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Roz, fortunately, managed to change her flight to the same one I was placed on—though not before enduring 25 hours in the airport, waiting for me to emerge from detention. By the time we were escorted onto the flight at 8pm the next day, I had gone without sleep for well over a day, surviving only on a pot noodle and a couple of cups of tea. If that wasn’t enough, United Airlines policy dictated that I was not allowed a single alcoholic drink on the flight, given the circumstances of my deportation. Meanwhile, Stefan and Marc, who had been put on a British Airways flight, were able to make the most of the complimentary booze to help them cope with the ordeal.
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Ultimately, while I never expected to be thrown out of America at the age of 67, I find myself somewhat proud of the fact. It seems my relationship with the country is over for the foreseeable future. And perhaps that’s why a certain chorus from track three, side one, of the first Clash album keeps playing in my head