Non so se ridere o piangere.
***
Alex Murray was detained for two hours by Special Branch at Gatwick for using the word ‘bomb’ at security — and finds that in this age of terrorism airport staff just can’t take a joke.
I live in France, but because I have family in England and Belgium, I travel frequently. And so, on the occasions when I have to fly rather than take the train, I do everything to get through the hell of British airport security with the minimum of fuss. I never wear a belt. I usually check bags and often board empty-handed.
Indeed, my main concern when travelling is usually my wife. She’s a Belgian citizen who also travels frequently. She claims that airport security is worse in Britain than anywhere else in the world and she sees it as her duty to point this out. Given this, I have asked her, when travelling with me, to keep her thoughts to herself.
So I was surprised, a few months ago, to see the light flash on as I walked through the metal detector at Gatwick. A man waved a cattle-prod detector over me to no avail and then ordered me to remove my shoes. No please or thank-you. The shoes were put in the X-ray machine. They came out the other side. That’s when I made the mistake.
‘Are you now sure that they don’t contain a bomb?’ I asked. Now I know what you’re thinking. Silly ass. Deserves all he gets. Well, perhaps. But, read on, for this story is more about the exercise of power than the banning of words.
Back to Gatwick, where pandemonium had broken out. The woman who had passed me my shoes grabbed them back and shouted for a Mr Happe. He did not appear. She yelled again, much louder. A man who looked like a larger version of Charles Clarke appeared, loomed over me and demanded that I repeat what I had just said. I did so. Did I detect the traces of a smile around the edges of his mouth? Then he asked me to tell him, for a second time, exactly what I had said. I did.
nstantly Mr Happe’s demeanour changed. He said that as I had now mentioned the word ‘bomb’ three times, he was allowed to call the police. He took both my ticket and passport and those of my wife and marched off to a telephone.
After ten minutes he returned and joyfully informed us that I had been banned from flying and the police were on their way. Another ten minutes passed, then five — yes five — policemen appeared, all armed to the teeth. They had sub-machine guns, side-arms, flak jackets, pepper sprays, batons, radios and tasers. As there was not a centimetre of room left on their belts, some of the kit was hung from webbing over their chest. My wife and I were surrounded, separated and taken to separate interview rooms.
These rooms were small and windowless with no air-conditioning. The policeman behind the desk asked me if I knew why I was there. I told him that I did not. He said that I had made three statements about bombs. I replied that I had only asked one facetious question about my shoes and then been ordered to repeat it. He asked me if I knew how serious the fight against terrorism was. I answered that I did. He asked why I had made the statements. I reminded him that I had not. He told one of the other policemen to take my details, while he went to consult a superior.
The superior followed the same routine. He asked me if I knew how serious terrorism was and if I knew why I was there. He asked me why I had made statements about bombs and told me that I was going to be given a Stop Notice, which turned out to be a notice to say that they had stopped me.
Another 15 minutes passed and two men from Special Branch appeared. One who looked like a maths teacher and another who might have been in charge of PE. The maths teacher had my passport, which to him was not a travel document but a prop. He picked at the lamination, he held a page to the light and scrutinised my photo. Still me. The PE teacher asked if I travelled a lot and where to. I told him that I went to the UK and Belgium and had holidayed in Switzerland, Syria and Ethiopia. They asked me why we had gone to such strange countries. I told them that my wife is an anthropologist and regularly travelled to countries they thought strange.
They rallied. Had I ever been in prison? Never. Had I ever been charged? Never. Had I ever been arrested? Never. They announced that they did not believe me and that I was to have a deep check. This involved not rubber gloves but a great deal of talking into microphones and long pauses. I think computers from Interpol, GCHQ and the Pentagon were consulted. Like an apostate before the Inquisition, I was given one last chance to admit my guilt before the search began. I turned it down. The lines hummed, and did so for 20 minutes before a radio crackled. I was clean.
And so, finally, I was allowed out of the interview room. I saw Mr Happe talking to the police. He looked worried. He had expected me to be in a cell by now, but was being informed by a Special Branch team that I was innocent and that as far as they were concerned, I could go. Mr Happe turned slightly red in the face. I wondered if he was going to have a seizure. Then he came over. Well, he said, unfortunately the gentleman still can’t fly today; the ‘carrier has refused carriage’ because the police were involved. But how did the carrier know, Mr Happe? Did you tell them, knowing they would ban me from flying? Yes, Mr Happe had.
I telephoned a friend asking him to book me on the first flight the next day. A policeman told me that, normally, I was not allowed to make a telephone call in a secure area but, in this case, he’d look the other way. I turned toward the check-in area but another policeman intervened and told me that I could not go there as I had been issued with an NTQ. That’s a Notice To Quit to you and me. I was told that this meant that I had to leave the airport. I pointed out that this was what I was trying to do. He agreed but said that I had to be walked to the exit. He walked me to the exit, and we stood by it. He asked me if I could read the word exit. And that I should use it.
But the tale doesn’t end there. The next morning I was back. I was wearing exactly the same clothes as before, bar a change of shirt. I approached the metal detector with an air of trepidation. It did not beep. It did not flash. Was it faulty? Was yesterday’s faulty? Was it a trick? No! No one stopped me. No one arrested me. I walked through as clean as a whistle.
And now I ruminate. Almost ten people. Just for me. For two hours. Not to make anyone safer. Just to remind me who’s the boss. I only hope that nobody took advantage of my stripping Gatwick security of its finest and committed a real crime.
***
Alex Murray was detained for two hours by Special Branch at Gatwick for using the word ‘bomb’ at security — and finds that in this age of terrorism airport staff just can’t take a joke.
I live in France, but because I have family in England and Belgium, I travel frequently. And so, on the occasions when I have to fly rather than take the train, I do everything to get through the hell of British airport security with the minimum of fuss. I never wear a belt. I usually check bags and often board empty-handed.
Indeed, my main concern when travelling is usually my wife. She’s a Belgian citizen who also travels frequently. She claims that airport security is worse in Britain than anywhere else in the world and she sees it as her duty to point this out. Given this, I have asked her, when travelling with me, to keep her thoughts to herself.
So I was surprised, a few months ago, to see the light flash on as I walked through the metal detector at Gatwick. A man waved a cattle-prod detector over me to no avail and then ordered me to remove my shoes. No please or thank-you. The shoes were put in the X-ray machine. They came out the other side. That’s when I made the mistake.
‘Are you now sure that they don’t contain a bomb?’ I asked. Now I know what you’re thinking. Silly ass. Deserves all he gets. Well, perhaps. But, read on, for this story is more about the exercise of power than the banning of words.
Back to Gatwick, where pandemonium had broken out. The woman who had passed me my shoes grabbed them back and shouted for a Mr Happe. He did not appear. She yelled again, much louder. A man who looked like a larger version of Charles Clarke appeared, loomed over me and demanded that I repeat what I had just said. I did so. Did I detect the traces of a smile around the edges of his mouth? Then he asked me to tell him, for a second time, exactly what I had said. I did.
nstantly Mr Happe’s demeanour changed. He said that as I had now mentioned the word ‘bomb’ three times, he was allowed to call the police. He took both my ticket and passport and those of my wife and marched off to a telephone.
After ten minutes he returned and joyfully informed us that I had been banned from flying and the police were on their way. Another ten minutes passed, then five — yes five — policemen appeared, all armed to the teeth. They had sub-machine guns, side-arms, flak jackets, pepper sprays, batons, radios and tasers. As there was not a centimetre of room left on their belts, some of the kit was hung from webbing over their chest. My wife and I were surrounded, separated and taken to separate interview rooms.
These rooms were small and windowless with no air-conditioning. The policeman behind the desk asked me if I knew why I was there. I told him that I did not. He said that I had made three statements about bombs. I replied that I had only asked one facetious question about my shoes and then been ordered to repeat it. He asked me if I knew how serious the fight against terrorism was. I answered that I did. He asked why I had made the statements. I reminded him that I had not. He told one of the other policemen to take my details, while he went to consult a superior.
The superior followed the same routine. He asked me if I knew how serious terrorism was and if I knew why I was there. He asked me why I had made statements about bombs and told me that I was going to be given a Stop Notice, which turned out to be a notice to say that they had stopped me.
Another 15 minutes passed and two men from Special Branch appeared. One who looked like a maths teacher and another who might have been in charge of PE. The maths teacher had my passport, which to him was not a travel document but a prop. He picked at the lamination, he held a page to the light and scrutinised my photo. Still me. The PE teacher asked if I travelled a lot and where to. I told him that I went to the UK and Belgium and had holidayed in Switzerland, Syria and Ethiopia. They asked me why we had gone to such strange countries. I told them that my wife is an anthropologist and regularly travelled to countries they thought strange.
They rallied. Had I ever been in prison? Never. Had I ever been charged? Never. Had I ever been arrested? Never. They announced that they did not believe me and that I was to have a deep check. This involved not rubber gloves but a great deal of talking into microphones and long pauses. I think computers from Interpol, GCHQ and the Pentagon were consulted. Like an apostate before the Inquisition, I was given one last chance to admit my guilt before the search began. I turned it down. The lines hummed, and did so for 20 minutes before a radio crackled. I was clean.
And so, finally, I was allowed out of the interview room. I saw Mr Happe talking to the police. He looked worried. He had expected me to be in a cell by now, but was being informed by a Special Branch team that I was innocent and that as far as they were concerned, I could go. Mr Happe turned slightly red in the face. I wondered if he was going to have a seizure. Then he came over. Well, he said, unfortunately the gentleman still can’t fly today; the ‘carrier has refused carriage’ because the police were involved. But how did the carrier know, Mr Happe? Did you tell them, knowing they would ban me from flying? Yes, Mr Happe had.
I telephoned a friend asking him to book me on the first flight the next day. A policeman told me that, normally, I was not allowed to make a telephone call in a secure area but, in this case, he’d look the other way. I turned toward the check-in area but another policeman intervened and told me that I could not go there as I had been issued with an NTQ. That’s a Notice To Quit to you and me. I was told that this meant that I had to leave the airport. I pointed out that this was what I was trying to do. He agreed but said that I had to be walked to the exit. He walked me to the exit, and we stood by it. He asked me if I could read the word exit. And that I should use it.
But the tale doesn’t end there. The next morning I was back. I was wearing exactly the same clothes as before, bar a change of shirt. I approached the metal detector with an air of trepidation. It did not beep. It did not flash. Was it faulty? Was yesterday’s faulty? Was it a trick? No! No one stopped me. No one arrested me. I walked through as clean as a whistle.
And now I ruminate. Almost ten people. Just for me. For two hours. Not to make anyone safer. Just to remind me who’s the boss. I only hope that nobody took advantage of my stripping Gatwick security of its finest and committed a real crime.
