(I’ve spent much of the past few days trying, and failing, to compress the NY trip into 500 words. It can’t be done. Well, not by me. Some stories refuse to be abridged. But I like a nice, rambling tale, the winding scenic route rather than the motorway. So I beg the reader’s indulgence on this one. What am I saying? I’m always begging the reader’s indulgence.)

Friday 27th June.

Beginning of the NY trip. I have been asked, at the shortest possible notice, to escort Shane MacGowan from Dublin to New York.

He’s agreed to be a guest singer at a gig in Greenwich Village on the Sunday, billed ‘Liam Clancy & Friends’. It’s to be filmed for DVD posterity, and it’s my duty to see he gets on the plane, turns up to the gig and to a filmed rehearsal and interview, then escort him safely back home. I also have to act as his unofficial assistant, though this is a duty that arises out of necessity more than anything else.

Fine with me. I’m happy to help. And more than happy to visit New York – and the USA – for the first time, not to mention first class seats on the planes, and a room at one of the most ornate and stylish hotels in the city – the Waldorf=Astoria. I’ll have my expenses paid at every step. All I have to do is look after Mr MacGowan, keep him happy, and keep those he deals with happy.

I say ‘all’…

This trip is so last minute that I don’t even know which airport I have to get to in order to make the Dublin rendezvous with Mr MacG. I have to await a phone call from the film company, the ones behind the Liam Clancy DVD.

Originally, Shane was meant to travel with his manager or a long-standing friend, but both can’t make it. Neither, it seems, can anyone else in the pool of his various associates. Illness, Glastonbury, expired passport, whatever. So it’s me they ask at half-past midnight on the Thursday night, if I can make a flight on Friday morning.

My only condition to Team Shane is that I must be back in Highgate by Wednesday evening. It’s my mother’s MBE investiture at Buckingham Palace on the Thursday. I can get out of most things, but not that.

The phone goes at 9am, and I receive my further instructions. My connecting flight is from Heathrow, and it leaves in two hours. Just as well I’m up, dressed, packed and ready. I panic somewhat en route, thinking I’ll never make the gate in time. But the combination of tube to Paddington, Heathrow Express, and those self-service check-in machines at the airport – plus a short delay in the flight itself, actually leaves me with an hour to spare. I really must stop worrying about these things.

The flight to Dublin has an unusually high ratio of screaming babies. At one bumpy point I hear screaming to the left of me and screaming to the right, like a midwifery Light Brigade. In fact, they create a curious stereo effect. There’s even a moment where the cries merge perfectly into phase with exactly the same pitch (B flat, possibly). It’s a pure, blanket, orange-coloured tone. I find this aural symmetry unexpectedly soothing, even nostalgic, reminding me of the days when you’d fall asleep in front of the TV to a test card whine. But it doesn’t last, and the babies break away back into Stockhausen-like dissonance.

Two thoughts:

1) Why is it that fairground rides have a child-spurning sign saying ‘You must be THIS high to get on’, but airplanes, which aren’t attached to anything on the ground and soar somewhat higher, do not?

2) Parents who bring screaming infants onto crowded planes full of nervous flyers should be strongly encouraged to slip their distressed offspring some kind of heavy, sleep-inducing draft (‘Thank You For Flying Herod Airlines…’). If this isn’t possible, maybe they could slip one to me. Triple vodka and tonic, say.

At Dublin airport, I experience the first measure taken to ensure Mr MacG gets on the plane: VIP Handling, Dublin style. This is actually a separate building away from the main airport, and I have to take a taxi out of the arrivals area to reach it. Inside, it’s like a small hotel. There’s a reception area where I sign in and show my passport, while my suitcase is taken to be put on the plane, in the manner of a hotel porter. I am all but saluted.  Then I’m led into a large private lounge, set aside purely for me and Mr MacG. Flat screen TV, tea & coffee, snacks, drinks bar, coffee tables, sofas.

In comes the man himself, worth so much money yet looking, well, like Shane MacGowan. Just as well, really. His jeans are covered in cigarette burns, and he’s swigging from a large and filthy plastic milk carton, containing something that’s doubtlessly not entirely milk. Prime suspect is Shane’s current favourite tipple – a large White Russian. Very large.

Soon a VIP Handling person comes to tell us our plane is boarding. We have to go through security like anyone else, except it’s our own personal security: a small room in the VIP block with the usual metal detector, switched on and staffed just for us two. No queues.

Then we’re escorted into a VIP Handling Taxi, driven to the departure gate, ushered up through a staff-only lift and corridors, shoved past the Economy passengers queuing at the gate (such a great feeling – airline-endorsed official queue jumping), and taken right up into the front part of the plane. Premier Class. Safe and sound.

Except not quite. I’m settling down in my seat thinking all is well, when the head of the Aer Lingus cabin crew comes over to me.

‘Mr Edwards? May I have a word?’

Like a naughty schoolboy, I am summoned to that dark little area by the cockpit where the crew live.

Mr Lingus lowers his voice to a stern whisper and actually wags his finger at me, reeling off his responsibilities as Cabin Crew Manager, his fears about Mr MacG, and why I must now reassure him then and there that There Will Be No Trouble. I clear my throat and deliver the Shane Will Be No Trouble, Honest speech, something I have a smattering of experience in, and in different languages too. I even offer to go without alcohol throughout the flight, if they’ll draw a blind eye (and a Premier Class blind eye at that) to letting Shane have everything he asks for.

I almost hear the ‘Dambuster’ theme swell when I get to the part about how it’s my purpose – and my priority – to keep everyone happy: Shane and the film company and Aer Lingus alike. This last point seems to properly allay his fears, and I’m allowed back to my seat. The plane takes off for New York with us on board. Thank God. One hoop jumped through.

As I settle back to refuse Premier Class champagne and ask for bottled water, I notice my stomach is in knots. It’s either anxiety about getting Shane through the various appointments ahead (Immigration next), or excitement about visiting NYC for the first time in my life. Probably both. Besides, champagne isn’t the best thing for an unsettled stomach.