would happily pump two into Grandma's face if she couldn't show the right documents at the dullard annual family barbecue. Talk about a power trip. Probably my favourite part of the process is when they summon you over with just a beckoning finger. No words, just a finger - ironically enough that would have been my response of choice if I had the minerals. But I have no minerals, just a vagina, as discussed. So now that all my bags, papers and cavities have been roughly poked about in I finally find myself Stateside in good ol' Buffalo. Apparently this place is a dump and I can quite believe it. Border towns have this bad reputation for a reason and this one looks to have all the charm and allure of a Jim Davidson dinner party. Fortunately I'm only stopping here long enough to get a bus to the airport and as we're pulling up to the bus station now it's time to make with the beep, beep.

Beep, etc...

Oh my God, I'm so bored. At the bus station I still had 2.5 hours to get to the airport and even though this would appear to be plenty of time to you and me, one of the porters looked at his watch and shrugged that it 'might be enough time' to get there. Thinking the airport must be miles away and I'd wildly miscalculated in my carefully planned itinery (it seemed unlikely with the wealth of spreadsheet-based data I'd prepared, but you never know) I legged it Christie-style to the nearest taxi rank and shouted, 'airport and step on it!'. Of course I didn't, but I felt the 24 analogy was becoming obsolete and I like it, so there needs to be some shouting and high speed driving. So with the mushroom cloud that was once downtown Buffalo disappearing into the distance and the dead terrorist slumped in the seat next to me I ripped the computer chip out of my fake finger, reprogrammed the co-ordinates and tore down the freeway towards the airport. Ahem. Of course I got here with plenty of time to spare and now I'm sitting down contemplating another two hours of sitting down. They say only boring people get bored - I'm not sure they have had the pleasure of clock-watching in Buffalo airport with a broken iPod. If it wasn't for the human conveyor belt which makes you feel like you're walking at an incredible speed I think the suicide rates in airports would be through the roof. Gotta love that moving walkway. What would be the most disruptive and chaos-inducing declaration you could make in an airport? Shout, 'bomb!'?, shout, 'I've got a bomb'? Open your bag at check-in and ask, 'does my bomb look big in this?' Terrible. Sorry, so very, very bored. I'm off to try and beat my land-speed record on the walkway. Beep, beep, beep, beep...

Beep, beep, beep, beep...

So it's just dawned on me, I think this is gonna be quite tight. I've got to get to the bar where the surprise party (surprise!) is being held in just under three hours and it all relies on public transport running on time. My history with this kind of thing is not good and I'm starting to get a bit nervous I'm gonna end up getting there late and miss the 'surprise!' element - really the whole point of the covert planning and bare-faced lying we've all been participating in for the last few months. If I get there late can I still shout, 'surprise!'? I'd feel robbed if I couldn't and I think I've earned the right - but there is a danger of me looking like a bit of a cock if I do. Is it me, or is it getting hot in here? I don't mind flying, in fact I quite enjoy it once we're up, up and away, but there's always one point in the journey where I'm utterly convinced this is gonna be the way I die. It only lasts for mere fractions of a second, but it's an inevitable part of the experience for me and would almost be quite liberating if it wasn't accompanied by a raw, blind, more than happy to stamp on women and children's heads to get past panic. Fortunately that's been and gone now that we've just landed, but the captain just announced we're currently at the mercy of an available place to disembark - the wait begins. 10 minutes and still waiting. 25 minutes, leg twitching and still waiting. 40 minutes, eyes watering, leg now in overtime and still waiting. 55 minutes! Now we've been on the tarmac longer than we were in the air! Body at full injustice-induced spasm and still waiting! Beep, beep, beep, beep…

Beep, beep, beep, beep....

Right, so I was at the very front of the plane, the perfect spot for a quick exit, but after asking the stewardess to make a quick announcement asking if anyone wanted to split a cab to downtown New York I waited for the two people who raised their hands at the back. Come on, I know you're back there, come on.... No! As the last people filed out I looked up pleadingly, but it was obvious then - the lying bastards had thought better of it. Godammit! I just waited 10 minutes for the plane to empty for no good reason and now I have to wait for all the shuffling coffin-dodgers left at the back to make it up the stairs plus I can't afford a taxi on my own. Why, Lord, why?! I haven't been this frustrated since I found out Terry Nutkins didn't call his son Squirrel. Beep. Time is of the essence - I'm entering the last 30 minutes of the seven hours on a train heading for Penn Station. There I'll take a taxi to the bar for the all-important, 'surprise!'. Beep. Train's arrived. Making calls to Rob's fiancé and mate - nearly there. Beep. Taxi went wrong way. Spat venom at him and got in another. Beep. There's Pete and Roddy - we're on our way by foot now. Beep. Need deodorant. Beep. Urgently. Beep. Seven hours is up. Is that Rob....?

Beep, beep, beep, beep....