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Airports are funny places.  I’ve never been arrested.  I have no criminal record.  As far as I am aware, I’ve never broken the law.  But when I’m at an airport, and I’m heading towards passport control, I feel like I’m hiding a dead body in my hand luggage. 

Those officials make you feel so GUILTY.  Like you’re trying to enter the country with forged documents and that you’re only here to wreak havoc and cause chaos.  There’s that yellow line on the ground that you have to stand behind or you’ll OFFEND THEM.  You’ll make them ANGRY.  And then they might SHOUT AT YOU.  Tell you off for not adhering to the yellow line rule.  You have to approach with such caution for fear of upsetting these people who hold your fate in their hands that you get butterflies in your stomach.

Then you slowly open your passport and look for the page with your name and picture on – you know the one, that page with the photo that makes you look like a sex offender and which you’re stuck with for the next ten years.  You hand it over.  They look at you, and then down at the picture.  Their eyes scan back up to you and they fix you with that glare.  You do your best poker face, trying hard not to crack.  They look back down at the passport, and then back up at you.  And then with a wave of the hand, they let you through.  You have passed the test.  You are safely through passport control.  And you have the last laugh.  Because now they’ll never know about that dead body…


About Twenty8Later

A brand new podcast mocking news, sport & entertainment in handy 28-day chunks. Good times in a terrible, terrible world.

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