International Drug Smuggling 101

Cruising at a wholly unnatural speed to Luton airport didn’t feel right. No agitation, no constantly checking the clock and google maps, no imaginary thoughts of strangling the taxi driver because he’s not driving fast enough. Arriving at the airport 90 mins before departure time was an alien-like concept, for once, I hadn’t left everything to the very last minute. Unfortunately didn’t have my Oscar ‘thank you’ speech prepared but a fucking momentous occasion to say the absolute least.

With more time than Moses in the desert, I expertly chose to pair my lightly spiced pre-rolled hash zoobie with an Americana. Swiftly followed by hoovering down two fags. It’s always funny to watch smokers when they know it’s going to be their last fag in a while, shit gets emotional. So I roll into the airport, feeling like a fucking top boss, Stansted’s very own Don Corleone. The holy trinity of Nicotine, THC, and Caffeine pumping through my veins. Fuck yeah. This is bliss. What should I do? Get a big fat Burger King. Or maybe pick up a book or two. Could even push the boat out and get convinced by a duty-free lady to buy an aftershave I didn’t need. My imagination was drifting, the options were fucking limitless.

Casually strolling up to the departure screen to check my gate number, something suddenly wasn’t quite sitting right. Shit shit shit; it all abruptly clicked a little too late as I felt my heart sink out of my arse. Only in the wrong fucking place aren’t I. This is a cunting Easy Jet airport and I’m meant to be flying with Ryanair. Fucked, was an understatement, as probably was massive bell-end idiot. Stansted Airport was an hour away by taxi and my flight departure time was also just about an hour away. Now I’m not the best at maths(terrible Indian I know) but I’m pretty sure it most definitely was not working in my favour.

For FUCK’s sake. Why do I always do this? Why? How? Rhetorical questions but if you want an answer your guess is as good as mine. Nothing to do with copious amounts of Mary Jane I’d consumed this morning. As I frantically looked up the next flights leaving from both airports, they all cost more than £700(all the London Mancs heading to the UEFA Cup final in Stockholm). I couldn’t afford that unless I wanted to survive on a nutritious university diet of cornflakes and water for my stay in Scandinavia.
Not having many options left, doing as all respectable men do, I resorted to God and said my prayers whilst pelting it to the taxi stand. There were people in the queue but this was an emergency. So I flung myself across the back-seat of the first taxi and screeched at the poor befuddled man my time ticking bomb of a predicament.

The fellow gives me the most sceptical/horrific look, raises an eyebrow, considers, and then says he thinks we can make it in time. Of course, he fucking does, he’s happy to take my money for a lost cause, what a fucking twat. I was starting to feel the pressure if you couldn’t tell. Whatever at least we were on our way. The next hour consisted of what I was trying to avoid earlier: Google maps, watch, google maps, watch. Is he driving slow on purpose? Why the fuck do I always do this shit? All I had to do was check my boarding pass or the confirmation or anything else? What the fuck is wrong with my brain?

Eventually, we get to Stansted 10 mins before the scheduled flight departure time. Shout thanks at the driver and proceed to sprint top speed into the airport. Never really a wise idea for an unshaven brown man, not least the day after the Manchester terror attacks, but I had no option. Screech around the corner, and ahh motherfucker, my worst nightmare, the queue is pretty long and fucking windy. Undeterred, channeling my inner Lewis Hamilton I slalom past the first bunch of commuters. Less elegantly bundle past a couple more people, mumble a few apologies, under a few barriers, around a few others. Only one more row to get through. When from out of nowhere, well, not exactly out of nowhere because he was a beast(he probably needed panoramic mode to take a selfie). This random fuckface blocks my path. I step right, he leans right, I go left, he leans left, I try to sell him the dummy but he blocks again. He must have done Karate as well.

I quickly realise what kind of party it is:

‘If I have to wait in the queue so do you’ says the hater.

I try to quickly reason ‘My flights about to depart, please let…’.

He cuts me off mid-sentence ‘I don’t care, I don’t care, mate’.

FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER. My blood boiling with rage. There was nothing I could do to get around him and the doubts were starting to creep in. After waiting for the most excruciating minute of my existence behind this dream sucking moron, an opportunity from the gods miraculously presents itself. As if he was listening to my earlier mentioned prayers. I dart for freedom under a newly opened barrier, by the time he sees me and roars his disgust, it’s too late, I’m already putting my bag through the scanner.

So long sucker, I hope you choke on some of this curry flavoured dust pal.
Checking my pockets whilst walking up to the security guard, I feel something squidgy in my back pocket. Fuck. I immediately know that’s my fucking 1/8th of hash, can’t believe I forget to leave it at home. It’s too late to throw it on the floor or turn around as the security guard already has his beady eyes locked on me. Mortified by my stupidity, I jitter forward with a little poop in my pants. He seems suspicious, I blame the panic on being late, he looks me up and down and nods to move on. The relief is fucking immense, but suddenly the realisation that Stansted is the stupidest airport in the galaxy hits like Tyson in his prime. Commercial shops combined with fucking slow-walking imbeciles everywhere. That’s how they control the masses, fuck your capitalism. I hate you all.

Glance up at a screen and it’s 4 minutes to departure time. Put my head down and run as fast as I can, but my saggy jeans start to ride around my thighs. I’d sacrificed putting my belt back on for more running time. Another poor life gamble lost. Unrelenting, one hand clutching my waistband, one hand in my pocket to stop everything falling out, I charge like Chucky on a chase. I’m pretty sure my bag smashes into some poor kid’s head. I hear some dads background abuse, but nothing was going to stop me, not even this bloody stitch.

Okay, fuck, I underestimated you bastard stitch. Actually have to stop and peel over, only 3 fucking gates away from the promised land. After catching my breath I muster whatever energy I have left to claw myself to the gate just as they are shutting the barrier exactly on departure time.

Wooooohooooooo. Whose the granddaddy of leaving things to the last minute.

And the best bit of it? I don’t have to spend the first two days in the local ghetto finding some dodgy looki looki man to buy some highly dubious overpriced weed.

Sometimes it pays to be a gazer.

Actually, all things considered, I must be a bloody genius.


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