An Innocent Passage to London Turns Into Disaster When an American Expatriate Finds Himself… BANNED IN BRITAIN

By CHARLIE CRYSTLE
Big Shout Magazine, April 1992

Editor’s Note: In the February issue of Big Shout Magazine, singer/songwriter and Parrish Blue frontman Charlie Crystle bid farewell to the Delaware Valley in our “Letters to the Editors” section of the magazine. In his message, Crystle related that he would be pursuing musical endeavors in Europe and was not sure when he would be returning to our area. As it turns out, an ill-fated attempt to make it past customs in London’s Heathrow Airport brought Crystle back earlier than he had expected. What follows is his account of why he was … BANNED IN BRITAIN.

My flight was to leave for London in four hours and I was still scrambling to finish packing. I had planned this move for three months, and I still wasn’t ready as I frantically grabbed for papers I thought I might need and jammed them into a bag next to by Reeboks. I never wear sneakers, but I realized that most of the trip would be on foot with a heavy bag and a guitar. I reluctantly left my electric at home. Too much weight. I was looking forward to visiting friends in London, and I was especially anxious to get to Amsterdam to meet the record company I had negotiated with recently.

It was 5:45 p.m., and my plane was scheduled to leave at 7 p.m. My dad and I arrived at the airport and drove to the international terminal — except there is no international terminal anymore. When it was in operation, it was little more than a warehouse with a desk and a Coke machine — a real selling point to international tourists. We drove back to the main terminal and found the TWA desk. It was 6:30 p.m. Three month’s of planning and I was late for the plane. I said goodbye to my dad and checked in at the desk.

Maybe I should have stayed. Maybe I didn’t give the American scene a chance. What if I fail, like last time I was there, and wind up on the streets of London with no money? That sucked. The contract’s on the table, but it still needs my signature. Shit, I wish I had more time here.

No turning back. The plane was moving and my decision to leave was final. If I had any reservations, they no longer mattered. Besides, I had sold my PA equipment, broken the lease on my apartment, said goodbye to my friends and relatives several times, and had not found work since I was fired from my last job in January. Not only did I have no choice, I had no life anymore in America.

A couple of hours into the flight, a passenger came up to me and asked, “Are you in the music business?” Not a difficult deduction — shaved head, Prodrums shirt, Spin Magazine in hand. Yes, I guess I am in the music business, but I’m flying coach, so how important could I be?

He said he was a writer or a designer or something, on his way to England to check out a few bands. He also told me he was from North Carolina, so I asked him whether he knew of Gravity’s Pull. He not only knew of the band, but he recited their dates. I offered him the magazine when I had finished, but he had read it two weeks before when it came out. Of course.

Despite the bad service, the flight was not so bad. As if I’d get out any faster, I jumped into the aisle as soon as the plane stopped and tried to make my way quickly to the door. The plane was a little late, so I wanted to rush through customs to make it to breakfast in London with a friend, who expected me at 9 a.m. It was just before 8 .m. when I got off the plane.

I did not expect what was about to ensue for the next six hours. I headed for customs to have my passport checked and to pick up my bags. My inquisitive friend was in the next line, waiting with a thousand or so other passengers from various flights to enter customs. The lines started to move quickly. The man directing the lines to the customs booths pointed to me and then to one of the booths.

I had my passport ready and my ticket in hand. I smiled as I gave him my passport and my ticket, “Smiling can only help,” I thought.

“Is this trip for business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure.”

“Visiting friends, touring?”

“Visiting friends.”

“How long do you intend to stay in Britain?”

“Just two weeks. Then I’m moving on to Holland.”

“You don’t have a return ticket. Why is that?”

“Well, I’m planning on buying a ferry ticket at a student travel agency in town — it’s much cheaper, and I don’t know the exact day I’m leaving. It could be as soon as Thursday.”

“How much money do you have with you?” I didn’t like this question. He never looked up while questioning me. He just kept taking notes.

“About $600”

“Please show me your money, any money you have.” This made me nervous. Already this interview was longer than any other I had on previous trips to England.

“$600 isn’t much to travel with. London is an expensive place.”

“I’m staying with a friend, so my expenses won’t amount to much.”

“How long are you planning on staying in Europe?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I didn’t buy a return ticket — I don’t know the exact date or even the city I’ll be returning from…”

“What do you do — what is your occupation?”

“I’m a student. I graduated school for a master’s degree in September.” That was a stretch. I have a degree in English but have no intention of going back to school for any reason. I didn’t want to tell him I’m a musician because I thought he might infer that I intended to work there in pubs.

“On your previous stay here, you were a student. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“At the City Polytechnic and at Richmond College.”

“Who are you staying with on this trip? Could I have their name?”

“I gave them my friend’s name and number.

“Please wait here for a moment.”

He got up and walked back to a glass room that sat a few feet above the floor of the interview area. He spoke with someone, his supervisor I guessed, and then made a call. I assumed it was to my friend.

I know what he’s getting at. He thinks I want to stay. But it will be all right. My friend will verify my story.

I was starting to sweat. I sweat heavily, so it is quite noticeable. I tried not to fidget, tried to look happy and confident. The officer came back to the booth.

“Please come with me up to the baggage claim. We’ll get your bags and then go to customs inspection.”

Great. Other travelers looked over at me as I was escorted to the baggage claim area on the second floor. We found my bags upstairs and took a private elevator back down. He led me to an area sectioned off from the main processing area. Then I got really nervous.

“Please wait here for a minute.”

He left me there and disappeared into a doorway with no markings on it. He soon came back and asked me to follow him. I asked him what their concern was. He said it didn’t appear that I was merely here for a visit. Again, I asserted that I intended to travel to Holland by the end of the week, and that my visit was, in fact, only a visit. He just smiled as we approached a customs officer and asked me to put my bags down. He then instructed the other officer to examine my bands and guitar case.

He patted down every part of my bags and guitar case but found nothing. When he came upon the papers I had stuffed in the one bag at the last minute, the first officer asked me why I had not mentioned these before.

“I didn’t realize they had any relevance. I’m really not sure what you’re looking for.”

“Let’s go back.” The officer waved toward the first line of booths and waited for met to gather my bags. They had been recklessly unpacked, so it took me a minute to repack them. I had spent two days packing those bags, and they took five minutes to tear them apart.

“Ready?” He led me back to the booths.

Good. They’re letting me through. I’m late enough as it is.

But instead of leading me back to the booth, he pointed me back toward the sectioned-off area and asked me to sit and wait there.

Oh no. Midnight Express. That door leads to the strip search room. It has to. What the hell is going on? God, my friend must be wondering what happened. This is ludicrous.

He came back 10 minutes later and pointed toward a door which a guard opened and beckoned me onward. The room had five tables with plastic green chairs — the kind you’d see in a cheap pizza joint. There was a pay phone on the wall and a newspaper on one of the tables.

I picked up the phone and called my friend.

“What’s going on, Charlie?” She sounded upset.

“I don’t know. They’re holding me here under guard. I don’t understand it. What did they ask you when they called?”

“They asked if I was expecting anybody, and I said yes. They asked me who and I said Charlie Crystle. Then they asked how long you were planning to stay, and I said under two weeks. They asked some other things, too. But it didn’t seem like there should be any problem. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, well, not really.”

I wasn’t. I was furious, but I knew I had no rights as a non-citizen of that country. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be seeing her or any of my friends in London.

“I’ll call you when I know what’s going on. I’m sorry about all this.” I hung up and called the record company in Holland. They could verify my story.

“What do you mean you’ve been detained?” Why?” the record company president asked.

I told him the story and he was floored.

“I can’t believe this. This should not happen. It’s so disrespectful — but that’s the British. What’s the number there? I’ll call them and get my lawyers on the phone. Don’t worry. I’ll call back in 15 minutes.”

It was at this time that I realized I was probably having problems because of my appearance. I was clean-shaven — even my head. I wore a baseball cap to conceal the shaved head because I know how people react to the look. I’m not a skinhead ideologically; I just like the look. Unfortunately, the stigma associated with the look is not palatable to a lot of people. I’m not an extremist, right-wing neo-Nazi. I’m a slightly to the left, moderate pacifist — totally harmless, and hopefully a positive contributor to society. I have to go to lengths frequently to dispel any negative implications derived from that image.

Suddenly, the officer came back into a room next to the holding cell, with a dozen or so smaller rooms inside it. This was the Beehive — the interrogation room.

“I just have a few more questions for you, Mr. Crystle, and we’ll have this taken care of.” He had some papers with him which I eventually recognized as photocopies of the papers I had stuffed in at the last minute in Lancaster.

What could be in there of any interest to them?

“What are you doing in Britain, Mr. Crystle?”

Oh, God. Here it comes.

“I’m here to visit friends. That’s all.”

“When we spoke to your friend, she said you are a musician. Why didn’t you mention that when I asked you previously?”

“It wasn’t relevant to the question you asked me. You asked what I was doing in Britain. I said I was visiting friends, which is true.”

“But you told me you are a student, and that you plan on continuing your studies. Why didn’t you also tell me you are a musician?”

“Again, it was only relevant to tell you I was a student because I don’t intend on playing in Britain. Not now, anyway. I have a record contract out of Holland — you spoke with the company. But that has nothing to do with my visit here. Is that a problem?”

“That’s to be determined. Why do you have your resume with you?” he asked, holding up a photocopy of my resume with circles on it. “Your resume shows that you worked here previously as an instructor at Richmond College. Yet it specifically states on your passport that you were not to engage in any work, paid or unpaid.”

“It was in the course of my studies; they asked me to help in the writing workshop. That does not constitute as work — it was under the auspices of my studies at the college.”

He held up another photocopy.

“This review here of your records is from Time Out Magazine in London. Obviously you must have played here before, illegally, if they reviewed your work.”

I lied. There was no reason to tell them things they didn’t know, and there was no way they could know I played in pubs in London.

“That’s not true. You are misrepresenting the facts to formulate a fictitious, inaccurate story. I played one concert at Richmond College, under their direction. I was not paid. People did not pay to get in. It was an evening of expression, not of work.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Crystle, that it constitutes as unpaid work, and your passport clearly states that you shall not engage in any work while in Britain. It also required you to have registered with the police. You did not. I am not convinced that you are here for the period of time you claim to be. Follow me.”

I tried to come up with something effective to say, but I had no rights there anyway, so I just kept quiet. He led me to the holding cell and told me to wait. About a half hour later, he came back and handed me a piece of paper.

“I referred the case to the chief immigration officer, and he concurred with my decision to refuse your request for entry to the United Kingdom. If you would like to appeal, you must do it after your return to the United States. Your plane has already left, so we’ve arranged for you to fly at 2:15 p.m. on TWA to Baltimore. I will get the TWA representative to come here to make arrangements with you. It’s likely they will charge you at least a hundred dollars for the flight, so be prepared to cover that charge. If not, your government will bill you for the full fare when you return to America. I’ll get TWA now.”

I rushed to the phone and called the record company. I told them the decision, and they called immigration again, this time with their lawyers on the line as well. But the immigration people would not budge. The company called me back and explained some things.

“The situation is ridiculous, but it has to do with your hair more than anything. I have never heard of this happening before. Europe is a volatile place right now. There are extremists on both sides. Skinheads have killed people recently — Asians and such, and there seems to be a movement developing in several countries that is reminiscent of the pre-war era. I’m sorry for this. They will not even allow you to fly to Amsterdam. They said that once you’ve been refused in one EC (European Community) country, you’ll be refused in the next. That’s not true, but we have no power to deal with that, no recourse. Call me when you get to the States, and we’ll work out arrangements to get you here to play your concerts in April. I’ll meet you at the airport when you come, and I’ll bring the lawyers and the contracts. This will not happen again.”

After another two hours, the customs officer came back to the holding cell. He told me to follow him with my bags. This was it. They were deporting me. I had been through England five times before but never had any problems getting in. I had never been arrested, never caused any problems. Once, two years ago, I watched as thousands of people stormed through central London, fighting police, burning buildings, and overturning cars as they violently protested the Poll Tax. But I was merely an observer then. I had committed no offense, posed no threat to Britain, yet they were leading me now through the airport to the front of the line for the 2:15 p.m. flight to Baltimore.

During the flight home, the steward handed me my passport and the deportation notice, winked at me, then handed me two beers — my consolation prize. I half expected him to pull out a roll of Lifesavers.

Things never seem to end quickly and cleanly. The flight took 11 hours; that was the night of the USAir crash at La Guardia, and we landed in Nova Scotia to refuel and to de-ice the wings. When we arrived in Baltimore, I discovered that they had lost my bags. I spent an hour at the TWA service desk filling out a search order. “They’re probably on their way to St. Louis,” they told me. The conspiracy suddenly became obvious to me.

The next day, I called the British consulate in New York and was told I was effectively banned in Britain. I could appeal, but that would take years in the British courts. The only other thing I could do is apply for permission to enter the country; the catch is that the application itself is admission that the customs officials were correct in their judgement against me.

On the other hand, the Dutch consulate said that there would not have been a problem if I had continued on and that I will have no problem entering and staying in that country. They even invited me to apply for residency when I arrive there. I leave in two weeks for Amsterdam.

Editor’s Update: The next year (1993), Charlie Crystle returned to England to tour with his band. The customs agents held him for three hours this time, but his manager had made arrangements in advance to work out the red tape to allow him to pass through. He traveled alone a few days ahead of the band to avoid delaying their trip. He hasn’t been back since.