After selling my house I was staying in a trailer on my mother’s farm temporarily while I figured out my next move.
A little over a month before; sat on my sofa one weekday night I realised that I was utterly uninspired by my life and needed to make a big change or die of boredom. I had finished the renovations a year earlier so was rapidly losing interest in the property anyway.
I had applied to go on a reality TV show and made it through the first round of eliminations so was waiting for the next stage to begin.
It was Monday morning and I had nothing planned for the week so thought ‘what the hell, let’s go to Amsterdam.’
I had been there a few times before so met up with some Dutch buddies and enjoyed a righteously stoned three days in that wonderful city. My flight back was due to leave on Thursday afternoon at 5pm so after a leisurely breakfast I spent the rest of the day getting properly stoned.
At some point in the afternoon I decided it was a good idea to try and smuggle some of my favourite weed back home so bought 24g of White Widow, 3g of Moroccan soft resin and a ready rolled joint for the ‘road’.
I headed back to my hotel room and packed my suitcase ready to leave. In those days I usually wore a sock over my stumpy arm to keep it warm and today I thought it would also serve as the perfect hiding place for the weed. I put the Moroccan at the bottom then spread the White Widow out a little in the bag and wrapped it around stumpy then put on the sock. I finished the joint and made my way stonedly to the airport.
Arriving with plenty of time to spare, I headed to check in then walked to the metal detectors to get ‘air’ side. I always prefer to do this straight away just in case of any delays, and to avoid the late arrival rush.
Taking my phone, lighter, keys and loose change out of my pockets and putting them in the plastic tray for inspection, I completely forgot about my belt and walked confidently through the metal detector.
I almost jumped out of my skin as the alarm sounded incredibly loud. I felt all eyes on me and looked about, wishing to be anywhere else. The customs official beckoned me over. As I approached I realised that I had left my belt on and showed the official. He nodded but passed the hand held metal detector over me all the same. Afterwards he asked me to hold my arms out to the side and began the body search.
In my stoned state of mind I was confident that he would avoid touching stumpy completely so casually held out my arms feeling relaxed again. He started at my feet and made his way up. Finally he got to my arms and went straight for stumpy, squeezing it gently. The plastic bag containing the weed made a scrunching sound and everything stopped.
He looked at me and asked “what’s this?” I paused, searching for a suitable lie but none came to mind so, somewhat crestfallen I said “It’s weed Sir.” Silence for a moment, and then he said “You’re under arrest. Come with me.”
We walked across the departure hall and headed to an unsigned door under some stairs. I became a little nervous but knew there was no way to avoid whatever was to come so just went with it. We descended some stairs then entered a small room somewhere under the airport. In the room was a table with a small digital weighing scale on it. “Take it out and put it on the tray” he said. I complied, taking the White Widow out and placing it where I was directed.
The scale beeped once and 24g was flashing on the small digital screen. He nodded and continued writing on his triplicate pad. He asked me for my passport number then indicated that I should sign where he had placed a small ‘x’.
The formalities completed he ushered me out the door and escorted me to the departure lounge then left me. Still pretty stoned I was unsure as to what had actually happened so simply sat and waited for my flight. It was almost 5pm.
The flight from Amsterdam to Manchester takes just under an hour so it was at about 5pm UK time that found me waiting in line to walk through a new machine I hadn’t seen before. Later I would learn that this machine blows ionised air onto your person then the air is analysed to check for drug and explosives residue. Of course, when I walked through the alarm sounded raucously and I was called over to a line of tables attended by more customs officials.
Placing my bag on one of the tables I casually opened it confident that I had nothing to hide. The official began to rummage in my bag and within a few seconds his hand reappeared clutching a small baggie with about a gram of weed in it. My stomach lurched as I recalled buying the weed on my first night so I could enjoy a pipe before bed. “Of course, you do realise that you’re under arrest” he said. ‘Deja Vu!’ I thought to myself.
Behind the official there was a door leading into a small room containing a table and two chairs. The official was accompanied by two others and I was searched by both of them while the first guy went off with my weed.
Finding nothing on me one of the officials sat in the chair opposite me and the other stood outside the door. We had been waiting a couple of minutes when my phone rang. It was on the table in front of me so I reached for it and saw the call was coming from the television production company. I went to answer it but the official said “Oi! What are you doing? You can’t answer that! You’re under arrest.”
I put the phone back down and waited.
Footsteps approached and I heard the door guard ask “Is it any good?” “oh yeah!” came the swift reply, and the door opened.
Gesturing impatiently with his thumb, the first official said “Fuck off then.” “What?” I said, “Fuck off” he said impatiently, “we don’t care about a gram; it’s not worth the paperwork.”
Smiling broadly I exited the airport and jumped into one of the waiting taxis. As we drove away I listened to the message on my answerphone and was ecstatic to learn that I had made it through to the final stage of the selection process for the TV show. Sitting back to enjoy the moment my hand rested on stumpy and I felt the small baggie at the bottom. I’d made it through with the Moroccan after all.