A watertight background story

The most attractive thing about a press trip, other than the fact that everything tends to be free, is the freedom to be whoever you want to be. As a writer, I'm pretty small-time, almost no time at all. And within the small group of journalists and PRs assembled in the baggage claim area at Las Vegas airport, nobody knows who I am. That is exactly how you want it - no reputation to live up to and, more importantly, none to protect.

The problem with this particular trip is that I'm travelling without a United States media visa - essential to guarantee the jobbing journo entry into the States - so not only do I need to fool my contemporaries with whatever elaborate character I create, I also need to fool customs, and customs always know who you are.

United States customs are notoriously tough. They don't just check your name and check your passport. They take your finger prints and they chat to you about your family, your schooling, your suitcase and even where you bought the corkscrew you used to open last night's 2009 Cabernet Sauvignon. In the queue, as my new pals, who I will call Journo and Journette, get acquainted, I remain silent. Thumbing through my mind's creative file, I think hard to fabricate some sort of believable story as to why I might have come to Vegas on my own with little more than a hundred dollars - and how I got talking to these two people in the queue, despite not sitting anywhere near them on the plane.

Luckily, if you can call it luck, I have been in this very same mess on one occasion before. Two years ago I blagged another press trip, this time to Florida, to review a new roller coaster. It was the first time I'd done anything like it. First time I'd been abroad on my own, first time I'd been given anything notable for nothing and the first time I was guaranteed to get a full byline on a double-page review in a national newspaper - things seemed to be going well.

Things, however, stopped going well about the time I rang the PR company to triple-check that I had everything sorted.

"Will this printed email really get me onto a jumbo jet?" I asked the nice girl, who was a different nice girl to the nice girl I had been dealing with during the lead up to the trip over the last few weeks.

"Yes, that's all in order Mr Jeoffroy," confrimed the Nice Girl, before dropping a bombshell that sent me into a tailspin before take-off… "I see you've filled out your ESTA form, you have your ticket and your itinerary, just make sure you don't forget your media visa."

"Sorry… my what?" I asked.

"Your media visa, you'll need it to enter the country."

A silence fell over the phone call which, in hindsight, was probably pretty comical. At the time, the cooling systems that stop me from over-reacting were going into meltdown. Was I about to see my big break as a writer soar off across the Atlantic ocean without me?

"Wait, you mean that, apart from the passport detailing exactly who I am, and the online form explaining the very spot in which I'll be sleeping, they also need to know the reason I want to go on the rides? Sorry, but Nice Girl No.1 neglected to mention anything about a media visa."

"OK, that's not a problem Mr Jeoffroy," said Nice Girl No.2 before falling quiet. I wasn't convinced. To me, it seemed like there was a massive problem, not in life's grand scheme or the great order of things, but certainly if I could have been said to have a plan, this looked capable of scuppering it - especially as my only contact had just hung up the phone on me.

Nice Girl had still neglected to say anything further, prompting me to ask if she was still there.

"Yes, yes, I'm here," she replied, "I'm just thinking. Can I call you back? I could do with speaking to you on a secure connection." With that, the line went dead. What the hell had I let myself in for? A secure connection? Had I just unwittingly muttered an MI:5 code word? Was I about to be bundled into a van, sped to an unknown location and given a top-secret, life-or-death mission?

Not quite. But not far off. When she called back I was told I was just going to have to "tell a little white lie at customs".

"A ha ha ha," I laughed in an over-the-top manner as if to say, "Very funny, stop joking around." But it turns out Nice Girl No.2 was very serious indeed and, whilst she admitted she has never been in this predicament herself, she was certain it would be fine just "don't let on you're a journalist, whatever you do."

To my relief, she was correct. For ten minutes only I was Dan Jeoffroy, a fire-safety officer over for a team-building exercise at Florida's theme parks... although the burly customs man-machine was clearly aware of the beads of sweat forming on my guilty brow as I stumbled over my well-rehearsed monologue.

*****

So why do I find myself in exactly the same predicament this time round? The horror stories document crestfallen columnists being frog-marched back onto the plane and deported without laying down so much as a footprint on American soil. Well, ideally, and obviously, I would have liked not to have had to go through it all again but this trip crept up on me so unexpectedly and at such short notice that I barely had time to pack, let alone file for a media visa.

FROM NOTES This time round I'm Dan Jeoffroy, gambler and sightseer. Don't let on you're a journalist, whatever you do. This is still a concern. These brutes are trained to spot a fibber - even a trained fibber. This is why I haven't mentioned my profession earlier. God forbid, if I was unlucky enough to be a random bag check and they read through these notes, I'd have been doomed. Thrown into the dank cell block until a seat back to Gatwick could be found - probably via Salt Lake City or Idaho. Not Indiana, please not Indiana.

Anyway, I'm close to the front of the queue and I've got my story ready - I'm here on leisure, using up holiday days I'd amassed by working over Christmas. My fingers were beginning to sweat and I could feel my vocal cords trembling. Calm down, man. Or you'll be spotted in a flash and hauled out quicker than I could say MGM Grand.

Suddenly, my colleague Journo starts babbling to me. He's dressed in a suit and looks like typical press, the brute is bound to know we're travelling together now. I go first - if he takes me down I'm taking everybody with me.

It turns out that a shaky nerve-wracked voice is the norm on arrival in Vegas as amoral businessmen and big fish jet in for a weekend without their wives when they're meant to be tying up haulage contracts in Nova Scotia. So I fitted right in - a big fish, in a wild zoo.

Then, everything goes wrong. "Step aside, Sir. Please put your bags flat on the counter. Just a few quick questions."

Fuck me. A random bag search. If he finds my "Press Trip Itinerary" then I'm a goner. Hell, I could see the tinted windows of the MGM Grand through the sliding doors to my left, twinkling in the afternoon sunshine. It was like being on Alcatraz; civilisation is within touching distance but I'm stuck in here.

"Why are you in Vegas? Who are you here with? Who do you work for? How much money have you brought with you?"

A barrage of questions fired from a verbal scattergun. The intent is to fire holes in my story left, right and centre and see if the thing still holds water. I've managed to claim that I'm here on leisure but without my girlfriend, I'd enjoy a gamble but I've only got 100 dollars on me and that I work for a national newspaper but am in now way, by any means, any sort of journalist whatsoever - basically, my once-watertight biography was now leaking from every orifice.

"That's it Sir," says Brute No.2. "Enjoy your trip." Hell, he didn't even look in the bag - that was close. Too close for slippers.

I wandered round the corner to see Journo and Journette breathe a sigh of relief as they stand at the exit with our driver. From here on, this weekend I'm Dan Jeoffroy, blagger extraordinaire and wannabe high roller. I looked up, shut my eyes and sighed relief into the Vegas sunshine - then climbed into the waiting limousine.

next chapter...

Customs would likely work me out at some stage in the next few minutes, but if I make it til sundown, I can shake them off in the neon abyss of The Strip. I climed into the stretched limousine

Awake for 15 hours and it's only 2pm

Dozing. My head still against the window. My dreams whisk me back to thirty-six hours ago and I'm sat watching a documentary on the birth of Hunter S Thompson's Gonzo journalism and how its creator sabotaged Edward Muskie's 1972 presidential campaign by starting a rumour he was addicted to obscure Brazilian painkiller ibogaine.

"I didn't make it up," he claims in the documentary, "I said that a rumour suggested he was taking ibogaine, which I know is true - because I started the rumour."

Heavy eyelids weighing on my already-tired mind, I settle down to watch the rest of the film in a makeshift sofa bed with a glass of Cabernet. With the lights turned off, I try to concentrate. It's imperative that I don't fall asleep during this programme. But why? I can't help the feeling that there is something else I need to be doing. Some reason I'm sat here at 4am trying to stay awake to watch the film. Wouldn't I be better waiting til the morning - I had the next day booked off work after all.

Shit, that's it, of course. The very reason I'm off work tomorrow, the only reason I'm even watching Gonzo journalism films and reading Hunter Thompson books - Las Vegas. That's why I mustn't fall asleep, my train leaves in two hours. Fatigue was clearly in real danger of ruining my trip before it had begun - but wasn't I on a plane just a matter of minutes ago?

I turned round in my front room to find my case half-packed but with no sign of my dollars. In a safe place no doubt. Turning my suitcase upside down I find my dollars were in there all along, as was a letter hidden by my girlfriend for me to find on my arrival in Vegas. Well, I'd ruined the surprise now hadn't I?

*****

Snap. Awake. I knew it. I am on the plane. Unless I've fallen asleep watching the film and I'm dreaming that I'm on the plane. It's difficult to know. Are they the Rocky mountains below? Maybe not. They have blue peaks. Vivid blue peaks. Some light-reflection trick? Or optical illusion. Or it's a dream?

Power lines? Maybe the long, straight grooves from before were power lines - the only link between frosty, isolated hamlets in the sparse world below. I have half hour left before landing and the terrain is still covered with snow. I thought Nevada was the desert state? Hot, dry and windswept?

"THE FASTEN SEATBELT SIGN WILL NOW BE SWITCHED ON AS WE BEGIN OUR DESCENT"

In a flash, the dusty white scenery turns red. Now, this is desert country. Michelle is 40 today and the cabin crew would like to wish her a happy birthday - cue a round of applause. How very American.

Outside the ice has gone. What ice? Was it ever there in the first place? Am I still dreaming? The changeable terrain really has to be seen to be believed. Why don't I have the camera in my hand luggage. Definitely an oversight (it actually turns out to be far bigger an oversight than I had ever expected, but more about that later).

The jagged hills turn a pastel orange dotted with rocky bubbles of pale peachy colours, deep reds and charcoal blacks. Water, the sun shines as we bank north over a clear blue lake. I've been awake for 15 hours and it's still only 2pm.

The arrogant boy in front has also been forced to put his seat back up, which serves as a moral victory for the next 20 minutes at least. Another announcement, this time congratulating Ted on his recent civil partnership. No applause this time. People are probably bored of clapping but it doesn't look great as an introduction to the state. "Nevada, we love birthdays, but not homosexuals."

Landing gear, highways, cars, houses, well, trailers but actual civilisation anyway. Followed by more colours that I haven't already described and don't know how to. Do they mine pastels here, if they don't then they really ought to. The landscape looks like a child's chalk drawing, where the colours bear very little semblance to reality.

Bump. The touchdown on the dusty concrete wakes me with a start and I'm sat back in my front room at home, the Gonzo film blaring out and late for my train to the airport...

Just joking. I've actually, genuinely arrived in Las Vegas and, what's more, it's only 2pm and I have the whole day ahead f me to try to stay awake. Most importantly. I can see my hotel from the runway.

Polar bear daydreams

Ten hours on a plane is a long time; longer than a full day at work. It's long enough to read a book, watch three films, draw up an itinerary for your trip or plan the rest of your life out day by day in list form. To spend it without some sort of notable productivity would be an achievement in itself, but I'm going to give it a bloody good go.

As we near Greenland's frosty shores, the icy specks I mentioned in the previous chapter (although only five minutes ago in the scheme of this story) gradually become flecks and then great swirls of wintery patterns against the deep blue backcloth of the Atlantic Ocean. Patterns resembling those drawn using those Spirograph toys from the late 1980s, which later resurfaced as a shape-shifting 3D screensaver when Windows 98 became vogue.

The water seems to be fighting tooth and nail to defend it's liquid state as icy particles start to overcome it's loose molecular bond, until it can fight no further. The remainder of Greenland lies deathly quiet and still under a blanket of snow white, almost identical to the floor of white cotton wool that stretches out towards the horzion when you penetrate the first layer of clouds after take-off.

I suppose the main difference is that to step out onto this stuff would be to hit land, rather than plummeting through the layer of cumulonimbus, leaving a noticeable "poof" in the otherwise peaceful scene. Both options would certainly wind up in a quick death at sub-zero temperatures - followed by an almighty Virgin Atlantic cover-up.

I'm safer here, in the plane, head leant against the window and well on the way to doing Nothing At All Useful with my ten-hour flight. It feels like it's become a challenge now. There aren't many people who could be proud of racking up wasted time but I think if I cobble all mine together then my quota must be pushing the year-long mark.

I'm notoriously bad at sleeping at the best of times, so trying to sleep on an aeroplane is next to hopeless but as I look across the barren white terrain, flashes of what must be dreams interrupt my tiring consciousness.

*******
Looking down, a watery red streak dissects the landscape and a family of polar bears tearing into a half-dead seal, tarnishing the perfect blank canvas beneath their paws as drag the poor animal back to wherever they call their dinner table.

The sound of the seatbelt light beeping wakes me with a start from my slumber, my face still pressed against the window. Looking down again, I see no streak of red across the snow and no polar bears. Shame. It was an eye-opening picture.

I do realise, however, that I'm sat far back enough to see our jet stream forming - just in time for us to leave it behind to paint a pollutive puff of smoke across the afternoon sky. It's nice to know that someone down there can see our carbon footprint. What am I saying? the polar bears will have no idea what a carbon footprint is - until it kills them.

Obviously, I replied in the affirmative to my coincidental Las Vegas email and I'm now one hour from Sin City itself. For the past nine hours, time has stood still. Greenland is now a distant memory but the sun is still shining as brightly as it has all trip. Below us now, says my personal SkyMap, is Salt Lake City, about which I know nothing - but i hazard a guess that it sounds more interesting than it actually is.

A submerged distopia, maybe? It's inhabitants riddled with a rare strain of saline flu, unheard of in the outside world but all too common in Salt Lake City. Eating is a challenge but still cholestrol runs high as the waterfolk absord salt through their pores.

Turbulence interrupts my train of thought and cloud fills the window view. It soon clears to reveal a vast icy countryside, sliced into polygons by long, arrow-straight grooves, possibly the perilous ice road trucker highways that Channel 5 document.

A most welcome coincidence

Coincidence can be a mindbending occurence. More often than not it leaves you wondering, "Is that really, really, just coincidence? Or is some all-powerful being on a higher plain, maybe sat dangling it's spindly unshaven legs off an impossibly solid plain in the upper echelons of our, or even someone else's atmosphere, organising life to my very own convenience?"

Of course not, that's why it's called coincidence. Isn't it? Whatever it is, coincidences seem to litter my life, whether they be insignificant moments of similarity shared between flatmates thinking the same thing or life-changing, career-defining accidents, coincidences seem to stalk me like my own shadow.

But can it really be mere coincidence that, on leaving London to move north for university, my former employer opens one extra office in the whole country, that just happened to be in the very city to which I relocated. And it's not as if I moved to Birmingham or Manchester – I'm in Preston. I'm in humble, out-of-the-way little Preston.

The opening of the new office guaranteed me a job on leaving uni and a pretty healthy income before I had even finished the second year. Two shifts a week earned me £180 a week, that's roughly £720 a month and about £7,000 a year, when you account for seven or eight weeks spent back at home. It should really have been enough to pay off the old student loan, and maybe even prevent the debt building up in the first place, but so strong are these wastrels tendencies that I so frequently bow down to, it all went over the bar or into the quiz machine.

Back to the main point, is it really just coincidence that, in 2010, a cloud of volcanic ash affecting millions of travellers in and out of Europe, dispersed the very day I flew home from the Kentucky Derby. All the while record-breaking floods raged in all the adjoining states.

My mother would tell me someone's watching over me, whereas my dad would say that Karma or fate will one day catch up with me. Actually, I'd probably say the Karma bit myself, not because I'm a Buddhist or because my name is Earl - it's not - just because it sounds good.

******

Flying over Greenland is different, in a weird kind of way. Miles from the shore the sun begins bouncing off bright white specks of ice dotting the ocean's surface. Whether it's the Atlantic or the Arctic I can't be sure, does the Arctic have clear borders? Or is it just called the Arctic where where the conditions are below freezing. No, by that logic, the Antarctic would be hot.

A choc ice is handed to me. A what? Erm, a choc ice.

It must have been some 10 years since I've had a choc ice and now I'm handed one as I'm flying over ice-encrusted Greenland. How twee, An ice cream while over the ice caps. Has the curse of coincidence struck again? At the most opportune of moments (you'll notice that coincidences only ever occur at opportune moments, such is their nature. I think when a coincidence occurs at an inopportune moment it is called irony).

More likely it's just Richard Branson letting us know that he still has a sense of humour - we know Richard, we've all heard of
Virgin Interglactic.


******


I was talking about coincidence wasn't I? Before I got seduced by ice caps and choc ices. I apologise, you'll have to bear with me, this happen at times. The most recent coincidence to befall my most illogical existence, and the very reason I'm up here above the world, writing about coincidences, kicked into gear just after Christmas at a good friend's house.

"You're into Hunter S Thompson, aren't you?" He said, "I've been looking into the artwork surrounding his Gonzo journalism."

This in itself was a coincidence as 10 days previously, a chance encounter with somebody to whom I have only ever said "Hello and "I'm fine thanks" brought up those very words. "You're into Hunter S Thompson aren't you?"

It has to be said, I wasn't really "into" the controversial cult figure, who pushed journalism against over and beyond the bounds of reason and decency. The extent of my interest, and knowledge, was that I had watched Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas enough times in my second yearto master his walk - or at least Johnny Depp's interpretation of his walk.

[I feel the need to point out that the plane's in-flight "SkyMap" now displays a bad animation of Elvis underneath the word Greenland - if there is a good reason for it, I'm unaware of it.]

Anyway, the second accusation that I was "into" Hunter S Thompson, which took place at a mate's house shortly after Christmas, remember, left me feeling fraudulent. Had I been trading all this time on a false image? I figured that, if the people think I should be into Hunter, then that's what I'll give them.

I read up on old articles, obituaries, watched Gonzo documentaries - and Fear And Loathing AGAIN. Hell, I even read the book. Then, eight chapters in, this incredible melting pot of coincidence came to a glorious summit when an email bounced into my work inbox…

"Does anyone want to go on an all-expenses-paid trip to Las Vegas to report on a new attraction next week?"