Had a great, albeit brief, time in Cork. Lost the debate by 4 votes but it was a rewarding experience none the less, and I have to credit Steven Best with being a very engaging speaker (even if I did disagree with most of what he had to say).
So, I was going through Gatwick airport security and grumbling to myself as usual about the absurd steps one has to go through just to board a plane. Passport checked, photo taken, shoes off, laptop out of bag, jacket off, pocket contents in tray, step through metal detector hoping that I haven't forgotten to put keys on the tray, wander to other side of X-ray conveyor belt to stand in my socks waiting for the return of my property. After 30 seconds or so of boredom I notice that a rather disconcerting number of security staff are staring at the X-ray screen, and I don't have my personal effects back yet. A wave of terror flashes through my mind, instantly obliterating any thoughts of defiance with images of cavity searches and weeks in jail with no charge. Had I forgotten to remove a craft knife from my bag in my haste to pack? Surely I didn't allow that old gun-shaped lighter to get in there? My heart starts racing and I go even paler than usual. This, of course, makes me worry more. Are these government stooges trained to recognise guilty-looking facial expressions? Am I looking guilty right now? If I try to compensate, am I just going to end up looking more guilty? Slowly, the security guard brings the bag over to me, looking solemn. I get the feeling that another one is standing behind me, no doubt ready to incapacitate me should I turn out to be Bin Laden wearing an elaborate disguise.
"Did you pack this bag yourself, sir?"
I think I have. Perhaps I've been the victim of some horrible prank?
"Uhh, yes I did"
"And where are you going today?"
Shit. Ireland and political activism? Surely that's not going to go down well with The Man.
"I'm flying to Cork to, uh, to participate in a debate"
"Is there any reason you'd be carrying firearm ammunition in your bag?"
Bullets? I've never even fired anything but a shotgun. Could they have mistaken the pile of batteries I carry around for ammo?
"I don't think so..."
The guard starts rummaging around in my backpack, and suddenly I realise what the whole fuss is about. I guide him to the bottom and there it is- a decommissioned rifle bullet I bought as a souvenir from some military museum five years ago. He gives me a short telling off and confiscates the offending article, briefly criticises the messy nature of my bag and lets me on my way. I wander out of the security area, now paranoid that I've been put on some kind of watch list and wondering how many actual terrorists the whole elaborate system manages to catch.
In other news, take a look at one of my mates'
new art blog which already has some rather cool, pretty weird and delightfully geeky stuff on there.