Life & Society
Julian's Week: I can assure MI5 that all my hygiene products are of the non-exploding variety
Published 28 August 2006
Terrorism. I tire of it. And I can live without scary announcements from a home secretary who looks as if he'd be more at ease selling Mr Whippy from an ice-cream van. I'll have the old codger know I have dry skin on an unprecedented scale. I'm not going anywhere by plane if, as you mince on board, you can only carry a plastic bag with your passport inside and nothing more to drink than your own saliva.
Call me a homosexual, but how am I to manage? I don't mind leaving my guns and knives behind when I travel, but the authorities don't seem to care that some of us have vital moisturising needs.
And that's just the tip of the iceberg. I like to amuse myself on long-haul flights by locking myself in one of those unfeasibly small toilet cubicles for a thorough strip wash. I'm in there for hours. I travel with my own towels, soap, exfoliating scrub, pocket-sized enema, deodorant, rehydrating gel and body cream. If my destination is Rio de Janeiro, I will obviously want to Veet my body hair while I'm at it and change into some saucy clean underwear. A little light foundation and a dab of cologne may also pay dividends later when I'm spreadeagled on Copacabana Beach. I can personally assure MI5 and the transport minister that all my hygiene products are of the non-exploding variety. My Louis Vuitton travel bag on wheels was an extravagant buy: I look daggers at anyone who so much as brushes past it in the terminal concourse. While we're at it, I also need my own duck-down pillow, a non-crease kimono, my slippers (cute foam caricatures of Diana and Dodi) and a date-rape drug to knock myself out with. It's in no one's interests for Mr Clary to be tossing and turning all night in first class.
You can't expect me to eat airline food, either. I'd rather swallow afterbirth. No, I cater for myself. A battered saveloy and some plum tomatoes washed down with natural yoghurt, and I'm perfectly content. Miso soup is out since my mini Primus stove was needlessly confiscated at JFK some years ago. The security man got very shouty about it, as I recall, but I put that down to being American. As he gave me a decidedly brutal frisking (if he wants his wristwatch back he'll have to ask nicely), I told him I didn't know what all the fuss was about: "There's many a businessman arrived at Heathrow with a smile on his face, and we can thank my hot ring for that."
Please, if I'm going to be incinerated, can't I at least be well rested, well fed and fragrant?
Generally speaking, I'm very understanding about the need for security. Take my own luxury home, for example: I have a lie detector connected to the closed-circuit video entry system. Anyone who comes to visit must answer a few simple questions before I open the door: "Are you wearing any man-made fibres? Do you have a northern accent?" and "Are you full of hate and consumed with evil thoughts?" Garry Bushell and Robert Kilroy-Silk have been turned away on several occasions.
I'm tired of being asked to display my British resolve and carry on about my business as if all was well with the world, even though the woman sitting next to me on the bus might mix her mascara with her Diet Coke and demolish north London. I'm very sensitive. I take to my bed if I get a bad review in the paper. Being told I might die at any moment has turned me into a gibbering wreck.
Anything louder than a twig breaking, and I assume the brace position. A recent stroll past local roadworks put me in a very compromising position. The rest of the country might be on red alert, but in the Clary household we've taken to the Valium.
I've been on a light sedation since the last time we were told the Grim Reaper was on his way, which was something to do with birds with influenza. What next? Radical, suicidal blue tits that randomly fire exploding bird shit? Wake me up before you blow, blow.
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