In the hope (no doubt shared by you) that June’s blog will be back to something like a normal reflection of support for the Experience Economy, this final set of reminiscences is set in the USA. The first two are, broadly, mistaken identity themed and the third is about utter humiliation.
First, to Atlanta, a good few years ago. These were the days when access to a hotel’s Executive Lounge was quite hard to achieve and – unlike today – carried a certain cachet. I had been given an upgrade and as I settled into my chair and sipped my glass of wine, I really felt the part. I’d made it! Here I was in the courtly Deep South, mixing it with the gentry! I gradually became aware that two black guys – a father with a distinguished head of grey hair and his son – kept looking in my direction and, occasionally, when eye contact was made, nodding. “This is brilliant” I thought to myself “This is good old Southern gentility”. After a few minutes, though, I was slightly disturbed to see the older man heading in my direction, holding a beer mat and a pen. “I’m sorry to bother you, son, but could I have your autograph?”. I stared at him in disbelief. After a moment, I said “Who do you think I am?”. He jolted back as if shot. Now he stared at me in disbelief. “You ain’t Bobby Joe Dupree, the Zydeco guitar player?” “No, I’m a middle-ranking government official from England”. Awkward. After a few smiles and charming apologies all around, he went back to his table. I was slightly disturbed but reflected that I was still in the highly-exclusive, top-of-the-range-Southern-hospitality-on-tap Lounge. Then I heard the son say “I told you he wasn’t Bobby Joe. Bobby Joe wouldn’t be seen dead in a two-bit place like this”
And now to Orlando, where I was for the IAAPA show. Showing due regard for the Queen’s Shilling, I always took the bus from my hotel to and from the Convention Center. One evening, I jumped aboard and, being the only passenger, sat at the front, more or less opposite the driver. The driver was straight out of Central Casting. Big, smiling black guy. One of the more surreal conversations then took place…
“Hey, Jerry” he said “How’s it going?”. I looked around – I was still the only passenger
“Jerry, what’s up?” I didn’t know what to say, so said nothing.
“Oh, I’m sorry, man – you must get this all the time”
“Get what?”
“That you look just like Jerry Springer! You’re his double, bro’”
“Oh, yeah, well, as a matter of fact, I’m Jerry’s brother, Ezekiel. All that stuff he does – that was my idea. He stole it. Now he rides around in a chauffeur-driven limo and I – no offence – I’m on your bus”
At this point we nearly swerved off the road, so heartily was the driver laughing. I kept the gag going for a few minutes and then pulled the cord for my stop.
“Man, that was funny. I can’t wait to tell my wife about you”
“Sounds to me like not much happens on your route! Well, just remember this. The smile that you give out returns to you – or some such crap that Jerry always ends with”
*swerve*
We parted with the firmest handshake I’ve ever known.
The final tale is also set in Orlando, at the time of an IAAPA show. Cathy and I were on holiday in Florida at the time, and so I was able to combine work and leisure during IAAPA week. We’d been staying at a condominium complex not far from International Drive, and had got into the habit of my popping to the Clubhouse for the tail-end of Happy Hour, getting four pints of Landshark Lager and bringing them back to the condo for a drink on the balcony prior to dinner.
On this particular evening, the beer was unusually lively – probably a new barrel – and as I started the ten-minute walk back to our wing, I noticed that the heads on all the pints were growing fast. I was carrying the four plastic pint glasses in a kind of eggbox tray on steroids, with holes cut in to accommodate the pints. I moved slowly, realising that each jerky step encouraged more bubbles. This appeared to be working for a while – but then I was aware of an unpleasantly clammy sensation on my left thigh. A glance down revealed that the pints had started to seep through the container, and I now had a wet, dark patch covering my crotch area and, quite artistically, making its way down my leg. Not a great look.
As many of you will know, a lot of Americans are early diners, and there was a steady stream of vacationers heading towards the clubhouse – and giving me increasingly concerned looks. I was only half-way home.
Then I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. If I could drink some of the foam from the top of the four glasses, I could buy some time. I dipped my head to the tray – think Mongo lighting his cigar in the campfire in “Blazing Saddles” – and tried to slurp as much beer foam as possible. For a few seconds, this went well but then, fatally, I saw the funny side of it and laughed. Mayhem. By the time my head was up again, I had beer in my hair, all over my face and on the inside of my glasses. I literally had beer goggles. And the damp patch on my jeans was now really spectacular.
By this time, people were crossing the path to avoid me, and I’m sure my desperate and thus maniacal “this isn’t as bad as it looks” grin just made things worse.
Eventually, I got to the elevator, jabbed an elbow at the buttons and started the ascent, happy in the knowledge that the horror was over and that only a quick shower and change stood between me and a pint. I staggered out of the lift, went to the condo door and elbowed the doorbell. Nothing. Where the hell was she? I gave another blast and another. “She’s having a shower or out on the balcony,” I thought. But then, joy of joys, through the frosted glass I could see the approaching figure of a girl in a white robe. The door opened.
Have you ever been in a situation where the world suddenly stops making sense? I stared in disbelief at the woman in the bathrobe. It wasn’t Cathy. How was that even possible?
“Can I help you?” she asked, drinking in, so to speak, the vision before her
I simply did not know what to say – but then I noticed the number on her door…I’d got out a floor too soon. People who know me will probably agree that I don’t easily get flustered, but by now my brain was completely fried. It didn’t help that my new admirer had, as our US cousins say, all the fixin’s. I desperately needed to say something suave and amusing. The conversation ended thus:
Me: “Ha ha – sorry, wrong condom”
Her: “You don’t say”. (sound of door slamming shut).
