MY CUSTOMS CUSTOM

Cracking my medievalist whip, I ventured to Oxford. My trip began in the traditional way for me, with me being stopped In U.K customs for a reason I have yet to determine. I can count on one hand the amount of times I've flown into England and I haven't at least been stopped momentarily. It's not as if I wear my "Al Qaeda Aren't So Bad" tee-shirt every time I fly. Or do I have an I.R.A Doppelganger out there somewhere? No wonder I was so nervous going to Belfast, I must have a "quality" that says "This guy's trouble." If not a quality, I do have a tee-shirt that says that. Note to self.
This time I was stopped, taken aside and asked to fill out this questionnare, while the copper flicked through my passport asking me what I was doing in the U.S in 2002 et cetera. I just calmly accepted the drumming of questions with a resigned patience, I felt like one of the usual suspects in a police line-up. Afterwards I heard the familiar:
"Nothing to worry about sir, just a random check," He said as he was cramming an endoscopic camera in a tender place. Okay, so I made that last bit up, but I did laugh to myself about the intrusiveness of this "random check," and wondered about the mathematical possibility that 8 out of ten visits should result in a "random" check. I mean, how long would it be until I heard:
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random strip search."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random crevice inspection."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random brutal beating."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random forced-confession signing."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random being jailed for 15 years for a crime you did not commit due to a gross perversion of justice."
"Oh, no problem, you're just doing your job!"

Mind you, maybe they're all reading the Flog and have targeted me as a trouble-maker.
Oops.

So let me finish off by saying how much I admire Her Majesty's Police Force. They are consummate professionals, and their helmets don't look in the least bit like breasts. The next time I fly to Englan I know a part of me will be sad if my old friends don't give me at least a quick acknowledging penetrating stare.
"Have you forgotten me?" I'll say, "I feel so, so common..."