I’m on the road again!... errr, actually, I’m on a plane, and not again.
Nor do I want to be on a plane again, not for the flying, but because airports are cages of human doom, which induce a nervous breakdown in the most stable of the species.
I just want to go to Greece, and drink copious amounts of cocktails next to shimmering blue water....but airports don’t seem to understand this! First they want to me have a full on sweaty tear-filled meltdown over the amount of toothpaste I can fit in a 20x20cm clear bag. And not just ANY clear bag, it must be THEIR clear bag! And it must be sealed, for god knows what bastarding swineair (Ryanair) demonic hell will unleash itself from the underworld if my toothpaste accidentally touches the side of my suitcase!
So my pre-packed plans of personal hygiene went down the shitter as some Neanderthal in a suit jacket told me, ‘you can’t take all that in there, love. You need to put it all in OUR plastic bag or I’m telling you, you won’t get through!’
So the toiletries that were happily situated in MY plastic bag got panickly
strewed between the three ‘approved’ plastic bags we had between us, amid my chunnering about bollocking arbitrary rules and the degradation of simple human social fucking normalities of being able to prevent one’s arse from third world stench.
So I had to give up a selection of items in order to comply with the ridicufuckingless rules that exist only in dyinair baggage control. My chosen items were; toothpaste, deodorant and Vaseline. I was not aware at this point that giving away the latter was a grave mistake, seeing as how I would be needing it only moments later, to help with the anal fucking that is airport food and drink prices! Oh but wait- PLEASE feel free to purchase the same items you’ve just had to bastard bin, from the exorbitantly extortionate ‘Boots’ 300 meters over the security line. I think they send all the “binned” items, merrily on their way, down a shute- a “boot Shute”, if you will, so that boots can slap on a 30% levy and fuck you up the arse again. I got you sussed, Manchester un-fairport!!!
Poor Lucy had to have her bag fingered through by some rummage-chimp, who questioned her on
her book choices. It’s suduko not the fucking magna carta!
By the time you get through security, after having been groped at you having dared wear an under-wired bra, you find yourself so relieved to have survived it, that you happily bend over to allow yourself to be charged £5.95 for a piss swab of carslberg.
Once boarded on the cramped tube which looks like it’s been crayoned in by a hyper toddler, the friendly onboard minions inform you that there is no sparkling wine of any sort, nor is there any ice to accompany the sweaty eye bath of overpriced piss gin that is your only remaining drink option. And after having gotten shit faced on cheap warm piss water, and having the obligatory sore-necked nap, they inform you that there is no tea available to sober up on. It’s just not fucking British is it!
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