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No-one's safe from security ...

Now despite my getting on a little in years, I’m a bit of a workaholic and enjoy seeing people from all forms of life and socio-economic groups.

That, together with a drop in earnings from my investments, has meant a need to take up a part-time job in order to maintain the sort of lifestyle with which I have been accustomed for some decades.

So what did I want to do?

Well I looked at the public service, it didn’t do much for me. Then maybe heading up to Canberra for a spot of MP rabblerousing, but that wasn’t much better because I’d always be in the showers trying to wipe the stench off. Back to newspapers? Fat chance. So I decided upon a spot of security work.

Don’t laugh … I may only be 50 kilos wringing wet and look more like a straw than Arnie Schwarzehugger, but I’m mean when I get riled. Anyway, my first assignment was at the airport and talk about a heavenly first day.

There were lots of lovely hosties only too wiling to chat to a witty old geezer and then I thought all my Christmasses had come at once. Who should walk into my realm but the Prime Monster of Kiwiland, Helen Paintbrush Clarke.

Oho, said I, and casually bowled over to her PMness and asked if she would mind putting her handbag and other odds and sods through the x-ray machine.

This annoyed one of her minders who said: “Don’t you know who this is?”

I feigned stupidity and the exasperated duffer said: “It’s the Prime Minister of New Zealand!”

“What? I didn’t think David Lange (he of the whale-esque proportions) was still in office?”

“He’s not you dope, it’s Ms Clarke.”

“Oh,” said I, dribbling a bit to be more convincing. “You mean the artist?”

“What?” said the crony. “Well isn’t she a famous artist whose marvelous paintings get sold for a lot of money?”

“Look you failed-copper,” quoth he, “she the bloody Prime Minister so she doesn’t need her bags checked by the likes of you? And don’t mention the word paintings near her or you’ll be for it!”

“Well,” says I, drawing myself up to my full 6’ 11” (don’t know what that is in centimetres), “we’ll see about that you lick-spittle.”

“Oooooh, I never …” said the flunky and then before he could draw breath I whispered “gutless wimp.”

It looked as if a full-scale brawl would break out at any second but the hack looked into my crossing and un-crossing eyes and decided he may not get the better of a loony guard with a gun.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I approached the Kiwi PM with my little electronic wand and indicated I’d need to sweep her. There was a slight twinkle in her cold eyes as she eyed the instrument, but we won’t go into that.

Bzzzz, bzzzz, bzzzz went the machine.

Grrrrrr, grrrrr, grrrrrrr went the lick-spittle.

Bzzzzz, peeep, peeeep, peeeep went the machine.

“Oho,” cries I and hit the alarm button.

Well, I can tell you that the proverbial faeces hit the spinning item then. You should have seen it there were guards, police, airport managers and a host of faceless types just having a sticky beak.

Ms Clarke’s face went cerise, then pompadour in colour before turning white with fury. Yup old Paintbrush Clarke was fair bristling. “Come here you,” she boomed.

“Save me guys,” I begged my colleagues who seemed to be enjoying the scene without smiling too much.

Then before I knew it the Prime Monster had picked me up by the ear – making me look a little like Spock from Star Trek – and unleashed a blood-freezing grin.

“Right you horrid man,” she screamed “I’m bloody sick of you. Either let me go or search me.”

“Oooo-er,” squeaked I, and the mental picture of having to conduct a body search had my head spinning. “Help me guys.”

Just then the chief honcho of airport security came over and asked for a report. To end the situation I said that sometimes the explosive detectors could react positively to old paint fumes and so it was entirely within reason to think that was the cause.

At the mention of paint, Clarke whipped her hand around and gave me a massive cuff across my non-Spock ear. “Satisfactory apology,” was all she said and lurched off.

Trying desperately to recover a bit of pride I smiled at the boss and offered to forget about being assaulted and insulted and not take legal action.

I think this saved my job, dear reader, as I was determined to be at work next week – for the visit of His Popiness himself. Won’t that be fun!!!!!!

If there is something that has really got up your nose, let Grumpy Old Coot know at grumpy@webwombat.com