I get to Edingburgh airport without a hitch and am glad I upgraded my accomodation from dorm to single room. Yes, I'm getting old. Nothing worse than rising in the morning and having to pack your things in the dark so you don't wake any groggy Australian tourists.
But at the airport I'm unaware of EU regulations. I chuck out by Bic disposal razor when I don't need to. You see, these orange Bic disposable razors are the best you can get and beat any quintuple blade Gillete by a far shave. Those stupid multi-blade razors always get facial hair stuck in them and are designed to cut you after three shaves to make you replace the blade. But those cheap-as-chips Bics? Smooth and comfortable. But this is a travel blog not a men's grooming site. Suffice to say I lost my last precious Bic.
Little did I know that no liquids over 100ml are allowed on EU flights and any under this amount must be sealed in plastic sachets. Those fucking terrorists have made life so hard. I almost throw away the whiskey I've bought for a friend, but the security attendant informs me that I can check the whiskey in and expedite my way through security the second time.
I follow her directions and skip the security line-up. But I'm confronted with a burly shaven blonde boofhead standing after the scanning gates who gets his kicks feeling me up. I mean, a quick frisk is acceptable, but once he starts juggling my balls he's crossed the line. Yes, they are my gonads dickstrap, not sacks of cocaine.
The flight to Dublin is most pleasant. Seeing the Irish coastline edge its way into view is a treat. The disembarkation is smooth, and there is no one at customs asking me if I have anything to declare, to which I would have to reply, a-la Oscar Wilde, "only my genitals."
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