metal defector
with the court's permission, i'll copy and paste an excerpt from an article i posted on my blog a while back, featuring one of my own brief encounters with intellectually challenged airport security:
mid 1990s - manchester airport
i am waiting to pass through airport security, on my way to malaga airport in spain, for a college trip to córdoba. when it’s my turn to go through the metal detector, i take off my leather jacket and my bullet belt and hand them to the customs official to check by hand, as i know they’ll set the detector off.
“what’s this?” she asks, holding up the belt [for lo’ t’was a she this time, proving - if nothing else that fuckwitted stupiditiy is not an entirely male preserve].
“it’s a belt” i say
“you can’t take ammunition on an aeroplane!” she almost squeaks in her astonishment
[at this point i should point - out for those unfamiliar with what a bullet belt is, and who may be tempted to side with the customs officer and chide me for a fool and a knave - that a bullet belt is a belt made by clipping together spent cartridge cases, which the MOD sells on to army surplus shops and the like. they are widely available in such shops [at a considerable markup] and - polished up or chrome plated - from from various punk and alternative clothing ’boutiques’. they are “ammunition” in the same way that an empty beer can is an “alcoholic drink”
anyway, back to the fun:
i lift up the belt and show the customs woman that the belt is made from spent cartrdges
“it’s not ammunition” i say patiently “they’re spent cartridges”
“yes, well they could be made back into ammunition!” she states firmly
“on a fucking aeroplane!” this time i’m the one whose voice has gone up an octave in disbelief - my mind filled with the vision of myself sat in my aeroplane seat with a pestle and mortar filled with sulphur and saltpetre on one side of the fold-down table in front of me and a crucible full of molten lead on the other - trying to convert my bullet belt back into some kind of lethal weapon. god knows what i was supposed to be going to fire the fuckers out of tho’. presumably she thought i looked capable of whipping up an automatic rifle from a couple of plastic forks and a complementary hot towel, too!
“don’t you think someone might notice?” i continue, incredulously
“you can’t take ammunition on board the aeroplane” repeats the customs woman blankly. falling back, at this point on another of the unwritten rules of the job; “no matter how idiotic and illogical your knee-jerk reaction to a given situation is, you must never, under any circumstances, deviate from that position, no matter what. you are wearing a cap and badge - ergo you are *always* in the right”
in the end i have to go and find a luggage storage kiosk at the airport, where i hand my belt over, for keeping until i return from my holidays. so i board the plane beltless, but in the company of several people carrying large bottles of duty free vodka, many of whom are no doubt also carrying cigarette lighters or matches. presumably taking your own molotov cocktail components onboard being seen as posing significantly less threat to the aeroplane than a dented brass belt made of old bullet casings!
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paris, because aiport security staff make even her feel intellectual by comparison