Starting This Holiday Stopped Me Finishing…

Exeter Drop’s new anonymous blogger seeks to share her misfortunes with you.

Unnamed and shamed

I have always struggled at being smooth, you may notice it in my writing style. Personally I feel making a complete tit of myself has been one of my strong points. It has been difficult to use this to win at life but maybe making others laugh at my misfortunes is the way forward.


God forbid, you may even learn something from my experiences. In this case, as summer approaches, I’m going to give you a lesson on what not to pack in your suitcase when going abroad.

Airports, stressful at the best of times, but so far it had been fairly easy. Got there just in time. Joshed with the insufferable twit behind the check-in desk over the oversized holes in my jeans.

“Did you notice you had a hole in your jeans love?”

No, actually I like to close my eyes when I get dressed in the morning, just to add a sense of adventure to my sad and banal existence. It’s a wonder I’ve managed to make it as far as check-in without mistaking my suitcase for a giant wheelie bin, you git.

Anyway, baggage disposed, knees revealed, I continued shamelessly on my way, blissfully unaware of what was yet to come.

Having made it through the bomb disposal unit involving tripping during an unsuccessful attempt at flirting at the man behind the machine which seemed to resonate in a lot of bold winking, I was now ready for my next slice of humiliation pie. Come to think of it, I probably looked a bit like some sort of mad pirate.

My mother turned to question the contents of my suitcase. To confess now if I was stowing any cigs, booze or drugs. For once, this was not an attempt to deny me of the smaller joys in my existence, but because we were entering a Muslim country. Bringing in the illegal seemed to range from Harry Potter DVDs to porn.

My mind flickered to the item stowed deeply within my wash bag. Was it safe? Would it be found?


The twat at check-in had only warned me of sharp objects and liquid. Christ. It was too late. I had already entered the gates. I was in the land of no return. Fate must run it’s course.

We’ve landed. The moment has come. The little sweaty man is unzipping my bag. Was it my sheepish grin? Could he see through my eyes to the utter panic eating at the inside of my face? Was it beginning to pour out of my ears?


It’s awkward enough that he was touching my underwear. And my dad is there! Why is my dad there? Can’t he just fuck off? Go do something manly. Oh my life, the little man has reached the wash bag. He is actually opening the wash bag. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. They think it’s all over, it is now…

And there it is. Sitting there plain as day. A very loud, very large and very pink rampant rabbit. There is a delayed pause as the little sweaty man stares up at me. Crap. He turns to his colleague, a hijab wearing women, to confer. Her eyes, the only part of her that I can see fill up with pure horror. The two are looking down at me as if I had been wearing a sign saying, “I can’t believe it’s not butter”, but was actually the devil come to lube up the planet. 


It wasn’t even threatening, it didn’t have veins, I mean it was pink for god’s sake. Just a nice bog standard friendly pink dildo… with a variety of equally friendly settings. Which was now being confiscated in front of my very eyes. With my own dad stood there right next to me.


At least now I can enjoy a wank-free holiday and see if I can manage to avoid eye contact with both parents for a whole two weeks. Brilliant.