Summer 2001 (may be a roast, I can't remember)
And a young Kroney is in the States on a six week jaunt through the South. As a trip it was something of an eye-opener to a middle-class boy from Surrey. It was the first time I truly appreciated just how safe and comfortable my life was.

I had left the trip until I was 21 for obvious reasons. There's no point going to a different country if you're not going to be old enough to do everything you might want to do, after all.

On this occasion, I was sitting in Miami airport having caught a Greyhound from Fort Lauderdale. I was heading back up to Tampa and, having done the journey down on a Greyhound, I had no intention of repeating the experience on the way back up. I elected instead to fly all of 45 minutes. There was a bit of a wait before my flight, so I decided that I'd like a nice beer. Thus began one of the biggest episodes of fuck-wittery I have experienced to date.

"Hi there, I'd like a bottle of Budweiser, please." I said, to the big, fat, thick-looking mouthbreather behind the bar. She looked at me with obvious contempt.

"ID," she said.

I sighed and produced my passport. I was four weeks into the trip at this point and the novelty of having to produce my passport every time was wearing thin. She all but snatched it off me and stared at it with knitted brows.

"I can't serve you, you're underage," she said, hanging onto the passport.

"Yes you can, I'm 21, it says so right there!" I said, pointing at the relevant section.

"You're not 21, it's the law here."

"Yes, I am. I was 21 this year, in May. I've been 21 for several months now." I was getting a little annoyed at this point and it may have come out in my tone.

"I'll get my manager."

So the manager comes out, looks at my passport and says:

"You're underage, we can't serve you."

"For God's sake. It says my date of birth right here," I take my passport back and point to the bit that says 'Date of Birth: 31-May/Mai-1980'. I hold it there for a bit. "See? Can I have my beer now, please?"

I get my beer. I pay and go to sit down. Whilst I'm passing the time, I try to figure out what the hell just happened. The date of my birth is clear and bold next to my photo. After staring at it for a bit, I start to laugh. At the top of the page is the passport number, followed by the only other date on the passport, the date of issue.

My passport was issued on 31st-Oct-1997.

That would have made me three.
( Kroney, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 12:37, 5 replies)

You may have been fortunate
Some places in the States won't accept forrin IDs - has to be US passport or other state-approved ID

Which is a bit of a Catch-22 when you're a thirsty Englishman :(
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 17:11, closed)

And I've heard
that the reason for this is that a lot of people in the States never travel, thus never own an American passport and if they wouldn't recognise an American passport, they're highly unlikely to recognise a genuine foreign passport. Presumably this leads to a high probability of being fooled by a fake.
( Kroney, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 17:31, closed)

Another one of those times you wished you'd realised exactly what was going on there and then! So you could laugh right in their faces. I love how alot of bars now have the date that would make you 18 printed out and stuck around the bar because the staff can't be trusted to work it out. It seems your story backs up the need to do this.
(el perro grande, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 17:28, closed)

I can only hope
that they felt like prize bell-ends. Somehow, though, I doubt it.
( Kroney, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 17:31, closed)

The same thing
Happened to me...
( snee held his breath since, Wed 24 Mar 2010, 8:55, closed)