Tuesday July 1st.

The journey home is the same heady blend as the journey over: anxiety and luxury. We’re given a stretch limo from the Waldorf to JFK, with full flasks of spirits on board. Except Shane can’t quite indulge to his usual degree. He knows he has to put on a semblance of comparative sobriety in order to make it onto the plane. ‘Please do your best – for my mother,’ I say. I’m not entirely joking. If Shane is turned away, that means I can’t get on the plane either. If I can’t get home by Weds evening, I’ll miss Mum’s MBE investiture. And so begins the anxiety.

It doesn’t help that there’s a confusion over my ticket when we check in at the airport. With all the rescheduling and renaming (Shane’s companion was meant to be someone else), it turns out that my ticket hasn’t been upgraded. Is it really necessary? Well… my sitting next to him on the flight might make all the difference to his travelling at all.

So I leave Mr MacG in the VIP lounge – drinking coffee and orange juice – while I race around like a white-suited fly from kiosk to kiosk and queue to queue, changing money and sorting the upgrade out. All the time I’m worrying that we’ll miss the flight for this reason alone. Aer Lingus computers – you owe me a lower blood pressure.

I get the upgrade processed in time – just – and feel like I need a medal. But then, this sort of thing happens all the time to more frequent travellers. I should be grateful I’ve never experienced the sort of airport-based ordeals that pop up in the news from time to time: flights delayed, hold baggage cancelled, people having to sleep on the floors of terminals.

But there’s still one more hoop to jump.

As we go through the departure gate, a woman from the airport staff takes one look at Shane.

‘Oh no. No no no.’

She grabs a walkie-talkie and marches after us down the corridor to the plane. ‘Excuse me! We got a problem.’

We have to wait there for the plane’s cabin crew manager to come out and meet us. It’s just like the time I was taken aside on the flight over, except this time it’s more serious. We’re not on the plane yet. That makes all the difference.

This cabin crew manager looks terrified, so I take a deep breath and prepare my speech. I also get the sense it’s more the JFK official who wants action, and is expecting Ms Lingus to agree. So I have two people to convince. I keep thinking of ‘Midnight Express’.

Once again I do the Shane Will Be No Trouble, Honest speech. I tell them that the drinking the airlines rightly fear is of the tiresome, explosive, football hooligan variety. Not implosive drinking, the sort that’s an anaesthetic for the pains of the flesh (Mr MacG, 50, has a bad leg and back, at the very least). Not the sort of drinking which helps you sleep more easily on a long-distance flight. Well, that’s his sort. Honest. He won’t be any trouble. I’ll sign something if you like. I’ll be sitting right next to him. I’ll take the window seat, while he has the aisle seat. I’ll go without alcohol myself. We were fine on the flight coming over. (I wish that cabin crew manager had spoken to this one).

Then the JFK lady chips in. ‘Well… I guess they ARE in Premier Class. Both of them.’ And it’s then that I know we’re through. The joint upgrade was worth it.

‘I just want to go home,’ says Shane.

Ms Lingus still needs one piece of reassurance though. She won’t serve him alcohol during the flight. Not at all.

‘Fine,’ says Shane. Deal. So on we go. Panic over.

As Ms Lingus escorts us onto the plane, I resist the temptation to grumble and sulk under my breath about the alcohol ban, particularly after seeing first hand how expensive an upgrade is. The worse thing to do when being treated like a naughty boy is to act like one back. So I strive for a tone of sensible adult graciousness. Though I slightly overdo it to the point of fawning:

‘Thank you for being so understanding. We really appreciate it.’

‘Well, I have to check, you see… We can’t let on anyone if they seem…’

‘Of course. Absolutely. I realise that. But, well, that IS always the way he is. He IS Shane MacGowan.’

‘Oh I know who he is! I’m a big fan.’