Dodgy Liquids, Sticky Stuff

I stood at the entrance to the security screening area pouring a treacle-like substance from one container into another. Passengers looked on, horrified. I held it up - this had to be conspicuous, everyone must see, especially the security staff. I must have looked like I was cooking meth. It was a thick and gloopy (technical term). I held it up high and waited for liquid to slowly ooze out of the bottle. Waste not, want not. This stuff has a high viscosity. How had it come to this?

Ten minutes earlier I was making my way through security screening. Laptop separated. Liquids in a translucent bag. Everything should be in order, or so I thought.

“This is more than 100ml. We are confiscating it.” - What? No, it’s 50ml tops. See?
“This is more than 100ml. We are confiscating it.” - Yes, I see the confusion here. The container is labelled 200ml, but as you can see it’s barely a quarter full. Quite obvious.
“Speak to my supervisor.” She puts my belongings through the scanner, including the controversial liquid. Through the metal detector I went unhindered. At the other end was the ranking supervisor.

“This is more than 100ml. We are confiscating it.” - But, it’s medication!
“This is more than 100ml. We are confiscating it.”

I would not normally be so precious about 50ml of anything. But for the last few days I have been particularly wretched, the highlight of which is the sensation that my throat is made out of razor blades. Each swallow produces the feeling of a fresh incision by my throat-blade. Despite being on the maximum dosage of both aspirin and paracetamol, the only way I am getting even a few hours of sleep at night is to take a good old dose of codeine linctus.

Now you know it must be serious when you’re reaching for the opiates - this is the category of drug they give to people who are dying. It’s what doctors mean when they say they have made somebody ‘comfortable’. But the problem is, I was travelling to Ireland. And trying to get a hold of codeine in Ireland is harder than finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. So I was not about to part with my 50ml - and with it the chance of a few hours sleep over the coming days.

“Can I go back out and put it in a smaller container?” I inquired.

This caused something of a kerfuffle. You could see she wanted to retort “computer says no”, but after some deliberation she returned to me. “This man will escort you outside”.

“Can I come back?” He gave me a look, did not answer, and grabbed my arm.

Outside the security screening area I found Boots. These guys don’t miss a trick. I imagined I was going to have to purchase the cheapest store-brand aftershave and pour it in the bin to obtain a new receptacle, but the enterprising chemist chain were selling empty 100ml containers right there for the princely sum of £1.35. It looked like something straight out of a 19th century Victorian Chemist’s shop, if it were made of glass. But it was plastic. Still, had the desired effect.

And that is how I came to find myself re-enacting Breaking Bad in the middle of the security screening area to the worry of my fellow passengers at 06.30 in the morning in Heathrow Terminal 1, two days before Christmas.

Of course my boarding pass didn’t work the second time around. It raised some sort of alarm and hilarity ensued. I explained myself to a nice lady who took my photo and bade me a safe flight.

“Can I just ask,” I was going to get my money’s worth here, “this sort of carry-on, does it not bring the whole security screening process in to disrepute? I mean, how are people supposed to take any of it seriously?”

“I feel your frustration - I know it’s really inconvenient. We’re as frustrated as you are, but our hands are tied by Department for Transport rules I’m afraid.” At which point I felt bad for having given her a hard time - it wasn’t her fault really. If the first two automatons had said something like this earlier it would have made the whole episode much easier to swallow (no pun intended).

Somehow I had managed to purchase my seat in Club Class. I had no idea what that meant. I soon learned this meant I had access to the BA lounge. What a wonderful little perk, it saved me the bother of queuing up at Costa for a coffee, and mercifully spared me the the gauntlet of WH Smith to find a newspaper as the staff prod you with multi-packs of oversized Toblerone.

On to the plane, where I discovered the Club Class seat in all its glory: basically the same seat as economy, with a little barrier erected in the middle to ensure you don’t brush your shoulder against a neighbouring passenger.

The seat itself looked a bit shiny. Perhaps it had been given a fresh coat of varnish – they really do think of everything in Club Class. But no, not varnish, I discovered after putting my hand on it. Something sticky, and now my hand was adhesive.

I called a stewardess and explained the situation, asking if they had anything with which to clean my seat – some alcohol wipes perhaps? They don’t keep much by way of cleaning products she advised (perhaps having been confiscated by security), but she’d see what she could do. At this stage I realized I had caused something of a scene as passengers were still trying to board the plane and I was blocking the narrow passageway by standing in the middle not taking my sticky seat.

Excellent time to wash said stickiness from my mitts.

I asked the very cute male steward if I might use the bathroom, he got the situation and ushered me in. I lathered my hands in soap and hit the tap to wash it all off … but all I got was were drips. Little tiny raindrops, I would have had more luck dribbling on to my hands from the corner of my mouth.

Fear not, cute male steward to the rescue. Unprompted he appeared at the doorway with a polite knock. “Tap not working? Here.” And handed me a bottle of Highland Spring.

So I washed my hands with mineral water and returned to my seat. At this stage the stewardess was in full swing wiping it down with napkins and … is that … 50ml of Mr. Smirnoff’s finest … from the … minibar? Being used as a cleaning agent?

When she was done I took my newly clean throne in club class, surrounded by the sweet aroma of that delicious nectar of the gods – vodka.

The Twit Machine

I never understood Twitter. Well, I think I've figured it out. What I don't understand is the hype. In this week where the Twit Machine went Public on the Stock Exchange Thingy or whatever, I can't help speculate its share price has been bolstered by much hot air and hype.

When it first emerged it was nothing more than Facebook-lite. Free to announce your inane status updates to the world - but you can't be waffling. No, 140 characters is the limit. And you can't post photos or any of that fancy stuff. Never so much fun was had since SMS was limited to 160 characters back in the 90s.

But users quickly got around these limitations. Thanks to bit.ly and other URL shortening services, images and videos were possible. Limits on its industrial lack of function were quickly circumvented, adding conventions such as the '@' to direct a message at someone, and the now infamous hashtag to impose some sort of order on the various categories of discourse (though this has infuriatingly entered common parlance in the most unnecessary way). And eventually Twitter saw the value of these hacks and incorporated them in to the user interface.

So far, big deal. None of this is groundbreaking stuff. It basically does what Facebook (and Friendster before it) did, only less well.

But then one thing happened and the penny dropped, at least for me: the London riots of 2011 erupted. One minute a kerfuffle in Tottenham, the next day Brixton, suddenly Clapham Junction was being looted. It was all very unnerving. But what I found fascinating about this whole episode is while the police struggled to keep up, so did the news agencies. BBC London had nothing but out of date information. By following a #londonriots I could see what people were saying, and reporting, in real-time. Only this way did I learn there was a mob making its way up Kennington Lane towards my ivory tower, at the time, at St. George Wharf. And just as quickly passed by on their way to rob the shops down in Battersea.

For a live event it does come in to its own, whether it's the riot at the end of my street, the results coming in on election night or live commentary on the acts at the Eurovision Song Contest as they occur. I finally understood Twitter's use case.

Which explains why journalists love it.

In a previous life, back in my student days, I was something of an activist. And I quickly discovered something about journalists: they are all inherently lazy.

Imagine my delight the first time I found a press release I had written copied-and-pasted in to the middle of a newspaper article. But I think my greatest achievement was an article I penned for the Irish Times back in 2003, arguing for the introduction of civil partnerships for gay couples (I'm slightly embarrassed to say I believed at the time that we should aim for this more easily achievable goal in Ireland rather than full-scale marriage).

And reading one of the main Sunday papers a few days later, my jaw literally dropped as I read a piece by a right-wing Christian columnist, but there was something suspiciously familiar about it. He had plagiarised my piece, point-by-point. Now he was using my arguments to argue against gay marriage, but I never thought I would see the day this person would effectively argue in favour of civil partnerships for same-sex couples.

Perhaps I digress. But I think it explains a lot about why journalists love Twitter. Saves time doing pesky things like research, just lift some tat off the social network and bam! What a scoop.

Before Twitter though, they at least maintained some sort of pretence about what went under their byline, grinning like some cheeky 12-year-old who copied your homework. These days they don't even try to cover it up. It really is disappointing to see in the press every day Twitter quoted as a source, or Somebody said something not very nice about someone else on Twitter as a story, or the just plain infantile What happened on Twitter today as an actual story.

Journalists aside, who else uses Twitter? Obviously the kind of folks who crave attention for a living: celebrities, politicians and their hacks. And the journalists fall in to this ecosystem in  a particular order: tabloids following the celebs, the Mail and the Telegraph following UKIP and the Tories, The Guardian on to Labour, and Lib Dems following the other Lib Dems.

 And the only other people I know who use the thing seem to be people who either (1) double-post every status between Facebook and Twitter, rendering the latter wholly redundant if you ask me, or (2) use it as a platform for other social tools like Foursquare as a means to meeting new people and proclaiming yourself mayor of the local Starbucks - this is a use case I have to admit I don't fully understand.

For the rest of us, unless civilization is breaking down and the proletariat are at the end of my street setting fire to things, or I want to see what witty thing people are saying about the live acts on X-factor, bar a few novelty accounts, my Twitter feed is pretty empty.

What's your favourite One Direction lyric?

I never thought I'd be one of those people who needs a beard trim, being obsessively clean-shaven until quite recently. Alas, the things you find yourself doing in your 30s. I'd like to think this is the price of following fashion - beards are back, even the hipsters are doing it. But it may be more truthful to say this is what guys my age do to compensate for the hair migrating away from our scalps to establish colonies elsewhere on the body.

Now maintaining a beard requires some commitment. Trim too close and it's not a beard at all, it's long stubble and maybe you forgot to shave. Leave it untethered and you acquire a certain homeless chic. Then there's the neckline, which you're sure to get wrong and carry that mistake around for all to see.

Best to consult the professionals, and there is but one people who know about grooming men's hair. Off to my local Turkish barber in Shoreditch I went.

The clippers was only the start. You might think having a beard would spare you the the blade - if this is not making you nervous already, you need to know its proper name is a 'cut-throat'. But no, that thing is going to caress your throat in the most intimately threatening manner while you try not to express your inner terror.

Mert, a burly guy with enormous arms, carried out this task with the precision of a watchmaker and dexterity of a pianist. When we were done I caught myself in the mirror to witness his work. Looking good, I thought. Then came the fire.

Some sort of torch was doused in flammable liquid and set alight. Before I could form the words to ask what the hell was going on, Mert had fashioned it in to a flame-thrower and was launching those flames toward my head to be instantly recoiled, then this little performance was repeated to the other side of my head. My lobes were a little warm but genuinely unharmed. On the air sat the distinct aroma of my singed ear-hairs which I never knew I had. These guys don't fuck about.

I sighed relief. Surely we were done and no more weapons would be deployed. That's when he grabbed my temples.

Jerked to the left, then to the right, I felt something audibly crack at the top of my spine. "Relax" he chortled, and some tension did subside. I squeezed my leg to make sure I had not been rendered quadriplegic.

For these guys grooming is serious business, and the manner in which they execute their art is the height of machismo. But what was most unexpected transpired in the background.

"Let's go crazy crazy crazy til we see the sun. I know we only met but let's pretend it's love. And never never never stop for anyone. Tonight let's get some and live while we're young."

This contemporary ballad had come on the radio, an unlikely juxtaposition I thought, given the setting. But Merk was getting in to it. Humming along the whole time. At some point he did a little sway back and forth. Was he dancing - to One Direction?

As the time passed however, another track came up. And another. This was not the radio at all. Merk had the album.

I learned two things that day: I have hair in my ears, which can be extracted using petrol and a match without causing injury. And the music of One Direction is pure poetry.

I can't decide what my favourite lyric is, currently I'm torn between

"Tell me with your mind, body and spirit
I can make your tears fall down like the showers that are British"

or

"Now she’s feeling so low since she went solo
Hole in the middle of my heart like a polo"

What's your favourite One Direction lyric?