Thursday, November 18, 2004
Does anyone know the best way to get a copy of security footage from an international airport?
I'll tell you why. Last friday afternoon when I took the Jungfrau to the Eastern Kingdom, we were so amazed at how smoothly the preparation for this trip had gone that when it came time to actually get to the skyport, it came as no surprise that we were running late. Dublin traffic is world-class shite, especially around Pearse Street which is a vital city centre one-way road of 4 lanes that often resembles a car park. You just drive up, join the queue, put it in neutral and watch the world turn around you. That's how you get through it. You just wait for the planet to spin on its axis a bit and suddenly you've trundled along to the edge of the Liffey and are ready to cross into the 'scary' northside. But our taxi did a fine job and got us there with almost an hour to spare so we checked in, wandered round and got some food before going through security (taking the jackets off, leaving the wallet and phone in the tray provided etc) and finally ambling towards our gate. We arrived with 10 minutes to spare and thought we might amble back a bit to the bookshop and get a few newspapers. We were, i must point out here, at the far end of the airport gates. Dublin airport is massive because there's only one terminal, so potentially you have a very long walk from any given point A to point B in your journey. For this reason alone I would support the calls for a second terminal. It'd also mean all the Ryanair passengers on their way to countryside municipal airfields mockingly titled 'Paris', 'Brussels' etc, can be shunted off to another bulding entirely leaving space for international business travellers like myself to pretend to forget what country im in, conspicuously read the IHT and wear panama hats and slacks in peace.
So back round the corner, up the stairs and round another corner we're at the bookshop. Gate is opening in maybe 7 minutes by now? Ooh look, it's the new edition of Fuck and Cunt, i'll just check how much change i've got in my wallet....which....is....where?
OH FOCK
Mobile?
NO.
OF COURSE NOT.
That'd be too easy. I've lost my method of payment for a four day holiday and my means of communication once im there. Some cheapo-airline land-pirate chavver must have filthed the very heart and lungs of my careful Operation and i'm boarding in, ooh look, just 5 minutes. Can i do without them, living on the Module's money for the weekend? Sure I can, it wouldn't be the first time.
But my credit card is in there. It's the only means of collecting the tickets for the concert for which the entire trip has been planned. We realise that no, it's not been nicked. Probably not, anyway. I must have left it in the tray at security. We call my phone. 3 times we get no reply. Fuck, maybe it has been nicked? Security would answer, surely? We go back almost to the gate. I give her my hand luggage.
My last words:
'Go to Vienna'.
Her face is reminiscent of the time when the vet told us her dog had to be put down. Immediately.
There is one flight a day. It costs loads. If i don't get my wallet back, i cant even afford to get home from the skystation.
I run like the fucking wind although it probably resemble more a hurricane blowing some wildly moving gigantic object, like a trailer with a burger-heavy American being shunted around inside it. I bolt down the corridor, up the stairs, round the bend, jumping past, over and through groups of people who god quickly chucked in my way to make the task just that little bit more fucking cinematic. Down the looooooooong corridor with the flat-escalator and then out of the bit we came in and...oh...hang on, i didnt see that before. Oh FUCK it's PASSPORT CONTROL. Of course. On the way in you walk through it and dont see it, like a road sign on the other side not designed for your eyes. But this is arrivals as well as departures and i'm now having to jump a queue of prying eyes and explain to the man with the twisted-up features that i lost my wallet and phone in security and could i run thru please cos im boarding literally now. The nasty-faced old git turns out to be a a really beautiful guy and lets me through immediately. Doesnt even look at the passport (remember this one next time you're geniunely trying to pull a transnational crime - act like a flustered englishman with a trouser full of snakes and mongeese). I suddenly find myself not back at the duty-free bit which is just by security. oh no. i'm going towards the baggage hall, of course.
Fucky bollos.
I run the full length and then go thru the green channel (how weird that mustve looked - a bloke steaming through the Nothing To Declare signal looking for all the world like he's got something very, very important to declare). I run out of Arrivals, half expecting cheers from the waiting crowd and run to the escalator down the hall and up to Departures once more which is on the floor above. Are you still with me?
Then I just have to go straight past a 5-line queue snaking slowly through to security, so I run straight to the bloke at the entrance who checks the passports and explain my situation. He's not having ANY of it. Doesn't believe i've checked in, even
'Where's yer boarding cord, den?'
-It's, um, here (fumbling in my pocket, pulling out receipts and bogie-crusts).
I finally pull it out. But it's only the ticket. The all-important stub has become detached. More fumbling, more bogies (i must get a stash-box for them or something) and finally the stub comes out too. He directs me over to the staff at the x-ray machine where i left them. I hope. One lady directs me to her colleauge, who directs me to the lost property office just on the other side past the second x-ray machine, where i attempt to go but am halted by an upset security guy who again, isnt having any of it. I explain my situation. He tells me to calm down and not be in a hurry. My explanation that my plane is leaving now seems not to be hurry-worthy in his eyes. I love the Irish for their relaxed attitude but there's a time and a place for it. And when you think about it, a major international airport during working hours is, outside of a Grand Prix meeting, perhaps the least appropriate time or place to tell someone to 'slow down and wait yer furigging torn'.
He takes me through to Lost Property, although I have to go thru the machine again, and he makes me stand outside while he discusses in painful length with the bloke inside what's come in today. I can hear my phone RINGING in his hand. It's the Module having another go. He comes out with my wallet and phone in his hands and asks me, very simply:
'What make is your mobile phone?'
I have no idea
actually, i DO know but id forget my own legs at a time like this if they weren't wobbling and burning from the run.
suddenly, from deep within the filthiest confines of my short term memory, the word ERICSSON leaps out and fucks him in the face. He's forced to hand them over, no doubt upset that he couldnt nick them for himself, spending his evening playing Q-Bert on my phone and masturbating over the pictures of me and the m.m. looking lovely in my wallet. No, tonight it is I that shall have that pleasure.
If only I could get back to the fucking gate in time. I call the little lady and explain, she only has the one word for me - 'HURRY'. I set off again, in serious breathing difficulties this time as the previous exertion catches up with me. But something urges me on, even as I clutch my guts in pain. Is it the thrill of the chase? Is it the wish to see my beloved's face light up again at the sight of her heroic boyfriend not stranding her in Sausage City for a night and a day? Or is it the 600 euro i spent on the flights which I won't be getting back? You be the judge. But I would urge you to consider the third option most carefully before passing verdict.
Back through all the corridors, bends and escalators, brushing past tonnes of amblers as if it were that old Arcade game where you have to hit the things on their sides to score points. The best bit was when I was bombing down a long corridor in front of loads of people and my wallet, still in my hands, spontaneously explodes in a hail of coinage and although i dont even contemplate stopping to pick them all up i notice that a juicy two-euro coin is rolling along the ground at the same speed and direction as me so with one courageous dip i bend down, whilst stll running full pelt, and scoop it up in my greedy little jew-paw. I then sit down and lick it, talking to it in all sorts of Yiddish love words and then, forgetting all about my flight i pull out some blood-libel crackers and spread some pate of young Christian girl on them. My fangs are dripping with anticipation.
No i don't. i was merely possessed by the spirit of my old schoolfriends and their infinitely subtle parodic skills for a second.
Instead, I scoop it up and continue on my way, to the sound of some amused and approving, whooping voices from the passengers behind me who just witnessed my wicked skills TO THE MAX. At some point, I will draw a diagram or perhaps re-eanct it on film to see if it stands up to the legendary physics-defying levitation trick that was performed unintentionally by myself and the Friar a long time ago. We shall see.
Down the stairs, round the bend and down the corridor to the gate, I make it, spluttering and wretching to find just the long-suffering Module and a uniformed lady standing there to separate my ticket from its stub. Everybody else is on the plane.
And to top it all, my ticket has already be destubbed, thus effectively denying this lady a chance to lead a productive cameo role in the story of my life. I would still like to pay tribute to her, however, for holding up the plane for me, thus throwing take-off and arrival schedules worldwide in complete disarray. Although I have no idea if this is true but i believe it to be so.
And as i walked through the little box corridor and collapsed into my seat at the front of the plane, wretched and knicknacked as i was, i couldn't help feeling that no matter how it felt at the time, no mind that it almost spunked my entire life up, when all is said and done my spastic dash across the Dublin International Airport must've looked the fucking BUSINESS.
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I'll tell you why. Last friday afternoon when I took the Jungfrau to the Eastern Kingdom, we were so amazed at how smoothly the preparation for this trip had gone that when it came time to actually get to the skyport, it came as no surprise that we were running late. Dublin traffic is world-class shite, especially around Pearse Street which is a vital city centre one-way road of 4 lanes that often resembles a car park. You just drive up, join the queue, put it in neutral and watch the world turn around you. That's how you get through it. You just wait for the planet to spin on its axis a bit and suddenly you've trundled along to the edge of the Liffey and are ready to cross into the 'scary' northside. But our taxi did a fine job and got us there with almost an hour to spare so we checked in, wandered round and got some food before going through security (taking the jackets off, leaving the wallet and phone in the tray provided etc) and finally ambling towards our gate. We arrived with 10 minutes to spare and thought we might amble back a bit to the bookshop and get a few newspapers. We were, i must point out here, at the far end of the airport gates. Dublin airport is massive because there's only one terminal, so potentially you have a very long walk from any given point A to point B in your journey. For this reason alone I would support the calls for a second terminal. It'd also mean all the Ryanair passengers on their way to countryside municipal airfields mockingly titled 'Paris', 'Brussels' etc, can be shunted off to another bulding entirely leaving space for international business travellers like myself to pretend to forget what country im in, conspicuously read the IHT and wear panama hats and slacks in peace.
So back round the corner, up the stairs and round another corner we're at the bookshop. Gate is opening in maybe 7 minutes by now? Ooh look, it's the new edition of Fuck and Cunt, i'll just check how much change i've got in my wallet....which....is....where?
OH FOCK
Mobile?
NO.
OF COURSE NOT.
That'd be too easy. I've lost my method of payment for a four day holiday and my means of communication once im there. Some cheapo-airline land-pirate chavver must have filthed the very heart and lungs of my careful Operation and i'm boarding in, ooh look, just 5 minutes. Can i do without them, living on the Module's money for the weekend? Sure I can, it wouldn't be the first time.
But my credit card is in there. It's the only means of collecting the tickets for the concert for which the entire trip has been planned. We realise that no, it's not been nicked. Probably not, anyway. I must have left it in the tray at security. We call my phone. 3 times we get no reply. Fuck, maybe it has been nicked? Security would answer, surely? We go back almost to the gate. I give her my hand luggage.
My last words:
'Go to Vienna'.
Her face is reminiscent of the time when the vet told us her dog had to be put down. Immediately.
There is one flight a day. It costs loads. If i don't get my wallet back, i cant even afford to get home from the skystation.
I run like the fucking wind although it probably resemble more a hurricane blowing some wildly moving gigantic object, like a trailer with a burger-heavy American being shunted around inside it. I bolt down the corridor, up the stairs, round the bend, jumping past, over and through groups of people who god quickly chucked in my way to make the task just that little bit more fucking cinematic. Down the looooooooong corridor with the flat-escalator and then out of the bit we came in and...oh...hang on, i didnt see that before. Oh FUCK it's PASSPORT CONTROL. Of course. On the way in you walk through it and dont see it, like a road sign on the other side not designed for your eyes. But this is arrivals as well as departures and i'm now having to jump a queue of prying eyes and explain to the man with the twisted-up features that i lost my wallet and phone in security and could i run thru please cos im boarding literally now. The nasty-faced old git turns out to be a a really beautiful guy and lets me through immediately. Doesnt even look at the passport (remember this one next time you're geniunely trying to pull a transnational crime - act like a flustered englishman with a trouser full of snakes and mongeese). I suddenly find myself not back at the duty-free bit which is just by security. oh no. i'm going towards the baggage hall, of course.
Fucky bollos.
I run the full length and then go thru the green channel (how weird that mustve looked - a bloke steaming through the Nothing To Declare signal looking for all the world like he's got something very, very important to declare). I run out of Arrivals, half expecting cheers from the waiting crowd and run to the escalator down the hall and up to Departures once more which is on the floor above. Are you still with me?
Then I just have to go straight past a 5-line queue snaking slowly through to security, so I run straight to the bloke at the entrance who checks the passports and explain my situation. He's not having ANY of it. Doesn't believe i've checked in, even
'Where's yer boarding cord, den?'
-It's, um, here (fumbling in my pocket, pulling out receipts and bogie-crusts).
I finally pull it out. But it's only the ticket. The all-important stub has become detached. More fumbling, more bogies (i must get a stash-box for them or something) and finally the stub comes out too. He directs me over to the staff at the x-ray machine where i left them. I hope. One lady directs me to her colleauge, who directs me to the lost property office just on the other side past the second x-ray machine, where i attempt to go but am halted by an upset security guy who again, isnt having any of it. I explain my situation. He tells me to calm down and not be in a hurry. My explanation that my plane is leaving now seems not to be hurry-worthy in his eyes. I love the Irish for their relaxed attitude but there's a time and a place for it. And when you think about it, a major international airport during working hours is, outside of a Grand Prix meeting, perhaps the least appropriate time or place to tell someone to 'slow down and wait yer furigging torn'.
He takes me through to Lost Property, although I have to go thru the machine again, and he makes me stand outside while he discusses in painful length with the bloke inside what's come in today. I can hear my phone RINGING in his hand. It's the Module having another go. He comes out with my wallet and phone in his hands and asks me, very simply:
'What make is your mobile phone?'
I have no idea
actually, i DO know but id forget my own legs at a time like this if they weren't wobbling and burning from the run.
suddenly, from deep within the filthiest confines of my short term memory, the word ERICSSON leaps out and fucks him in the face. He's forced to hand them over, no doubt upset that he couldnt nick them for himself, spending his evening playing Q-Bert on my phone and masturbating over the pictures of me and the m.m. looking lovely in my wallet. No, tonight it is I that shall have that pleasure.
If only I could get back to the fucking gate in time. I call the little lady and explain, she only has the one word for me - 'HURRY'. I set off again, in serious breathing difficulties this time as the previous exertion catches up with me. But something urges me on, even as I clutch my guts in pain. Is it the thrill of the chase? Is it the wish to see my beloved's face light up again at the sight of her heroic boyfriend not stranding her in Sausage City for a night and a day? Or is it the 600 euro i spent on the flights which I won't be getting back? You be the judge. But I would urge you to consider the third option most carefully before passing verdict.
Back through all the corridors, bends and escalators, brushing past tonnes of amblers as if it were that old Arcade game where you have to hit the things on their sides to score points. The best bit was when I was bombing down a long corridor in front of loads of people and my wallet, still in my hands, spontaneously explodes in a hail of coinage and although i dont even contemplate stopping to pick them all up i notice that a juicy two-euro coin is rolling along the ground at the same speed and direction as me so with one courageous dip i bend down, whilst stll running full pelt, and scoop it up in my greedy little jew-paw. I then sit down and lick it, talking to it in all sorts of Yiddish love words and then, forgetting all about my flight i pull out some blood-libel crackers and spread some pate of young Christian girl on them. My fangs are dripping with anticipation.
No i don't. i was merely possessed by the spirit of my old schoolfriends and their infinitely subtle parodic skills for a second.
Instead, I scoop it up and continue on my way, to the sound of some amused and approving, whooping voices from the passengers behind me who just witnessed my wicked skills TO THE MAX. At some point, I will draw a diagram or perhaps re-eanct it on film to see if it stands up to the legendary physics-defying levitation trick that was performed unintentionally by myself and the Friar a long time ago. We shall see.
Down the stairs, round the bend and down the corridor to the gate, I make it, spluttering and wretching to find just the long-suffering Module and a uniformed lady standing there to separate my ticket from its stub. Everybody else is on the plane.
And to top it all, my ticket has already be destubbed, thus effectively denying this lady a chance to lead a productive cameo role in the story of my life. I would still like to pay tribute to her, however, for holding up the plane for me, thus throwing take-off and arrival schedules worldwide in complete disarray. Although I have no idea if this is true but i believe it to be so.
And as i walked through the little box corridor and collapsed into my seat at the front of the plane, wretched and knicknacked as i was, i couldn't help feeling that no matter how it felt at the time, no mind that it almost spunked my entire life up, when all is said and done my spastic dash across the Dublin International Airport must've looked the fucking BUSINESS.
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