More smuggling
Peelmytangerines' story reminds me of a smuggling story of my own. So, end of first year at uni and, what with it being first year of uni and everything, I'd been having a somewhat on-off fling with Mary Joe Anna.
Come the end of year and time to be picked up I'm left with about half an eighth left. Do I chuck it or donate it to the numerous needy individuals living around my Halls in Camberwell (for those unfamiliar with the nature of this particular area of South London, watch Withnail and I). Do I bollocks. Tight arse that I am I stick it, along with some tobacco and skins, in an empty fag packet and tuck it into my shoulder bag.

So, all's progressing well untill a week or so later and my family and I are belting down the M1 heading towards Heathrow, late as usual for a flight on our way to Trinidad (does it make it any better if I point out that it was all paid for through Air Miles and Hotel loyalty points my Dad got through work?). Suddenly a chorus of angels appear singing to me: "you still have illegal drugs in your bag, in a container that will look mightily suspicious on an X-Ray. You are just about to go through airport security. You are fuuuuuccccckkkeeeed."

The following conversation ensues at the airport:
"Mum, I need to go to the loo"
"Don't worry, you can go after the security check"
"No, I'd prefer to go now"
"Don't be so silly it's only a few minutes"
[Staring deeply into her eyes in the manner of a stage hyptonist/Obi-Wan Kenobi]
"No, Mum, I. Really. Need. To. Go. NOW."

Anyway, even after getting licence to go to the loo (I fessed up, thankfully Mum was something of a hippy chick in her younger days and just laughed) I still hadn't learnt my lesson. Flush it? Hell, no, imagine getting stoned on a Trinidadian beach. Down the sock it goes.

So, Security check at Heathrow was breezed through and everything looked plain sailing. Except for the fact that we had to change at Miami ariport. Miami airport. Home of the most intense anti-drugs policing of any airport in the world. Oh, poo.

Sure enough, while waiting at the carousel for the bags along comes an armed-to-the-teeth (well, he had a gun which is scary enough for us Brits) cop with the obigatory Alsatian in tow. And guess what the Alsation immediately takes an interest in? That's right, My Left Foot. The longest, most agonising minute of my life is then spent whistling and attempting to look nonchalant (and I'm not even sure I can spell it) while German Shepphard spittle is trickling into my left shoe. And then... the cop just tugs his adorable doggy away.

I was completely baffled until I saw the sign on the wall reading "Attention all UK visitors: no meat or dairy products are permitted to be imported into the USA." It was right in the middle of the foot and mouth crisis and I can only suppose that the cop in question figured that I wasn't likely to be smuggling a frozen hamburger in my shoe.

The story ends happily with me succeeding in getting stoned on a beach in Trinidad, having become probably the only person in human history to smuggle marijuana from Europe to the Carribean.
(Captcheese, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 15:08, Reply)