My name is not Derek...
Fun at Nice

Every summer, I fly out to the south of France with some friends for some good times and a break from the grind. As such, I’ve become used to how anally retentive the French are about their security. I used to think that UK airports were bad with my highly dangerous nail scissors being confiscated one year. (I did try to contain my laughter as they were waggled in my face while being told that they constituted “a major security risk” by some airport flunkey.) However, two year ago, Nice airport staff took the biscuit.

I had watched my friends pass through the security checkpoint with no major issues. As I went through the bleeper went off. No problem I thought, having forgotten to take my keys out of my pocket.

Back through again, BEEP BEEP BEEP! Ah, I thought, my belt! I wear a heavy belt buckle so off that came to be X-rayed. Once through again.

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

Eer, what next? My boots? Apparently combat boots have so many eyelets in them that they trigger the alarms. Especially with the shoe bomber etc, they were being even more astute. Ok, so off they come.

By this time, my friends are on the other side of the checkpoint, pissing themselves laughing. They thought any minute, I was going to pull a Derek Smalls and take the foil wrapped vegetable out of my underwear. Close, my friends, but no cucumber.

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

Even the airport staff were getting a bit twitchy by now. The nearby armed guard started fingering his rifle.

“Le pantalon, s’il vous plait,” says the attendant.

“My what!?” I think I asked even though I understood every word he’d said. I looked down. My trousers have about thirty D-rings sewn into them. They had to be joking, surely? But no, the attendant is standing there, waiting for me to remove my trousers. I look over at my friends. They are having trouble breathing for the laughter.

Thanking the gods that I had not chosen to go commando that day, I did what I was asked and removed my trousers in front of Nice airport security and a queue of passengers waiting to board flight 106 to Gatwick. I strode through the gate, waiting for the piercings to set off the alarms again but this time got away scott free.

I was handed my dignity by the attendant on the other side, who I think was checking out my butt. I was so glad that the flight home only lasted an hour.

However, after reading about how many people have taken dope through airport security, I’m reminded about the time when I almost considered doing the same. We gave a mate £20 to go and sort us out while we were in France. Testimony to his bartering skills, he came back with almost half an ounce. With only a few days left to go, we smoked until we were blue but there was still loads left. We considered smuggling it until we hit upon a better idea.

So somewhere in Nice, there is a hotel with a dodgy light fitting, and a whole stash hidden away there waiting for our return. And the summer is only a few sweet months away…!
(Mr Evian, Mon 6 Mar 2006, 12:43, Reply)