Miami Virtue

Richard Cronin, the author of the excellent Beirut Taxi blog, stated that it would be a miracle if the 14 individuals that headed out to Miami last week returned without attracting the attention of the local law enforcement agencies.

Let me tell you Dear Reader, that a miracle has occurred. Having been one of that number, and possibly the most likely to have been accommodated in Guantanamo Bay, I can confirm that we all touched down in Blightey after four days in Miami without being interrogated by anyone more official than the US border staff.

And how inebriated on officialdom are they? Sporting the most dour poker face, the one that had the power to send me back to Britain without seeing the outside of the terminal building asked me:

'What are you doing here?' 'I've just got off an aeroplane and the only way I can get into the country is passing through security. What the fuck do you think I'm doing here, looking for a vasectomy?'

'What's the purpose of your journey?' 'I'm here to indulge my British prejudice that all Americans are fat and have no sense of irony while you marvel at my poor dental health.'

'How many others are travelling with you?' 'I believe the jumbo jet I just flew in on holds a maximum of 600 passengers, 10 crew and a couple of pilots. You do the math.'

'Where were you born?' 'Into the arms of a mother who really wanted a daughter. Should I have therapy?

How much money are you carrying?' 'Not enough to achieve the same level of obesity as you but enough to get so obliterated in the bar that I may as well be in Croydon.'

Of course, my real answers to his questions were meekly muttered single word answers. The trip had cost me £800 so playing a wise guy at the airport would have been my biggest financial indulgence ever.

He then directed me to a finger print reader and proceeded to instruct me, using hand signals only, on the correct technique for providing my dabs. The CIA can now track my presence across their 50 states by deploying a fella in a Columbo style mac dusting any and every surface that I've come into contact with.

Before we knew it we were through security, claiming our bags and climbing into a great big people carrier driven by a muffin-topped Hispanic woman. On arrival in Ocean Drive I was expecting a scene straight out of Miami Vice. However, Hurricane Sandy, which was passing northward, turned the place into something resembling Brighton on a wet afternoon.

Luckily, but not so for those on the eastern seaboard, Sandy buggered off the following day and it really did become an idyllic paradise. There was nothing that would have persuaded me to fulfill Richard Cronin's premonition and suffer an early bath so I remained a good boy for the duration of my stay. One that was set afloat on a wave of beer, right enough, but one that was typified by good manners and toleration.

Now I'm home and back to the real world. After a few days jousting with the natives of SW11 I'm heading north on a Virgin Pendolino to see Mrs Mac and Mason (dog). Also to attend the Glen Ogle 33 mile ultra marathon tomorrow. That's right, the specialist I saw a few weeks back told me that my ultra running days are but a memory.

Pah! What does she know? So little that I submitted an entry for next year's 95 mile West Highland Way Race. Richard Cronin is considering an entry for the same race but at present is more fixated with growing a moustache and pair of bugger grips so large that he'll be mistaken for Tosh Lines off  The Bill.

This is all in a good cause of course......that of Movember, when men worldwide grow facial hair for charity. I would like to get involved but am more akin to Johnny Depp than Brian Blessed in the facial topiary department. Any early start I might have enjoyed in Miami would have been blown away by Hurricane Sandy and things are looking pretty stormy in the Land of Jock.