August 5, 2008

My friend has just rung me from Liverpool's John Lennon Airport, where he has just arrived from Portugal. The conversation went thus.

"Hi mate."

"Hi."

"I'm stuck."

"Stuck?"

"Yeah, stuck in the bloody car park. They won't let me out."

"Eh? Why not?"

"Because they want me to pay £56 fucking quid, that's why."

"Why?"

"Because my dad booked a week's pass for me before I left but I can't find the paperwork and they won't check their computer. Plus, because I was late when I got here I parked in the wrong car park anyway, but the bloke on security said they'd buzz me out."

"And what was his name?"

"I don't know."

"And he's not there now?"

"No."

"Hasn't your Dad got the details?"

"Probably. But he's on his way to Spain on a plane."

"And you've got no proof of the booking?"

"No."

"In fairness, how many people do you think there are in Liverpool who try to get away paying their parking fee at that airport? To the nearest million?"

"But I can't get out."

"You might have to pay."

"I can't! Can't you ring someone..."

"Well, I could. But I'll have to try to stop pissing myself laughing first."