Hand Over the Ambassador, Jeeves

It definitely wasn't terrorism code red at the British Embassy a few years back. A Christmas party was going on somewhere in the sprawling compound. My neighbor and I were invited and, anyway, we ended up with a semi-automatic rifle pointed at us. Cheerio!
The mini-pub where the party was happening was almost impossible to find unless you know the layout. We definitely didn't.
Anyhow, we ended up knocking on the door of the British Ambassador. Some pointed-faced Jeeves type came to the door. We asked if the party was there. "Most certainly not." he said.
As we were leaving, we looked in the dining room window and there was a candle-lit get together, all of whom were senior types, all of whom had looks of absolute disbelief on their faces as they looked back at us.
Walking back to the new part of the compound, a man dressed in black and with an M-16 commanded us to stop. We did (surpise). We were asked to identify ourselves ("well, I'm a Pisces); I said I was as US citizen and Simon said he was British. He asked for ID, then said we were within a few feet of being blasted unto Kingdom Come.
We were escorted to this rec-room/pub way in the back and enjoyed a good time, and laughed about how simple bone-headedness could now get you killed.
Here's the kicker. My roommate used to go to the embassy mini-pub, which showed British soccer teams. Only he wasn't allowed in. Nobody was allowed in the pub.
When my roommate asked why, someone said "oh, some American Wankers came inside and scared the crap out of the Ambassador."
Mike, my roommate, said nothing. A few weeks later the Brits let the sports fans back in, probably with extra-security