Friday, October 14, 2005

Ivan Meets G.I. Joe

I just made a huge decision in my life - I purchased a digital camera. "What?", you say, "That's not much of a decision." "Aha!", I say, "You don't know my history with mobile phones, which I will now enlighten you with". I got my first mobile phone when I was in 4th year of college (1998) - a big chunky Phillips Diga. Only one other person in my class of 70 odd had one at the time (those were the days...) - a popular lass by the name of Gen C. Rangey. Since then I have made my way through, no word of a lie, three phone numbers, the Phillips phone, two Panasonics and eight (I think) Nokias.

I have managed to drop a phone into a pint of water on the ground beside my armchair. I have managed to reverse my car over one (it still worked but the screen was fecked). I have dropped one into the Danube; lost another one somewhere else in Budapest; dropped and broke one of those tough Nokia jobbies (within a week of getting it) in the jacks while... er... trying to answer it while taking a whizz a the same time; and I've simply walked out of a pub having left one on the table. Three of these incidents took place in the space of nine months, leading me to switch to Meteor because I was too embarrassed to go back to the Vodafone insurance for a fourth time in a year.

The camera really doesn't have a chance.

If you're interested, I went for this after a few days of humming and hawwing. Photography is just a nostalgia trip for me, so I really don't give a crap that it's autofocus only and has no optical zoom. I stick to disposables normally, but after I got a pile of woeful shots in Italy I figured it was time I got a proper camera.

.........................................

So last night me and Lenny went to a bar in New London. I was driving and on the fizzy water. Anyway the cops raided the place looking for id and started checking everyone. I flashed my passport, as I've learned that an Irish driving licence doesn't cut the mustard here, and sat back and watched horror descend over Lenny's face...

"Awww, officer, I didn't realise I had to carry id here."

"Son, what age are you?"

"Awww, I'm... 30, so I am."

"You don't look 30, son."

"Awww HAW, HAW, HAW, HAW! Thanks very much, hey! I'm actually with that guy there (points at me) and I'm older than him. We're working here."

*horror* (me this time) then a few seconds of silence as the cop absorbs this info.

"Son, are you British?"

Me: "No, I'm Irish." (you just looked at my passport, gobshite)

"Do you have your immigration papers?"

Me "Weeeeelll (sweat on my brow, half the bar looking at us, Lenny still hasn't worked out why we now have a major problem) y'see, we're not actually working. We were sent here for eleven weeks training by our company and we're going home before Christmas. We're not being paid here, or anything, and we're not carrying out any productive work in the States. We were allowed in by immigration on the 90 day rule."

"Your friend says you are working here."

"Yes, he's wrong, he should have said training."

"Boys, we'll have to sort this out..."

So into the cop car (first time ever, I swear) and down the station. To cut a long story short, our passports were surgically examined, we had to make statements and, when we presented our tickets for our flights home and evidence that we were still working off Irish bank accounts, we were let go.

Lenny: "Awww, that was ridiculous, hey, you'd think we were Russian spies..." followed by a long rant about how the entire US law enforcement community were in the wrong and not him. So, today (or last night to be precise), Lenny hacked me off by trying to get me deported.
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