Conference tallis::celt

1372.0. "Dave Barry - Noted humorist" by ACTGSF::BURNS (ANCL�R) Mon Apr 25 1994 16:49

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                       -<  Dave Barry - Noted humorist  >-
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Note 866.0                      Innocents Abroad                       2 replies

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R,L,6 - BC-BARRY-HUMOR-4-24,    04-12 09 - ,MABOD
<BO>BC-BARRY-HUMOR-4-24 _ lifestyle editors:MI
Innocents Abroad<NM>
    (Sunday, 4-24, release)
    By Dave Barry
    Knight-Ridder Newspapers

    Recently I went to England on a selfless humanitarian mission to sell
    books.  It was a very relaxing trip until about 35 minutes after the
    plane landed at Heathrow Airport, which is when a British person
    cheerfully informed my wife and me that terrorists had been shooting
    mortar bombs onto the runway.  Really.  They  have political organizations
    over there that, having apparently received public-relations advice
    from Charles Manson, believe that the way to garner public support is
    to bomb and mortar the public.  ``Hey!'' the public is apparently
    supposed to respond.  ``Homicidal loons are trying to kill me!  I am
    feeling supportive toward them!''

    Shortly after we arrived, there were two more mortar attacks on Heathrow. 
    None of the bombs detonated, but I was starting to wonder about the
    quality of the airport security.  I envisioned squadrons of Scotland
    Yard detectives wearing Sherlock Holmes hats, crawling on hands and
    knees, scrutinizing every blade of grass through powerful magnifying
    glasses, not noticing trucks rumbling past them with large signs that
    said, ``CAUTION! MORTAR BOMBS!''

    Don't get me wrong. I live in South Florida, and we have our problems,
    too.  The very week I was in England, a German tourist, checking out of
    a South Florida hotel, complained about an odor in his room, which
    turned out to be emanating from -- I am not making this up -- a corpse
    under the bed.  (Apparently he failed to put out the little doorknob
    sign that says ``MAID: PLEASE REMOVE CORPSE.'')  But we South Floridians
    pride ourselves on our mortar-free runways, which enable us to guarantee
    that our tourists will be safe and secure.  Unless of course they are
    foolish enough to actually get off the plane.

    Anyway, the mortars were scary, but we had a MUCH scarier experience in 
    England: Somehow -- probably because of another massive screw up at the
    CIA -- we got invited to dine at the U.S. ambassador's residence.  We
    were the only people on the guest list whose titles were ``Mr. and Mrs.''
    Everybody else was something like ``The Lord Earl of Gwebbing and Her
    Worshipfulhood the Viscountess Lady Huffington Prawn-Armature.''  So
    when we arrived at the ambassador's residence, which is approximately
    the size of Wales, but with more bathrooms, we were feeling socially
    intimidated.

    Fortunately the ambassador and his wife were extremely nice, which was 
    reassuring, as was the fact that they had three dogs (one main, two
    backups) with no sense of etiquette whatsoever (``I know! Let's sniff
    the viscountess!'').  Nevertheless, when it came time to eat dinner, I
    developed severe Table Manners Paranoia.  I estimate that there were 27
    forks at my place setting alone.  Plus, it turns out that at these
    formal dinners they have rules about whom you talk to:  Before the main
    course, you're supposed to talk exclusively to the lady on your left as
    though she is the most fascinating human on the planet, but when the
    main course arrives, you're supposed to drop her like used chewing gum
    and talk to the lady on your right.  It's amazing to watch the changeover.
    All heads in the room swivel simultaneously, like synchronized motorized
    elves in a Christmas display.

    Of course I didn't know about this, so midway through the dinner I suddenly 
    found myself having an animated conversation with the back of the head
    of the lady on my left, who, despite having been, only moments earlier,
    my closest personal friend, no longer seemed to realize that I existed.
    (To this day, she never calls, and she never writes.)

    Speaking of exciting social adventures: Several nights later, we were at
    a party, and the host came up and said, ``I'd like you to meet Salman
    Rushdie.''  Really.  Apparently Salman has turned into a major party
    animal.  So there I was, chatting with him, trying to appear cool, but
    in fact wondering if I would have been safer just staying at the airport.
    ``So, Salman!'' I wanted to say.  ``Perhaps we would be more comfortable
    if we were lying face-down on the floor away from the windows!''

    But other than these few anxious moments, we had a wonderful time in 
    England.  They were having some highly entertaining government scandals.
    We Americans tend to have obscure boring complicated financial
    Whitewater-type scandals that nobody understands; whereas the British
    have scandals involving straightforward, clear-cut issues of obvious
    significance, such as high government officials paying for sex with fish.

    Speaking of food: The British are definitely getting better at cooking,
    and they have discovered the ice cube.  Fortunately, however, some
    things have not changed: They still have the Royal Dysfunctional Family,
    and it is still a constant source of entertainment.  (The day we got
    there, Prince Charles made the newspapers by asking, on a tour of a
    cosmetics plant, if anybody wanted to -- I am not making this up -- lick
    mango butter off his body.)

    Also the British still speak in British accents, so that no matter what
    they say, it sounds really intelligent to Americans; and they still
    really say things like ``bloody'' and ``smashing.''  Plus they keep
    inventing wonderful new expressions.  For example, I saw a newspaper
    front page that had a photograph of a man, with the headline: ``MR.
    CHUCKLETROUSERS.''  I asked a number of British people about this
    expression; they had no idea what it meant, but they all agreed that
    they would definitely try to use it a lot.  So should we, I think.  We
    should maintain close ties with our friends across the Atlantic.  But
    we should also remain out of mortar range.

    X X X

    (Dave Barry is a humor columnist for the Miami Herald. Write to him c/o 
Tropic Magazine, The Miami Herald, One Herald Plaza, Miami FL 33132.)
    
AP-NY-04-12-94 1144EDT

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    Let's not be too hard on the security chappies around Heathrow. 
    There's not much you can do when several escapees from the Irish branch
    of the Randall P McMurphy fan club, decide to fire a few bombs off
    from a parked car. 
    It should also be taken into account that the car was in an adjacent
    hotel car park outwith the runway perimeter fence, and that the said 
    psychopaths were firing these crude devices off with the aid of a remote 
    control device, from within the comforts another vehicle nearly a mile 
    away ! 
    
    There is no truth in the rumour that the people resposible for this,
    telephoned offering an apology later saying," Sorry if we frightened
    any tourists, but it was really only the proddy ones we were trying to
    hit !"