The journey to Spain was never going to be without issue. Let's face it, every one of the previous hundred or so flights had brought its own challenges and level of stress. On this occasion most of the drama occurred before we got near the plane.
The Airport
The relatively short hop to Spain with just three items of hand luggage would surely seem to most people a likely easy proposition. Arriving to show our boarding passes at the security gate a full hour before departure, Mrs MWSC, Junior and I were hoping to sail through - or should that be fly through?
The queue was enormous, and the snake ahead was a real anaconda. Obviously not all of the security lanes were operating; when did
that ever happen? I exchanged glances and raised eyebrows with Mrs MWSC, as we inched forward.
The rather empty drop-off zone had belied the hustle that was going on inside the terminal. The snake wriggled slowly as staff attended to the baggage checks with all the dexterity of a fudge slice stuck in a vat of blancmange.
We had two small cases and a very small bag conforming to the 35x20x20cm size for a 'second' bag. Despite not having six separate items (as per the max allowance) we were still obliged to take up seven spaces on the roller - not three for the three items we had. This was on account of having to separate laptops, toothpaste and shit that needed the scrutiny of muppets. As for the organisation at the airport - it was absent!
Four scanners were in operation, but there were only two walk-through gates available. But before getting anywhere near them, there was the issue of the polythene bags. While a member of the snake, I'd observed the shenanigans involving the proper use of these things, for the containment of liquids within individual 'portions' not exceeding 100ml, within an overall maximum per traveller of 1000ml (if contained within the cunting fucking bag!). I saw a bloke being instructed on how to put the contents of his TWO bags into just one, with the emphasised requirement that the bag could be sealed. The traveller would have failed his GCSE in Origami, I judged. It was painful to watch this little vignette of airport security life.
As we queued to walk through the arch that would flash red or green, I realised the smaller bag Id put on the roller sill contained in its back zipper the tablet owned by Mrs MWSC. I dashed round to try and rectify the situstion. Alas, I saw the bag enter the mouth of the machine, and the Polythene Warden confirmed I would have to have the bag looked at on the other side. I had not realised that 'the other side' meant 'Hell'.
Meanwhile, Mrs MWSC was dealing with Junior, whose belt had elicited a buzz and red light, and as penance, the security woman made him take off his shoes. As he awaited the re-scan, I wondered whether he had without my knowledge fashioned new shoes from black Semtex as part of a bid to bring down western civilisation. Apparently not, and the only inconvenience caused was the long wait to be reunited with footwear.
A few places back, I followed on and sailed through the arch without alerting security in any way. Round the other side, and along past the waiting shoeless contingent, I spied my little blue bag on the floor, immobile and sad. I was frustrated and not pleased to see three bags on a small table in front of my bag. I realised it was in 4th place, and I waited for some time. Gestapo-style input was already being meted out by a power-hungry inept woman who had with her a chap who was being trained. Yes, at my expense, a trainee was learning on the job, taking his instructions from the cunt who loved her ability to dictate the speed of progress for everything around her.
Another security chap appeared on the scene and was holding a polythene bag stuffed full of make-up. The bag was not sealed, and as anyone in the security world appreciates, this was a major threat. Yes, the redundancy of the zip-lock feature of the bag was of massive significance to the fuckers in Security. The severe challenge to all of humanity needed to be dealt with pronto.
Fuck knows why the traveller, a young woman, needed not just
Boots No.7 but
Boots Numbers Eight-to-Thirty-Cuntin-Two as well! Four efforts at juggling and sealing were fruitless, and odourless. The various containers of coloured muck were not complying with any attempt to align in such a way that they could fit inside the bag allowing it to be sealed. A tube of something blue was binned.
To my left, the trainee holding tongues swabbed the inside of a case for traces of something cuntish. Nothing was being achieved and I was convinced nothing would register on the tiny damp cloth that was being smeared along the surfaces. Sadly nothing was registering in the brain of the woman to my right, but she did eventually give up, and presented the bag to the security guy suggested he might try and seal it. His response was simple; he took the bag, ditched another item and then sealed it while she looked on aghast, with an expression that no make-up could make better. Time passed; I stood; boarding commenced at Gate 9. Fuck!
Mrs MWSC and Junior had sorted things out on the belt and shoe front, and all the cases were intact. Pulses everywhere were picking up and I heard a man further to my right ask, "Where are all the staff?" Without an answer, he continued, "What if we miss our flight?" but again got no input. "Is this all the staff you've got?" he queried, and deaf ears were in abundance. "Is that a yes or no?" he asked, with more desperation and annoyance. The chap in front of me mumbled, avoiding any eye contact, and said nothing that anyone could hear or benefit from.
Boudicca at Security
I stood and waited, while Mrs MWSC and Junior went off towards Gate 9, having taken from me their boarding passes and passports. My bag had been moved to the table, and was now in third place. The trainee and Boudicca were almost done swabbing; they had taken so long that I wondered if they might be planning a post-coital cunting cigarette, but then I remember it was a no smoking area.
The next bag was plucked from the table and put on the bench by the chap who was adept at sealing poly bags after lightening the load. "Whose is this?" he asked. The woman to my right said "Mine" and despair (or was it resignation) showed on his face. Yes, make-up woman was now going to take up more of the resources available, to have her case rummaged through.
I was waiting because I had forgotten to remove the tablet from the small blue bag. With so much jostling and with so many things to take out of cases or out of pockets, it was almost inevitable. Belts, liquids, laptops, camera, coats, coins and three cases, plus coats; enough for anyone, I believe. I was ruing my oversight now, as my loss of concentration was having significant consequences. Take-off was due in 23 minutes.
The woman to my right was having her belongings picked over, and her case was packed tighter than a nun's cunt. Inside was a dense lump that reminded me of a car after it had been through a crusher. I looked over to a raised arm, some 12 feet away, and the item held in a security person's hand. It was quite possibly the largest tub of Vaseline I have ever seen. It had to have been four times the size of the maximum 100ml container allowed, and 25 times the amount you would ever need in a month. It was aloft, and providing a strange vision in the mayhem of the security zone.
Finally it was my turn. I directed the chap to the tablet in the back pocket, confirming I had packed it myself, and had not left it unaccompanied so that a stealth ninja jihadi could fill it with death. He decoded not to bother with the rest of the contents, and stuck to swabbing while I looked over at the snake that was still wriggling along its considerable length.
Finally I was free to jog on, and did so with some concern considering the plane was supposed to be taking off in ten minutes. I made time enough to hit the right hand of four faces on my exit from the security area, the red angry face that confirmed my dissatisfaction with the "service". Up the escalator, along and through the never-ending fucking shop, past Toblerone mountains, made-up women doing fuck all, pathetic teddy bears and yards of watches, down an escalator and along to Gate 9. Mrs MWSC and Junior were there, waiting. We we the second from last to go up the stairs to check in, and then go back down another set of stairs to walk towards the plane, over 300 yards away. On board, five minutes before departure!
The Plane
As if predetermined by some cuntin
God of Travel, Mrs MWSC found that behind her Ryanair window seat was a young kid - a cunt indeed. To be fair, he was only a cunt because his mum was a bigger and better cunt, and as totally useless as a numb clit. As dictated by the
God of Travel, the mother was inept at controlling the kid, and what came out of her mouth was simply shite. Within twenty minutes he was slamming the drop-down plastic tray against the back of Mrs MWSC's seat. I stood up and looked over the back, caught the eye of Mother Cyclops and said "Excuse me!" All rather staid and British, yes, but delivered with an edge of indignation and threat that she could have shaved her beard with.
There was some further screaming (from the kid, not from me or Mrs MWSC) but it did not escalate into the issue it might have, and my plan to relocate Mrs MWSC to a spare seat just in front was not put into effect. I concentrated then on my 330ml can of Bulmers Cider, which turned out to be sweet, horrible and four cunting quid! In desperation, I passed the time writing this post, hoping time was passing more quickly than it actually was.
I recalled the chap I'd followed into the airport and his rather tiny case in tow. The case he was pulling along behind him was no more than half the size of the permitted cabin luggage, and it was languishing (on wheels) at the end of a 4-section extended aluminium handle. He might as well have carried it; the trundling wheels were working overtime. It was like he was taking a chihuahua for a fucking walk, all six-foot-plus of him. I suspected he was on a business trip, probably to Switzerland with no babies or kids winding him up.
At 7.53 Spanish time, the pilot decided to join in verbally. The speakers were permanently set such that the cabin crew's announcements regarding drinks, snacks, gifts and scratchcards were delivered at ear-piercing levels. The captain's announcements were, however, inaudible. I suspect that training involves a module where anyone flying a plane is required to mumble and purposely phrase input badly such that no one has a fucking clue what's been said. I still managed to hear the twat in row 26 while the pilot was mumbling! By way of confirmation of this hypothesis, I received audible input just 10 seconds later, when a member of the cabin crew decided to tout shit, and speared my ears with her offensive onslaught.
The end eventually came. It was not death, because I am of course writing this blurb, so the end refers to the flight. The effort to get off the plane was as ever challenging. Apart from an altercation of mild proportions when a nosy cunt gave an unwanted opinion on the art of queuing, the three of us made it to the passport control booths, just past the side queues for people intent on pissing about with the biometrically configured passport clearance arrangements - a glorified self-service affair that simply takes longer. Jet2 next time!
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