I have just had one of the best vacations of my life. Naturally, it had to end with a bang. I’d travelled for over 24 hours- never mind the slight mishaps during that trip- we’re all experienced travellers, we can handle it. But, when I arrive back home, to my sweet London, the naive look of surprise began to cast it’s nasty shadow upon my face, as I was suddenly dragged into UK customs. What now? Oh, you think I’m a drug mule? How jolly! The following (including the matador move) is all true, it happened to me three hours ago.
I don’t know what it is, but I get really uncomfortable around police people and all different kind of menacing authorities. It’s not like I have anything to be afraid of, it’s not like I’ve done anything. But when they start asking me questions as if I have done something, I start to think…maybe I have? Perhaps I’ve broken some law, that I don’t even know exists? “You do realise that its a federal offence to bring any illegal substances into this country?” “Are you aware of the fact that you walked through the gate marked “nothing to declare”?” “Are you carrying drugs on you right now?”. YES, YES and NO but now you’re scaring me! Am I guilty!? While envisioning my slow and dramatic walk toward the gallows (the performance of a lifetime!), I also think: I can handle this; standard questioning- whatevs!
But when they open my suitcase and see the volcano of Pride coloured silk and glitter that spews out of it, the tone changes. Where have you been? St Barths- what even is that? You have no plane ticket from there- looks like you came straight from Guadeloupe. They search through my lingerie and bikinis, piece by piece, and I’m like, oh I’m sorry, all of it isn’t freshly laundered and pressed. They take a look through my passports- ohhhh this is an airport, I’d think you’ve come across dual nationalities before. Don’t play naive boys, it doesn’t become you.
Then they start questioning my lifestyle. How can you travel to St Barth’s if you don’t have an income? Unemployed, ever heard of Generation Y, mister?! Why do you travel so much? Who are you seeing when you travel to these places? They find it highly unlikely that I’ve spent the holidays with my family, and I have to tell them all about my families customs and financial situation. The fact that I’ve been on vacation without having a job to vacate is of particular interest. They ask where my friends are from, who I’ve had such a good time with this last month, and they snigger and (I swear to God) nudge each other with their elbows when I say New York. Ok- this isn’t the day and age of the goddamned Titanic- it’s not that hard to have international friends, custom people. Since when is it a crime to have a bloody good time? It’s like Paris Hilton never happened here, in this Limbo of all things Glamorous.
So I’m starting to become a little bit defensive, and I notice that this ain’t going down well. I take a look to my left and right and notice one guy being searched next to me- a Polish dude who obviously has a thing for illegal cigarettes, by the bucket loads. This guy knows what he’s doing, and he seems to get along just fine with the Po-Lice (I get a feeling he’s been here before…) I start mimicking whatever he’s doing, but throwing some AlexiCat tactics into the mix.
I help the three men searching my bags by showing them how to open and close the right compartments of my clutches.”This one is great, because it just goes with every outfit!” The men frown at me. I whip up a long blue silk dress, like a matador challenging the bull in the ring, I swing it in front of their faces and declare: “Oh, dear me! I do hope there’s no cocaine on this one! It would just ruin the good energy this dress gives me! Ha Ha Ha!”
I fling myself down on the stainless steel table, and pull my knee under my chin and look up into that scary face towering above me- “Oh, you must get some real scary types in here! Wow, to even think of the atrocities…Bad men everywhere, yes!” He chuckles and agrees.
I tell them about my blog (total fans now, by the way) and I ask one of the men to take a picture of me for my blog. “While I’m being searched, just imagine, how scandalous!” They find this funny, but they stop laughing when I actively try to take a “smuggle selfie”. #smuggleselfie ?
I get in trouble for my heartburn tablets and sleeping pills, and an impromptu lab test is conducted.
The Bad Cop now looks me sternly in the face: Do you realise, what it means, to carry illegal drugs within you to another country? (Errrm… Get Him to The Greek?)
They are serious about a strip search (hey, they’re only human I guess)… but this: I WILL NOT HAVE. I shrug a pink cashmered shoulder and my conservative ponytail swings on my back as I throw back my head in a glittering waterfall of a laugh. Me? Strip Search? OOOOffffiiiiicceeerrrsss!!!! My darlings, let’s keep the focus here- I’m not the bad guy (fidgets with pearls) HE is (I motion with my head towards the Polish man. Oh yeah, he’s going down.)
The truth of this statement sinks in for a while, and we all share a little giggle. We’re now all BEST friends, and they let me go to my driver, who has been waiting for over an hour. As I leave this Hall of Doom they give me a wry smile and a “Don’t do drugs!” “I never do.” “That’s what they all say.” “Well, they’re not all nice, like me!“
For I am as innocent, as a Japanese Geisha’s mizuage. I am as clean as Mr Muscle, on OCD. My conscience is the shade of snow (no pun intended.)
So imagine then, when I get home to The Betrayal. The fuckers. Stole. My. Fucking. Make up. My makeup. My makeup… Stay away from customs, my darlings- you’re better of without it.