Day One - Rain, planes & anglophiles

Britain is depressing - especially since introducing new laws banning smoking from EVERYWHERE . . . but flying from Britain is especially depressing . . .

My journey began with the cab dropping me at Terminal 3 at Heathrow at around 10am in the middle of a massive thunderstorm. Thanks to increased security I had to run in the pouring rain with my bags including an extra suitcase just to hold my camera equipment about 300 metres into the terminal. They also don't have an awning so no chance for a cigarette - my last having been smoked at 8am in the morning.

In Britain you can only carry on one item of handluggage - everything else must go in the hold. The ONLY country in the world to have this ridiculous rule and the reason why I was laden with an additional suitcase.

Check in took ages - and then on to the Fast Track channel. The only thing I can say about that is that I would hate to see Slow Track in action . . . and then through to scan my shoes in a seperate area. NOTE TO SELF - never fly from Britain again if possible.

I consoled myself with the fact that a steaming Starbucks and a Marlboro were just a minute or two away. Wrong!

Starbucks yes - smoking no. NOT ANYWHERE IN THE ENTIRE AIRPORT. Nazi, fascist, boring legislators have made it impossible now to smoke anywhere inside the terminal - not even a small horrid room full of cancerous desperados is allowed now . . . much to my extreme displeasure.

The lounge was the same old United Airlines lounge - last refurbished in 1974 and ghastly. It used to at least redeem itself with a dedicated smoking area - but alas now, this is no more....

They have also cut back on the food supplies inside and seemingly the only things on offer were celery sticks and health bars with fruit. Not good.

It was also packed and I had to sit next to the obligatory IT project manager from Sadness, Tennesee who was keen to share his opinions on his company and their latest mega project with anyone who would listen and indeed anyone within a 100 metre radius. Unfortunately for me and several hundred other passengers he had encountered an old guy who also worked for the firm. He didn't shut his mouth for nearly two hours and murderous thoughts passed through my mind on more than one occasion. Luckily for him his flight was called just before I could implement my cunning plan to stab him in the face with a celery stick and force feed him to death with "health bars".

Boarding for the flight was delayed by about 45 mins. Apparently to do with the rain which surprised me as rain is hardly a new weather phenomenon in Britain but hey - what am I going to do?

We eventually boarded and I was seated next to Homer Simpson. Unfortunately not the real one, but a similar version from California who also worked in IT (whatever I have done, I have certainly angered somebody to get two IT geeks in one day). Homer also had a chronic cough (although, sadly, not bad enough to bring about his early death before take off) and this was beginning to annoy me. But he was saved by my anger being focused on the airport / airline again when the Captain came on to announce that take-off was going to be delayed - because of the rain.

We were eventually subject to another two and three quarter hours delay sitting on the plane with a nice seven and a half hour flight to follow. Worse - Homer wanted to chat.

Having discussed beer and American politics for an hour Homer asked me how I had amassed such in-depth knowledge of American politics. Well, actually his question was: "How comes you know so much stuff about American politics and shit?". I consider myself woefully uninformed about American politics actually, but it is now evident that I am better informed than the average American voter whose expertise and interest begins and ends at beer. Scary but true.

I passed the plane journey alternating between considering my early death due to the extreme turbulence that had me actually put the seatbelt around my laptop too so as to allow me to work without fear of the laptop becoming part of the ceiling decorations and writing a long speech for a client in the UAE.

Only 16 hours without a cigarette and we landed in O'Hare airport in Chicago . . . my first time in the Windy City. Having filled out my immigration form on the plane and spotted only 19 people in front of me in the passport queue I relaxed knowing that nicotine was only minutes away.

Wrong again.

Because I am resident in the United Arab Emirates and in the course of my business travel to Saudi Arabia, Sudan, Egypt, Oman, Morocco, Qatar, Kuwait, Bahrain, Lebanon, Jordan and Iran, I was singled out for special treatment and asked to wait in front of all the other passengers who looked at me as though I was a cross between the Uni Bomber and a convicted paedophile.

Eventually a man with a an IQ lower than the number of bullets in his hand gun came and escorted me to a holding area for further questions. I was with an Italian who had also been singled out for "the treatment" and we discussed our fate in my rusty Italian mixed with his comedy English. Neither of us could muster "dumbf&ck, knee jerk, fascist, racist morons with a superiority complex" in the other's language but we were both thinking it. Oh yes, we were both thinking it.

I was interrogated by a Latino immigration official who wanted to know where exactly I was going, why, when, how, with whom, where I had come from, where I would go after Chicago and so on and so on. I retained my cool using the logic that my nicotine would come more quickly that way and having weighed up that the satisfaction that I would gain from letting rip would be outweighed by the beating, the jail time and the total denial of nicotine. To be fair, the thought of being in a holding cell with Mr. Big asking me to pick up the soap in seven different languages was also a deterrant - plus I wanted to ACTUALLY start my holiday.

Nice that America's closest allies in the so-called "war on terror" are the English. The authorities at Chicago airport certainly do not fall into the camp known as "anglophiles" . . .

Once eventually cleared of immigration (without a tracking device being injected into my brain - I think) the men with guns took me to the baggage carousel which I thought was rather courteous until I realised that the fun wasn't over when the guy wouldn't give me my passport until my bags were found and then took me off to the "special" section of the customs area.

Luckily the customs area was extremely efficient and well staffed with polite and speedy individuals committed to minimising the amount of hassle and inconvenience for travellers. . .not.

One hour later - queues and unpacking and repacking EVERY last button and sock in my bag while being watched over by Dumb & Dumber and their pyschobitch sister, I was released into the United States of America. The Land of the Free.

I smoked. Vigorously and with purpose. And then I smoked again.

I got into a cab with a nice man from Eritrea (an Arab African nation on the East coast of Africa underneath Sudan). I told him my story and he laughed gently in sympathy and understanding. Then he drove like a complete lunatic to the centre of Chicago while I shut my eyes and prayed to all known Gods to deliver me from Hassan Al Schumacher in one piece.

Got to my Hotel - the swanky W Hotel Lakeshore and remembered why i don't normally stay in "W" Hotels. Everyone in the hotel including staff were ultra cool super models wearing the latest fashions and talking a language so hip I felt like an illiterate mute when I came to ask where the elevators were. Note to self #2 - stay in a Marriott and feel like an ultra suave cool meister with amazing dress sense and poise.

I felt like death having hoovered lots of antibiotics and gone without sleep for about 20 hours so and considered going straight to bed. Instead I started to look at my travel plans for the next few days and check out what to do in Chicago. Blues is one of my big interests and Chicago is the launch pad of some of the greats including, of course, Buddy Guy. Three mouse clicks later and I was out of the door and heading to Buddy Guy's Blues Club on Wabash Avenue . . .

The club was great - the real deal with a cat called Clyde on stage with his band playing raw electric blues and snarling into the microphone wearing his trilby hat and a kind of zoot suit . . .and this bar allowed smoking - indeed there were dozens of the practisers of the Black Art of Nicotine consumption proudly puffing away, drinking beer and listening to live music. A combination which has now been banned from almost all other American cities and now of course, Britain.

The crowd was a mixture of afficionados - easily spotted as one can tell that in the real world they are seriously mal-adjusted and sport strange clothing - and the typical Americans. What was interesting to note is that all young American males - almost without exception - sport bad haircuts and all young American women fall into two camps. Anorexic twigs or hippopotami.... Five vegetable and fruit portions a day are evidently being mixed with nine pitchers of beer and a bucket of fried chicken with the inevitable results.

I lasted about an hour and a half until the combination of Guiness (yes - Guiness, poured badly but still recognisable), some of the medical profession's strongest antibiotics and no sleep for 24 hours or so rendered me a cabbage and I had to leave.

A nice Pakistani taxi driver picked me up and kept me amused as he swore voraciously at everyone and everything on the journey to my hotel. I got to my room and crashed out almost instantly, waking at 4.30 am to the noise of people in the corridor about to be sick, have unwise sex and a hangover - not necessarily in that order.

I returned to sleep and dreamt of cigarettes, the blues and beer . . .