Nanuk Hit by the War on Terror

The aftermath of yesterday's prevention of a devastating series of bomb attacks on trans-Atlantic flights has a direct and frightening consequence for this poor writer.

As has been discussed elsewhere in this blog, I am not a good flyer. It is not so much fear of crashing which can engender panic attacks, it is a sense of claustrophobia - that once airborne I am very much committed to being on the flight and have no escape except to ride it out until the wheels touch land again.

Ironically, it was the Arabs who invented the device which has provided so much relief for my affliction: distilled alcohol. Now for those of you who are used to flying in more civilized climes, a shot of on-board vodka or scotch for medicinal purposes is only a touch of the flight attendant button away. But for those of us flying in the Arctic we usually have no such recourse.

Most of the flights I take have no bar service, and my work-around involves filling up a water bottle with vodka placed in my hand luggage - discrete, odorless and comforting. But with the ban of all liquids being carried on board I am right fucked for the foreseable future. In my many years of flying, I have for decades of successfully passing through airport security checks with my stash of vodka - even with open, half-consumed liquor bottles - without so much as raising an eyebrow from the guards. But all that changed yesterday.

It wouldn't be so bad if airport security adopted the same policy as asking mothers to drink a sip of their baby's formula to prove it wasn't nitroglycerine. I would be happy to take a slug or two of vodka out of my water bottle in front of security personnel if it would make them happy.

Let's hope these current measures get phased out really soon. They really cramp my style.