In a move that has sent shivers of anticipation down the collective spine of every travel-weary Briton, the European Union has unveiled its latest masterpiece of bureaucratic engineering: the Entry/Exit System (EES). This digital marvel, designed to track non-EU travellers with the precision of a hawk eyeing a particularly juicy vole, threatens to transform the annual holiday dash into a test of endurance worthy of the SAS. The UK customs authority, bracing for the inevitable chaos, has issued a stern warning to the travelling public: you will be delayed. Gloriously, magnificently delayed.
Let us be clear about what we are dealing with here. The EES is not your average queue. It is a symphony of digitised frustration. From 10 November, every passport will be scanned, every fingerprint logged, every photograph taken with the intensity of a police mugshot. The system will cross-reference your criminal record, your holiday snaps, and possibly your ancestry, all while you stand in a line that snakes through airports like a python digesting a small car. The EU, of course, insists this is all for your safety. They want to prevent overstayers, they claim. But we know the truth: it is a plot to drive the British to madness.
Consider the statistics. The Port of Dover, that sunny gateway to the continent, will be the epicentre of this chaos. Thousands of cars, each containing a family already frayed by 18 months of traffic jams and Brexit-induced fisticuffs, will be forced to idle while uniformed officials peer at screens with the speed of a sloth on sedatives. The result? Bottlenecks of epic proportions. Tailbacks that stretch to Canterbury. And all for what? So some French border guard can decide if your smile looks genuine enough for entry into the Schengen Area.
But the sheer poetry of this disaster must not be overlooked. Imagine the scene: a British father, exhausted after a 4 a.m. drive, is asked by a stoic German officer to provide his fingerprints. He extends a tremulous digit, only to have it rejected by the machine three times. 'Too sweaty,' says the officer. 'Try the thumb.' This, my friends, is the stuff of legend. This will be the shared trauma that bonds generations of holidaymakers. 'Remember the border queue of '25?' they will ask, as they huddle around fires in their dotage.
And what of the airlines? They have been conspicuously silent, perhaps because their PR departments are too busy drafting crisis statements. But the risk is clear: flights missed, planes delayed, and thousands of passengers wandering aimlessly through retail zones, spending money on overpriced sandwiches they hadn't planned to buy. The economy, already teetering on the brink of… well, let’s call it ‘creative pricing’, will be flooded with frantic consumption. The only winners? The shops at duty-free. They must be rubbing their hands like villains in a pantomime.
But let us not descend into total despair. There is a glimmer of hope, a ray of sunshine in this grey cloud of administrative misery. The EES might actually encourage a return to the Great British staycation. Picture it: instead of queuing for hours to enter France, you could spend your holiday in Bognor Regis, enjoying the thrill of watching paint dry on a bench. The sheer Britishness of this alternative cannot be overstated. We invented queuing, after all. But even we have limits.
In conclusion, the EES is a magnificent farce, a bureaucratic ballet performed by the EU for the amusement of the gods. The UK customs alert is nothing but a prelude to the main event: a two-part opera of queues and complaints. So pack your patience, bring a book, and maybe a flask of gin. You will need it. The new border system is coming, and it brings with it the promise of a holiday you will never forget. Mostly because you will still be standing in the queue when you are due to return.
