Sexist stereotypes are pretty much forbidden now. Which is why, like with Eve’s apple in the Garden of Eden, they’re just soooooo good. Do you remember a year or so ago Virgin airlines had an ad on tv and cinema that showed a group of about 6 stewardesses in the newly released uniform, all long-legged, high-heeled, curvily sashaying down the airport hallway with big hair and bigger smiles? It was wonderful. And I’m sure that anyone younger than 30 would have no idea that stewardesses once had such a mystique and gorgeousness about them. But they did.

The last time I saw a stewardess who looked like that was on Laker Skytrain in 1981 on my way to LA, and her name was Nicola. And she was all of the above, and more. And she’d come by and bring me a drink, have a chat, move along, as stewardesses do. Then she came back. She was ‘on a break’, so sat down in the spare seat next to me. “Yeah, off to ‘merica, inn’I, naah, don’ know no-one, do I, naah, not been there before. How long… dunno, do I?” Though it wasn’t quite that one-sided. Or moronic. Later in the flight she had another break, as you do on long-haul, and invited me to the little stewardess area. Behind the curtains. Oooohhhh. We talked, we snogged a bit, it was nice. No mile-high club but I reckon 10 feet off the ground is better than nothing. “Look me up when you’re back” and that was it. Out of my life forever. But a life which was immeasurably better for having that unique event happen. I was still swooning when we landed and I set off to find the bus stop.

Because my mate’s cousin worked ‘downtown’ (a concept as opaque to me then as ‘nirvana’ or ‘cubism’) he told me to take ‘the’ bus. Of which, at LAX, there must be 700 different options. And as I stood there looking hopeless and trying to work things out, a voice behind me said: ‘excuse me, is this where I get the downtown bus?’ in perfect but accented English. I turned around, primed with a version of ‘HOW DA FUCK WOULD I KNOW?? I JUST GOTTOF THE FARKIN PLANE!!!!’ and had a ‘Jim Carrey in The Mask’ moment. My mouth opened. My tongue dropped to the floor. My heart (or somewhere down there) leapt out on a stalk. She was so beautiful that poor Nicola was instantly forgotten. I spoke: ‘blhgghh frwhhgh thshwrrr splghw’. Words couldn’t be formed, vocal chords malfunctioning, I was prepared to die there, a happy man.

She was from Brazil. she was a lawyer and she was on her way home from a conference and just wanted to see Disneyland. Oh, I’ve never been there. Come with me, she begged (you can imagine). So we agreed to meet the next morning at her hotel, again with the ‘downtown’. No problem, I said, I’m staying… errrr… somewhere. How far can it be??

Turns out, LA was bigger than Romford. Who’d’a thought? Turned out I was staying in ‘The Valley’ in Sherman Oaks and ‘downtown’ was over in LA, about 6 ‘cities’ across. Or down. Or town. One bus, all the way. Not even 2 hours. I’d never seen Disney-anything other than movies. And thus was really excited and keen. Oh, yeah, Brazilienne of heart-stopping beauty… whateverrrrr.

I’m lovin’ this whole gig already. Fifteen hours out of London and I’ve been in love twice already. Well, love, lust, what difference when you’re 25?

I have photos of some of the people involved in my American Adventure. And they’re in the loft. In a box. I looked briefly yesterday. We have about 50 boxes, all cleverly unmarked with contents. When I find, I’ll share.

Happy Monday

A xxxx