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A Queen-sized headache

Vic Barlow
2/ 4/2008

I’D BEEN in transit for 14 hours by the time I boarded my overnight flight from Atlanta.

I’d talked, breathed, slept and trained dogs for five consecutive days during a whirlwind US tour.

My throat ached and my tired voice was barely a whisper. I wanted to slump in my cheap seat, pull a blanket over my head and sleep like (dare I say) a dog.

I didn’t want food or drink, just a quiet little spot of my own where I could doze like a Doberman.

"Excuse me, you’re in my seat."

I looked up to see a Joan Rivers lookalike waving a Gucci bag in my direction.

"Sorry, I’ll move over,"

"Say, are you from Australia?"

"No, England."

"Do you know Heather Mills McCartney?"

"Not personally."

"She’s one rich bitch."

I agreed she was and pulled my blanket over my head. Joan prodded me in the chest.

"Hey, when’s Wills gonna be King?"

"I really have no idea."

"Is he gonna marry Kate Middleton?"

I shook my head under the blanket.

Over the next five hours Joan interviewed me about every famous Brit from Lady Diana to David Beckham, culminating with: "Do you know the Queen?"

I explained I didn’t wish to be rude, but having run around the country training dogs for five straight days, I just needed to sleep.

"You train dawgs?"

I nodded wearily.

"Do you know Fabulous Willy? He’s a Crufts champion."

It was a long, long night.

Joan continued her barrage as I waited by the carousel in the arrivals hall.

"Do you know a gal named Sheila Wilson?"

I shook my head in despair.

"She lives in England."

"Where?"

"Cardiff."

As she swept through customs, Joan was singled out by an officer. I wondered if he knew the Queen. I was certain Joan would winkle it out of him.

The views expressed on this page are Vic Barlow's and not necessarily those of the Express

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