The Great Escape

 

If there is one thing that British culture can stand back and proudly say, it’s that it fully, utterly and completely destroys the human soul. Anyone who has ever been to an airport can tell you this. They are right up there alongside the most horrific places in the world. A weekend in Mogadishu is probably less stressful than waiting for a flight in Manchester. Anyone who really wants to make a criminal suffer for what they’ve done should forget the penal institution and instead condemn someone to twenty-five years in an airport. Reoffending rates would drop overnight. Suicide rates would probably soar. This is the Hell of Airports.

I was at Manchester Airport recently, this only served to confirm a long standing belief that airports are in many respects, just like prisons. They’re overpopulated. They smell of sweat, flatulence and out of date chilled produce. Inmates are constantly scrutinized by invisible overseers. All objects that could be possibly used in any way to facilitate an escape, riot or suicide were taken from me by a series of increasingly complex security checkpoints. Most subsequently resold at 200% inflation, because they’ve been security cleared, apparently.

Finally, I had to stand with my feet apart, hands on head between two giant machines that alarmingly resemble some sort of radioactive sci-fi time machine or torture device. The notorious body scanners, where strangers get to stare a ghostly representation of my genitals. While this is happening, a tray containing a mobile phone, some rolling tobacco, a sandwich and my belt and shoes is carefully x-rayed by another eagle eyed protector. The sandwich is confiscated, as it has not been cleared for eating in the departure lounge, and may contain dangerous amounts of protein.

"Do what he says, Jim. It's a Meatball Marinara on Wholemeal."

Over the years, I’ve flown more times than I’d particularly care to, and somehow, every visit yields a fresh hell. On one trip, the chain I use to hold my wallet had to be posted back to my house because it was simply too dangerous to be on an aircraft. I’ve been liberated of both headphones and a fork, presumably in case I attempt to hijack the plane using an innocuous eating utensil whilst listening to Jihadi music. I think on my next visit I might just bring a garlic crusher and a spatula to see what they make of it.

It’d probably be lost on them, given that the meat sacks who man the security checkpoints are the kind of unsmiling jobsworth idiots that take wouldn’t let someone leave the country if they carried sharp wit, which undoubtedly could be used to bring down an aircraft. This seems almost unique to British airports, which are staffed by people who undergo vigorous training in the art of being too serious. I can only imagine this involves an hour long documentary connecting a sense of humour to kitten-torture, and a Rorschach test where anyone who gives an answer other than “I see a piece of card with ink splatters on it” fails on the basis of having an imagination. The kind of people who could be replaced by robotic mannequins with cardboard cut out faces, and no one would even notice.

My. Name. Is. John. Put. Your. Shoes. In. The. Box. And. Prepare. To. Be. Exterminated.

Salvaging my things from the tray, minus lighter, fork, headphones, sandwich and dignity, I’m ushered into a giant departure lounge and left alone for hours. Two things always happen at this point. First, you do a lot of pointless standing and walking around, because they somehow always manage to have less seats than people. After that, it’s just a matter of time before you get the creeping realization that airports never seem to be finished, always giving off the impression that they’re only half built. Most of the time is taken up by dodging people brooding about being strapped into a metal coffin and hurled through the air at six hundred miles an hour. There are also shops, at which I can re-buy my lighter, sandwich and headphones. I can also have a plastic spork. 

There are six accepted and twenty-two speculated ways of bringing down an aircraft with a spork.

We are, with the exception of perhaps the US, the only country in the world to place such a paranoid emphasis on the need to control people. Sure, there is never a good time to get blown up, but at least get down from your high horse and admit that you’re pandering to the Mail readers when it comes to passport control. Italy has one of the highest immigration rates in Europe. It’s also warmer, friendlier, and better than the United Kingdom, why wouldn’t you stay there?

Their version of passport control is a single bored looking man waving me through a barrier with a smile and not so much as a glance at my little red permission slip. Compare that to England, where the even the cashier in Boots asked me what flight I was due to depart on, and then punched it into her terminal. No doubt to alert the cabin crew to be wary of a young man armed with a moderately spicy chicken wrap, and to authorize the use of live ammunition should I attempt to board with it. I had more banter with the guy on the metal detectors in Naples than I did combining every interaction in Manchester airport. And he had a gun, which, if anything, makes him harder to get on with.

My advice that that you shouldn’t leave the country. And if you do, make sure you never come back.