Waiting to walk through the scanner at Manchester Airport, a security official asked me to take off my jacket and put it through the scanner. The ‘jacket’ was actually an ordinary shirt over a tee-shirt, which I pointed out in a friendly manner, expecting him to wave me through.
“Take it off,” he insisted.
“But it’s a shirt,” exasperation started to creep into my voice.
“Take it off and put it in the tray.”
“What?” exasperation turned to irritation. “You really want me to take off my shirt?”
“Take off a shirt? Seriously?” I guess by this point my eyes had silently added “ya wee prick,” to the end of the sentence.
I took off my shirt and stuck it into a tray.
I breezed through the scanner, even though I expected to be directed aside to be ‘swabbed’. Oh no, they had other plans for dealing with me.
I watched as the tray with the shirt headed along a different track to most of the other trays. It slid to a stop at the back of a line of other ‘suspicious’ trays. The crumpled olive shirt looking quite silly and seriously out of place among a long convoy of bulging flight bags.
“This is what happens when you can’t control your mouth,” A, who had waltzed though without incident, was annoyed with me. My shirt being singled out for further inspection meant we were going to have to hang around security for a bit longer, until it was my turn to… to do what exactly? Open up the shirt to show there was nothing suspicious in it?
A quietly fumed at me. Harshly I felt, I still believed questioning something as nonsensical as having to remove a shirt was reasonable. I hadn’t been offensive. My expression may have been of the ‘you can’t be serious’ variety, but I had generally reacted in a calm, if slightly exasperated, manner.
Eventually my turn rolled around, slowly. I expected the female official to simply hand the shirt to me, maybe with a an apologetic smile (she would surely see the ridiculousness of the shirt being in the ‘suspicious baggage’ line). I was going to smile back and remark “the colour must have really offended him.” Then we’d both laugh and all would be well. But she was in on whatever was going on, and they were apparently still punishing me for questioning having to take off the shirt.
“It didn’t scan properly, you’ll have to put it through again,” she didn’t even look at the shirt or my face.
A shirt didn’t scan properly? What bollocks. I knew it. They knew it.
However, this time I meekly replied“okay,” and did as I was instructed.
I was only too aware the next stage would probably end with me having a finger stuck up my anus.