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February 13, 2025
Then there was that night I got "locked in" and lost my passport.
It was the summer of 1991 and the software company that I worked for had recently acquired a family of products for the line of AS/400 computers that IBM had recently introduced to the market.
I was put in charge of this new product group and one of the first things we did was conduct focus groups in the US and Europe to gain a better understanding of what the market wanted in terms of product features.
In the US we conducted focus groups in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles.
In Europe we conducted them in Germany and the UK.
On the trip to Europe, I was accompanied by Malcolm, one of the engineers who had developed the software.
At the time, airlines offered discounted airfare to passengers who stayed over a weekend, particularly on a Saturday night.
So, on this trip our flight back to Washington, DC was scheduled for Sunday.
That left us with a free weekend in the UK so our local sales rep - Simon - arranged for us to stay in guest rooms located upstairs in the local village pub called the Jolly Farmer in Hurst, UK.
Simon dropped us off on Saturday afternoon and introduced us to the pub owners and bought the house a round of drinks before departing.
The owners were two brothers, and they were proud that their pub was one of the few that was still independent - by that time most of the pubs in the UK had been acquired by large breweries.
Malcolm and I settled in and met the locals.
They were a colorful bunch especially one chap named Eric, who introduced himself as the "village idiot".
He told us this had been Eric Clapton's local pub before he stopped drinking and that Prince Charles had once popped in for a pint.
About 20 minutes prior to closing, one of the brothers who owned the pub - John - asked Malcolm and I if we had ever been "locked in".
Since neither Malcolm nor I had ever spent the night in jail we said that we had not.
That is when he chuckled and began to explain that being "locked in" meant being invited to stay and continue drinking after a pub had officially closed.
He told us to just continue to sit at our seats after he announced Last Call just before 9PM.
At 9PM, John officially closed the pub and most of the patrons left the bar while a select few including Malcolm, Eric and I remained.
On his way out, John showed us where the key to the pub was located in case we decided to go out later and needed to get back in.
Since it was the first time Malcolm and I had ever been "locked in" we were invited to go behind the bar and serve the fellow locked in patrons.
After a while, our new friend Eric - the village idiot - suggested that we visit the local bowling club that was located about 800 yards down a country road.
Having been properly fortified with various spirits, this seemed like a great idea, so we locked up the pub with the key provided and followed Eric down the lane to the Hurst Bowling Club where we met his friend Bruce.
The Bowling Club had the greenest grass I have ever seen but we were the only ones there so after one last beer with Bruce and Eric, we decided to head back to our rooms at the pub and pack for our trip home in the morning.
Simon had arranged for a taxi to pick us up in the morning and take us to Heathrow Airport.
I packed up most of my clothes and put my passport on the nightstand so I would not forget it and fell fast asleep.
The next thing I remember is the housekeeper knocking on our door and telling us that our taxi was downstairs waiting.
Malcolm and I jumped from our beds, grabbed our bags, and stumbled down the stairs, thanked John the pub owner and rushed out the door to the waiting Taxi.
The ride to Heathrow took about 45 minutes during which I was able to take a quick nap.
When we got to the United counter to check in for our flight, I reached into my jacket to pull out my ticket and passport.
The only problem was - my passport was not there.
I took a quick look in my carry-on bag and then came to the disturbing realization that my passport was probably still on the nightstand of our room at the Jolly Farmer.
Now I had to find a way to get it to the airport before our flight took off.
I ran to a pay phone to look up the number for the Jolly Farmer pub only to find out there were five pubs with the same name listed.
Luckily, I got through to the correct one on my second call.
I spoke to the housekeeper, and she found my passport on the nightstand where I had left it.
I did not have enough time before my flight to go out to the pub and back so I asked her to call a taxi and have the driver bring it to Terminal #3 and to save time I would walk out to the access roadway in front of the terminal.
I then went back to the ticket counter with Malcolm and convinced the ticket agent to allow my bag to go through with Malcolm (...obviously, the lessons from Lockerbie had yet to be fully learned).
I then walked out of the terminal to the access roadway and waited.
About twenty minutes later a black London taxi slowed down and pulled up to where I was standing.
My passport was sitting on the passenger seat.
I leaned into the open passenger window and looked at the driver and said 'pretty silly huh?'
He smiled and said - 'It's a first for me'.
He then opened the passport to make sure I matched the picture and then handed it over to me.
I asked him about the fare, and he smiled and said he wasn't sure because he had never had a passport as a passenger.
I offered him the $30 I had in my wallet which he gladly accepted, and he wished me Bon Voyage as he pulled back out into traffic.
I ran back to the terminal with my passport and ticket and luckily, they let me go to the front of the security line once I had explained the situation.
I ran to the gate and was able to board the flight less than five minutes before they closed the door.
As I flopped down into my seat next to Malcolm, clutching my passport like it was the Holy Grail, I turned to him and said, 'Well, at least I got locked in the pub and not the country'
