In Sydney on business a couple of days ago and a client of mine asked that I meet with him in the lobby of the Shangri-La. No problems.

Well normally no problems other than the man behind the man in the form of Vice President of the United States of Whatever (kudos to Liam Lynch and his odd record of inspired covers) happened to also be in residence. I missed the news that morning while on a red-eye flight. Bugger.

A wall of time and a half Australian uniformed police officers and one hot and cranky dog met me at the formal entrance. The entire street had
been sectioned off from the rest o Australian with a huge run of temporary cyclone styled fencing. Overhead a chopper straight out of “Predator” worked it’s way over the site and in the near distance two regular Ambulances and a big black bruiser were parked as though they were Olympian sprinters on their starting blocks.

“Sorry mate - can’t let you in” the officer shrugged behind his non-standard issue Oakley sunnies.
“But… I’m meeting a house guest.” I stammered back as a group of officers bored and fed up with the heat started to circle me.
“Be that as it may Sir - not today”
“But…why?”
The officer shrugged and declared “This is America… till Sunday”

We stood awkwardly as he indicated that the conversation was finished and it was about now that I should be wandering off deep into the Rocks for a couple of days until Sunday came around. I stood stunned. I had tried to enter “America” and had failed.

My business colleague, a cranky Dutchman, rang “So I’m waiting for you in the lounge, yes?, when will you be here, yes?”
“Well the police won’t let me in…. can you come out a get me?” I looked at the officers and they indicated through a series of non-verbal winks and nods that this may be an acceptable solution.
“Is it that Dick who is doing this? yes? The Americans are so pushy, yes?”
While trying not to hold the gaze of anyone officer I replied “Well I think there is a more security ’cause of the protestors n’stuff”
“I will come, yes.”
“Please.”

As I waited with the Oakley cop, we started to make small talk.
“So Dick Cheney huh?”
“Yup”
“Lotta cops”
“hmm Yup”
“Good overtime?”
“s’okay… pretty hot”
“Yes it is hot… no shade huh?”
“Only when the whirlybird passes over… cool winds too”
“Okay…. this Sunday he goes huh?”
“Yup”
“It’s not like he’s the ACTUAL President is he?”
“Shorter, smarter.”
“He is…. pretty old too”
“Heart attack or a stroke will get him before something else” the Oakley cop nodding knowingly.
“Is that why there’s lots of Ambulances parked over there?” I wave carefully in the general direction.
“Maybe.”
“Oh. Ok.”
The officer looks about and then leans into me and quietly says “That black one over there… shipped from the US.”
“Oh wow, it’s big” I say in the same hushed tones.
“Got it’s own hospital inside so they can start to operate straight away without having to get to the hospital”
“Cool.”

Bloody hell, this is out of control.

My Dutch colleague, Edwin Van Otter (I kid you not) wanders up looking like the Marlboro cowboy before a hideous cancer death takes a hold. His boots seem to have snake fangs protruding from the heel. I pretend not to notice as the Dutch Cowboy and the Oakley Cop covertly shift to one side for a quick conference.

“This person, he is with me, yes?” The Oakley cop looks back at me and says “h’okay.”
The officers all take turns in waving me through without checking any id or any further questions. What’s that all about!

“We have the history since I arrive, yes?”
I’m not sure what this means and I am afraid to ask. If he tells me I may never be able to forget it and this kinda worries me on a number of levels.

We walk past a series of American Secret Service Agents. They do not look so secret. Standing to attention at various strategic points around the lobby in unseasonably heavy suites. They all seem to adopt the same pose of grasping their own hands in front of their never regions, head straight ahead, eyes scanning back and forth. The dead giveaway of course is that they all proudly display a shiny round secret service id badge on their lapels.

If I was to be honest, I was kinda disappointed not to see any of them whisper into their cuff links nor give me a worthy second look over. I kinda found this insulting and yet very much relieved by the lack of attention.

The lobby bar is very empty. Except for all the Agents standing about like statues with a collective pulse. And a Dutch Cowboy threatening to roll up a handmade cigarette and smoke it as a reasonable response to some perceived insult the housekeeper made earlier in the day. I still don’t want to know….

The barman tells us that the big black vehicle needed to be recharged each night. I miss the point of this piece of insider gossip but apparently this is meaningful. I nod knowingly and suggest a seat far away from the bar - intent to camp out in some nearby deep seated lounges.

The Dutch Cowboy scoops up his tobacco fixings and follows. He loudly declares to the nearby glazed-eyed agents that “It is a good time to share cafe, yes? Café? Yes?” He looks at me oddly, winks, and he says “…yes?”.

I’m embarrassed and pretend that I’ve suddenly developed a dodgy knee and quickly sit down, absently rub my leg as our drinks orders is taken.

Ten minutes later and coffee is consumed, strange buttery biscuits are offered and declined, and the discussions relating to the forthcoming project conclude with a mutual declaration that it was going to be a proverbial shit-fight. The Cowboy delivers a firm handshake, a sound slap across my back and a declaration that we will meet again within a dark ballroom the following week. I hold back an urge to say “The Blue Boar fights At dawn”.

The lobby Agents suddenly talk into their cufflinks, not sure what it’s about but I panic anyway.

I exit through the rear entrance to the hotel and much to my surprise there is only four local cops and a parking inspect sharing a joke. No fencing no dogs. And then I see them… on the roofs and peering out of the shop windows ….. Amway distributors ready to pounce!
Oh…dear.. God. Where’s Dick when you need him? Shangri-La.