It's Just a Stage

Airports. Why?

I mean, besides the obvious functionality, they really are the equivalent of the twilight zone. Let’s face it, there are very few places I’d let complete strangers herd me like cattle, run me through with radiation beams, strip me of my valuables (and sometimes clothes) and rifle through my bags, taking what they think I should no longer possess.

Ok, so the greater Cape Town area is another example. But, you know, still.

Since a teensy little 2004 incident involving 26 consecutive hours of transatlantic travel, an 8 hour time difference, a gun and a 6am game of “deportation-deportation,” I have always held the belief that the lowest forms of humanity often take the calling to become customs officials. I have since relaxed this view somewhat, but, still, the old adage about what happens when you give a little person a little power remains uncannily accurate.

Transport hub

Strangely enough, this phenomenon is particularly bad in small airports. Heathrow? No problem. Stanstead? Shoot me now (no, don’t! That was a figure of speech – a simple turn of phrase, a….a stripsearch you say?). So, no surprises that Bournemouth International – the smallest UK airport I have ever seen, and one which I have had the dubious pleasure of flying to Scotland out of….twice – took the proverbial cake.

First, let it be said that I was the only passenger under 60. No doubt I looked a prime target mule for the massive, high tech Bournemouth drug smuggling rings. Second, while there are only about 2 flights a day from Bournemouth, the staff are on constant duty. I take their point that the security procedure is a bit of a highlight. Third, my last 3 passport stamps are from Cape Town, New Dehli and Sao Paulo.

You know what’s coming.

A woman who looked like Kim (or is it Aggie?) in BBC’s How Clean is Your House bore down on me. ”Step aside please, madam. Is this your bag? You have been randomly selected [lies] to take part in our new [eyes glint in excitement] improved security procedure. Do you have any objections [implication: because if you do, perhaps Hans, our scientist researcher can persuade you otherwise in the "special room"].

Resigned, I let her put her latex-gloved mitts on my bag.

Are you ready, darling?

What came next, though, was something I had no previous experience with. Every item – and I do mean EVERY item – had to be removed and laid along a lengthy counter, to the feverish excitement of half a dozen airport officials and a small planeful of Bournemouth OAP’s, each of whom was righteously firm in their conviction that they would see pounds of heroin revealed under their very eyes. Each item then had to be wiped over (I kid you not) with a small piece of cloth, attached to what resembled a long armed plastic loo brush. After everything had been wiped, the cloth was placed in a sealed scanner and tested, presumably for drug residue.

Now, this is all very well if you know exactly what is in your hand luggage and can prepare you facial expression accordingly. But in the past week, I had just done a frantic Berlin-Frankfurt, Frankfurt-London, London-Bournemouth hop. The finer points of what might or might not be lurking in my hand luggage was a mystery to both Aggie the ageing security scanner and myself. So when Aggie produced, in slow, repeated motion, a string of underwear from a side pocket of my backpack, I was actually quite impressed. I had, truth be told, been searching for that little stash since Berlin and had the awful thought that I might accidentally have left the larger complement of my knickers in the house of some very kind German boys who let me stay the weekend (with no expectation of loss of underwear).

“Ah!” I gamely – and honestly – cried. “I’ve been looking for those for ages!” Aggie was horrified. But she had to continue. The stash, it seemed, was never-ending. Like some unwilling lingerie magician, she pulled pair after pair of knickers and laid them (6 pairs, assorted shades) on the counter. Only after they had been lined up, wiped and the results scanned, was I allowed to reclaim them. The OAP’s were rocked to the core. This was better than heroin. Not since an unfortunate incident involving a school satchel, a dress and a long walk home had my Woolworth’s hipsters in assorted colours attracted as much attention.

As you might imagine, it would be hard to top that kind of experience. So, when I flew out last night, the Heathrow Terminal 5 security barrage held no fear for me. I now had ATTITUDE baby, and I was going to use it.

Having got through the security scan with no handy drug wipe test, I thought I was doing well. Until, that is, I got a brisk “Are you going to take much longer, madam?” while reassembling my personage post baggage scan. After the briefest of pauses, while I registered this was not America, they had no visible weaponry and I held the passport of the country I was currently standing in, I turned and flashed my calmest, most charming smile. I pointed out (calmly! charmingly!) that, having been asked to remove my jacket, jumper, scarf, shoes, belt, liquids, gels and meltable solids (already pre-decanted into containers of 100ml or less), laptop from bag and still reeling from the a pat down that left me feeling like I should have at least claimed a meal and decent conversation first, I was probably going to require more than 17 seconds to reassemble my dignity on the other side.

They apologised.

I’d say we’ll call the 2009 airport face-off tally even, but I’m still going to have to fork out for new, low scanner profile underwear.