journalism

In his monthly column, Anthony kick starts his ABC diet and finds himself on the honours list.

After Christmas and New Year in America, I’m now back in England and facing the misery of the ABC diet – a diet of my own devising. No alcohol, biscuits or chocolate until my birthday on April 5. Giving up alcohol in January now seems as much a part of the calendar as growing a moustache in November and it makes me wonder how many more vaguely undesirable things can be attached to different months. March without using the car? Cross-dressing May? But after rather too much celebration my liver was in danger of packing up and leaving before I did, so something had to be done. Incidentally, the more extreme version of the ABC diet continues through the alphabet, dropping one letter at a time until you’re only left with yogurt and zucchini. I hope I won’t have to go that far.

One of the reasons for all the festivities was finding myself on the honours list. Actually, I’d known for a while but I’d been sworn to secrecy by someone in Room G40 of the Cabinet Office who, without making any overt threats, still made me fear the consequences of a leak. Being far from home, I read what some of the other recipients said – how “delighted”, “proud” and “honoured” they felt. And so was I, although I was also amused by the way the press shaped the list to their own needs. For some, this year was all about women. To others, it was a sinister plot by David Cameron to reward his cronies (not me). The Daily Mail even published a list of people they felt should have been honoured, suggesting that the rest of us were frauds. Well, I don’t care. My friends and family were delighted and whatever you may think of the awards system, it seems an inexpensive way of spreading happiness.

I’m writing this after just getting back from Heathrow and, despite the bad press it often gets, I have to say that my experience of the airport was exemplary, certainly compared to JFK, which is now looking very old and tatty. Here, smiling and friendly officials whisked passengers through passport control. In New York, it took well over an hour in those horrible, Disney-style queues to reach the armed and deeply suspicious border guard. Why exactly do they need all those photos and fingerprints?

Of course, security is paramount post 9/11 but the Americans seem almost paranoid; as if tourist and terrorist are one. Walking through the bright, modern terminal at Heathrow, there was definitely a spring in my step. It’s good to be back in Blighty.