AMERICAN JOURNALISTS TYPICALLY regard their British counterparts with a mixture of pity and disdain. Fleet Streeters, so the stereotype goes, tend to be thieving, dipsomaniac fabulists: quick to sensationalize, slow to fact-check, more likely to hoist a pint than a phone. But I actually think this is unfair. There’s no one from whom I’d rather steal than a British hack. As a rule, they have an inborn knack for extracting a story’s most interesting details. On occasion, these details even happen to be true. Consequently, the most readable Afghanistan coverage by far belongs to the Brits. Where else would we have learned that Mullah Omar likes to make engine noises while turning the wheel of his parked car, or that Omar and Osama bin Laden used to go fishing together–with grenades? The best story, however, belongs to the Independent’s Richard Lloyd Parry. After the Taliban evacuated Jalalabad, journalists swept in, looking for all manner of munitions and weapons manuals. Not Parry. He went straight to the bathroom of Osama bin Laden’s abandoned compound, where bin Laden’s underpants (“striped gray and black cotton boxers, with a label reading Angelo Petrico, size XXL”) were hanging on a rack. How he knew these belonged to bin Laden was beside the point (remember, Parry is British). He had no choice but to nick them as “a souvenir from a place full of more sinister and deadly objects.” After all, he wrote, “how many can claim to own the underwear of the world’s most dangerous man?” After reading this story, I realized why I have a soft spot for my British colleagues. They provide what I call the Ron Effect. Ron was a high school pal of mine, with whom I nearly failed trigonometry. As our teacher would prattle on about bisectors and vertices (maybe it was geometry, I wasn’t really listening), my senses would shut down and my throat would close up. Then I’d look over at Ron. He was failing worse than I was, but he didn’t let that get in the way of a good siesta. While I panicked, Ron slept serenely, face-down in a puddle of drool. This always made me feel better. No matter how lost I was, I’d never be as lost as Ron. Likewise, Parry’s adventure made me feel better about one of my own. Last month, while on assignment in Florida, I happened by the Palm Beach Flight Training center at the County Park Airport in Lantana. Remembering that this was where terrorist Mohamed Atta rented planes to practice up for his flight into the World Trade Center, I stopped in to have a look. On the tarmac right off the runway, a Japanese television crew was interviewing Rob Wilson, a 20-year-old attendant at the center, and Paco Simpson, an AT&T marketing employee and airfield regular. “Look at that,” said Paco, as if announcing a new theme park attraction, “the Terrorist Plane!” We expected it to be behind police tape, but there was the Piper Archer Atta had rented, front and center for everyone’s perusal. “Can we go for a ride? Pleeease, it would be so special,” the giggly interviewer asked Rob, as if she’d been trying to hop into his Mustang for a jaunt up to Inspiration Point. “Not tonight,” Rob said, “it’s already too dark.” Instead, Rob let us sit in the plane. I climbed through the hatch and slid into the cockpit. “Put your hands on the controls, bro,” said Paco, “it’s such a rush.” I hate to admit it, but he was right. I had never understood the murderabilia market until that moment–why would anyone want the clown paintings of John Wayne Gacy or the nail clippings of serial killer Roy Norris? But sitting there, I had an irrepressible urge to take something. So I did: the laminated flight-safety checklist. “Whoa, bro,” said Paco, “you can’t have that, the FAA will come down on us.” “You don’t even work here,” I replied. But, chastened, I told Rob that I’d buy the souvenir for 100 bucks. Rob said he’d have to ask the center’s owner, so he phoned her. She assented, and as Rob rang up my purchase, I couldn’t help but feel scummy. Scummier still when I asked for a certificate of authenticity should I decide to flip the checklist on eBay. As I was about to go, the owner called back. “Did she change her mind?” I asked. “No,” Rob replied, “She wants to know if you’d like to buy Atta’s rental agreement for 500 bucks.” Absolutely not, I said, leaving in a huff. What did she think I was–British or something? -Matt Labash
