Bending it with Beckham
Ihave done some pretty dumb things in my long career as a travel and motoring journalist, and quite a disproportionate number of them seem to involve airports. I think I exceeded my foolishness a few weeks ago when I arrived at Cape Town International Airport (CTIA) a whole day early for a flight to Johannesburg to pick up the new Suzuki Grand Vitara for a rather epic trek to the Kwazulu-natal Drakensberg.
What is the big deal, you ask? Why did you not just turn around, go home, and return the next day? It is something of a mission when I go on a flight simply because, most times, I undertake the journey to the airport on a BMW motorcycle and it entails loading luggage and cameras and tethering the whole lot to the bike with a multitude of bungee cords. It takes quite a bit of time and effort, generally very early in the morning.
In this case, the trip was made in rain and peak-hour traffic. By the time I got to CTIA and discovered my error, I just did not want to go through the whole rigmarole again … and then again 24 hours later … so I simply forked out a couple of thousand Rand and caught the flight anyway. It sounds simple but I had to call the long-suffering fleet manager for Suzuki South Africa and plead with him to let me have the Grand Vitara earlier – and get it to O.R. Tambo International Airport in time for my arrival. Thank you, Anthony Clifton, for making a plan and being so gracious about it.
Probably the most idiotic thing I have done at an airport happened in Zurich over a decade ago. I was headed for Morocco via Spain and had a very long layover in the Swiss city while I awaited one of the project directors to fly in and give me a briefing. Thoughtfully, he had booked me in to one of the VIP transit lounges.
The booze was free, the flight from South Africa had been long and uncomfortable, and the massage beds looked very inviting. Long story short, I fell asleep but woke periodically – to refill my glass and get the massage cycle going all over again. By the time I got off the ferry to Tangier the next morning, both my head and body felt as if I had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.
Not all my airport stories are unfortunate, though. One night I was wandering through Ataturk airport in Istanbul, killing time while waiting for a connection to Dublin. I was wearing a Springbok rugby jersey, which is quite unusual in Türkiye (to give the country its new spelling) when I heard a rather highpitched British voice: “’Ere, I know you!”
A month or two previously, I was staying in a hugely exclusive boutique hotel in Cape Town. My stay coincided with a hugely significant English Premiership derby match between my team, Manchester City, and their red-clad neighbours whose name I am forbidden to mention. I got myself ensconced before the big-screen TV when, just before kick-off, a squeaky Pommy voice from the doorway asked if he could join me.
Yep, it was David Beckham, in town for a holiday with his family. The bottom line is that my team humped his and, by the time Victoria came to fetch him, the wine was finished, and we were great mates. Victoria was not around when we bumped into each other at Istanbul airport, so we sat down at a concourse bar for a couple of beers.
We kept being interrupted by people who wanted to take selfies with us. I think that, because he was with me, they thought he was important too …