BREXIT VIBES
Trouble with drug money, visas, and an unchaperoned vagina
Right, that’s it. I’m bloody well leaving. In fact, by the time you read this post, I’ll be long gone. I’m fleeing to Europe to spend the winter doing European things, like looking wistfully out of windows and having my tea1 in the middle of the night. Well, I am, as long as I can get through passport control first.
Only since Brexit have I had to be concerned about my ability to get into Europe. You know, it always made me laugh when people were accusing Leave voters of not understanding the issues with the EU and only caring about the colour of their passport, because the truth is that I didn’t understand the issues with the EU and my only reason for voting Remain was so that I could brandish my lovely red passport around like a smug wanker, flitting in and out of Europe without a care in the world, or at least without a clue in the wider Schengen Area.
I don’t want to get too political here, but bear with me, because the other week I walked past a shop called Brexit Vibes. This was in Hull, birthplace of William Wilberforce, and current home of giant carnivorous goldfish. Brexit Vibes is almost certainly a front for some kind of drug money laundering scheme, which I’m sure is a thing all over Europe, so I’m not sure what makes it so Brexity. But then in Europe they probably do their money laundering in satin smoking jackets while listening to opera. Whereas in Hull, it’s all Radio 107FM and getting Greggs sausage roll crumbs in the drug money.
If it’s not already obvious, I still have no idea what Brexit actually means, except that it pisses me off that when I want to go somewhere with civilised drug money laundering facilities I now have to stand in a massive queue with people from Uzbekistan and Canada and then get my passport photo examined by a cold-eyed official who probably had a croissant for breakfast while listening to Vanessa Paradis’ first album and who I’m almost certain secretly assumes I eat beans on toast and marmite every day, WHICH I DO NOT.
Getting into countries is a new problem, but getting out of them has always been a bit of an issue for me. I didn’t leave the UK until I was in my early twenties, when I went on an ill-advised jaunt to Amsterdam for New Year with some friends. Out of an excess of stupidity optimism, we didn’t bother booking anywhere to stay while we were there, so spent the entire weekend tripping out of our gourds in various clubs, cafes, bars and doorways, and taking turns crying about what dumb idiots we were. On our last night we lost the will to face any more wide-eyed Dutch people sitting next to us on icy benches and asking if we wanted to buy some ketamine, which we didn’t because we had already spent all our money on weed and ecstasy, so we headed instead to the airport, where we debated for about three hours whether one of our number should post some magic mushrooms home to herself from the airport postbox. The discussion went on interminably until eventually I snapped and said something along the lines of, for fuck’s sake will you just make up your fucking mind it’s not like Interpol are really going to give a shit about your stupid little bag of Mexican Mindbenders is it. We then spent the next five hours debating why I was such a horrible bitch. All in all, a successful night – or at least preferable to spending eight hours hallucinating in freezing circles around a snowy Dam Square before they would let us leave.
The next country I tried to get out of was Japan. I was still a bit of a noob at international travel then, and had, without noticing, overstayed my visa by one (measly) day. This led to a really fun introduction to Japanese immigration controls, as I was dragged into a tiny room at the airport and made to stand there while a small angry man berated me in Japanese for upwards of an hour. I tried to follow what he was saying, but the only bit of it I really got was 愚かな外国人 which roughly translates as ‘stupid foreign bitch’. Having spent some time weeping, begging, and prostrating myself before the angry little man, I was eventually given my passport back and allowed to leave with minutes to spare to make my flight. In those days I was a smoker, but it wasn’t until a brief stopover in Taiwan that I was finally able to light a cigarette, calm my shaking hands and look in the dictionary to find out what 低能者 meant.
A while later, when attempting to leave Egypt (which to be honest, I should have done before I even arrived) I took a taxi to the airport in the early hours of the morning. The driver hated me on account of my getting into his taxi with an unchaperoned vagina, and he drove me to the wrong terminal. I knew it was the wrong terminal, because it hadn’t been built yet, and was mainly just a big hole in the ground. However, my protests to the driver were to no avail, and he kicked me out into the dark, throwing my heavy rucksack after me. I had no choice but to walk past the gangs of construction workers smoking and muttering in the shadows as I stumbled over the rubble, heading for the lights of the correct airport terminal in the terrifyingly far distance.
By contrast, it always used to be quite relaxing coming in and out of Europe. Nowadays I notice I’m viewed with more suspicion, not to say hostility. Where I’m going, who I’m staying with, and my plans to leave again are all hot topics at the passport control desk. I have to stop myself from saying, “Look, I eat croissants too, I mean, as long as they’re gluten-free. I like all kinds of cured meats. And I can order coffee in six different European languages. I’m practically a polyglot! I also have no qualms about taking my clothes off in front of a mixed crowd, dipping a Lipton’s teabag in a glass of warm water and calling it a cuppa, or standing around not talking to anyone at parties. They can take Europe off my passport, but they can’t take it out of my soul!”
Alas, I fear my speech would fall on stony ears. All I can do is wave my return tickets at the passport officer and reassure them that I will actually be leaving their country before too long, and not to worry about any Brexit vibes they’re getting. It’s probably just the lingering scent of Greggs sausage roll that no true Britisher can ever wash away.
A P.S. to my readers: As mentioned above, I’m orf! I’m on a writing retreat until the end of January. I’ll still be posting every Friday, but one or two posts will be dragged up from the archives as I’m going to be busy laundering money writing the Greatest Novel of the Century (working title) doing other things. Paying subscribers will get a post on Sunday with an update about what’s happening while I’m away. If you have questions about your subscription or literally anything else, please get in touch. Thanks for reading and supporting The Distractionist!
Dinner, to posh people and Americans. Normal British people have their tea at 5pm.
Ohh the unchaperoned vagina... Yes, I had unchaperoned boobs in India. Accidentally caused quite the stir.
God I love this. At times it's like you cracked my own head open.