In a development that has sent a shiver of gin-scented terror through the British holidaymaking classes, some airport boss or other has emerged from his lair of duty-free Baileys and executive parking to declare that EU border delays are ‘not bearable’ this summer. The sheer audacity of such a statement. Bearable. As if queueing in a snaking cattle pen of disgruntled humanity while some junior border guard stares at your passport like it’s a coded message from an alien civilisation has ever been bearable. But no, this man says it will be worse. Unbearable. The thesaurus is his sword. The summer of 2025 will be the summer of standing. Standing and fuming. Standing and watching the sun set twice over the same baggage carousel.
One applauds the specificity of the warning: it is not merely that delays might occur, or even that they might be inconvenient, but that they will exist in a state of un-bear-ability, a word that sounds like something a bear might say after being poked with a stick by a French customs official. The airport boss, whose name I have regrettably filed under ‘Pinstripe Gobshite’, has told Reuters, the news agency that once reported on actual wars before descending to this, that the current e-gate system is ‘fragile’ and that there is ‘no resilience’ in the system. Fragile. Like an orchid. Or the ego of a motivational speaker. No resilience. Unlike the British holidaymaker, who will endure anything for a pint of lager in a plastic cup served by a surly teenager in an airport bar at 6am.
But let’s examine the real crisis here: a shortage of bearable experiences. This is not about e-gates or facial recognition software failing to recognise faces that have been rearranged by sleep deprivation and overpriced breakfast pastries. This is about the Soul of Britain. We are a nation built on queuing. We queue for buses, for the Queen’s lying-in-state (RIP, old fruit), for the toilet in Wetherspoons. But we queue on the understanding that there is a reward at the end: a seat, a glimpse of a monarch, a urinal. The EU border queue offers nothing but another queue, and then possibly a grumpy stamp in a burgundy book that still says ‘European Union’ on it like a badge of resentment.
The airport boss suggests we should ‘arrive early’. Early. As if we have not already sacrificed our firstborns to the gods of security checkpoints, removing shoes and belts and dignity in a ritual that predates the Druids. He recommends we leave three hours for Europe. Three hours. That is longer than the flight to Spain. That is longer than most marriages in the celebrity pages. That is time enough to drink six miniature bottles of gin at £8 each and regret every life choice that led you to this moment.
The real scandal, however, is that this news is being delivered at all. Why warn the public? Why not just let the chaos unfold like a beautiful, horrible flower of mismanaged bureaucracy? Because that would be ‘irresponsible’, says the man who probably also believes in ‘public service’ and ‘the national interest’. Please. The only national interest here is the interest on the debt we owe the universe for the karmic imbalance of promising a sun-drenched holiday and delivering a fourteen-hour delay in a terminal that smells of stale croissants and regret.
I propose a solution: scrap the e-gates entirely. Replace them with a single man with a rubber stamp and a copy of the Daily Mail. Let him decide, on a whim, who enters. It would be no slower than the current system, and it would provide entertainment. Alternatively, we could all simply stay home and drink gin in our gardens, staring at the sky and imagining we are abroad. This is called the Matthew Effect: to those who have (gardens, gin), more will be given (time, peace). To those who have not (only a Ryanair booking and a desperate hope), even the two hours of bearable queueing will be taken away.
So brace yourselves, Britain. The summer of 2025 is not for the faint of heart, the weak of bladder, or the sober of spirit. Pack sandwiches. Pack patience. Pack a book long enough to rival the complete works of Proust. And above all, pack more gin than you think you need. Because you will need it. You will absolutely need it.
