Jumping the Shark at Heathrow

"Jumped the shark" is a term that's been kicking around the internets for some time now and was originally used in reference to the old "Happy Days" episode where Fonzie jumped a shark on water skies. It's now used to mark ther point where a tv series (or really anything else for that matter) has passed it's peak, lost its charm and is heading for the end, often to die under an increasing number of ridiculous plot twists and new (and pointless) characters.
When your favorite series is starting to get a little tired, the characters tiresome and the plot aimless and then suddenly an episode shows up involving alien abduction, drug mules, car wreck comas, or anything to do with spring break, then it's fairly safe to say that the shark has been jumped and your show, taken to the extremes of pointlessness, is on its way out (It should be noted here that shark jumping isn't always the end. I think Lost jumped the shark at the end of the first season, and has been jumping it every other week since then. And then of course there's the Simpsons, which seems to have built Jumping the Shark right into the charm of their show.)
Now, like any good phrase, "jumped the shark" can be applied to all manner of things that have passed their prime and lost their initial charm. Take for example my recent adventure at Heathrow airport: arriving well in advance of my scheduled departure with passport, ticket and bags in order I stepped up to the check-in counter where I was quickly and cheerfully issued a boarding pass. Emboldened by the ease of my success I strolled jauntilly over to the security checkpoint where things began to go a little pear shaped.
The security checkpoint is made up of two areas. The first is one of those rope mazes where you go in one end, walk back and forth until you begin to get a little dizzy, then stumble out the other end having walked a total of 147 steps to cover about 4 meters. Along the way, you pass 2 different security officers in florescent vests with reflective stripes (perhaps they cycle along the motorway to get to work?) asking to see boarding passes. Then, you come to a long table with a various bottles of all shapes and sizes being watched over by a man (in matching florescent vest) who is calling out to passers-by 'liquids, perfumes, toothpaste, gel' like a macy's counter-girl. Naturally I assumed it was a duty-free stop, a last minute opportunity to pick up some forgotten grooming supplies, but since everything of mine was tucked neatly away in my checked baggage, I carried on through to the end of the maze. Just when I thought when I had reached the end, when I could smell the fresh air beyond the little rope barriers, I was suddenly blinded by the piercing florescent glow of yet another security vest.
"Only one carry-on per person sir," says the dazzling yellow garment before me.
My blank stare obviously wasn't the answer he was looking for as he cleared his throat and continued, "government regulations sir, all passengers can only have one carry-on bag. You've got two there. You'll have to check one of them."
Ah yes, the wonderful all-passengers-can-only-have-one-carry-on-bag-but-only-in-the-uk-and-only-for-a-one-minute-security-check-other-than-that-we-could-give-a-rat's-ass rule. Fortunately I had a cunning plan.
"Look," I say, wishing i had have brought my sunglasses so as not to be rendered permentently blind by security garments, "both my bags together fit neatly inside the little baggage allowance bin, so are you really going to make me dump both of my bags into a bigger plastic bag for the 10 meter walk through security?"
"I'm sorry sir," my luminescent friend replied "but you'll have to consolidate both bags into one in order to get past this point... oh, and you can't just use a garbage bag."
So much for my cunning plan.
"It's too bad your bags are so big," he continued, "otherwise you could have just run over to the book shop and gotten a shopping bag."
I will let the reader pause at this point to consider that last statement. Garbage bags = forbidden, but shopping bags are a-ok.
"You're kidding right?"
"No sir, government regulations state that you cannot use a garbage bag, but there is no guidance regarding shopping bags."
Heading back out of the rope-y corridor, I walked over to a luggage store located conveniently right next to the security check-point and then, $28 later, walked out with a carry-on certified piece of crap with all of my carry-on belongings jammed inside.
I marched back into the maze, waving my boarding pass at all brightly clothed individuals who crossed my path, past the macy's perfume counter and on to one-bag-rule enforcer.
"Wow, you managed to get it all consolidated, well done!" he enthused.
In lieu of punching him in the mouth, I instead recommended that perhaps he should invest in the nearby luggage store, suggesting they may be doing some brisk business.
And with that I was through the horrid rope maze, on to the next step of the exciting security adventure.
This next part should be vaguely familiar to anyone that has flown anywhere in the past few years. The security check at Heathrow was only notable in its excessive signage, which the UK airport authority is using to outline the various steps to ensure trouble-free passage through the x-ray/metal detector stage of the trip (eg. step 1) remove your shoes, step 2) remove your jacket. etc.) So I joined a line of docile air travelers, all shuffling along, stripping off items of clothing, relinquishing phones and ipods and dignity. Somewhere between step 46 (remove your contact lenses) and step 123 (turn your head and cough) I became vaguely aware of some soft-pop-rock melodies wafting down from above. So while trudging ahead with the crowd, I began looking around for the source of the music. Just as I neared the metal detector, with it's menacing, paddle wielding watcher, having given up my bags, emptied my pockets and readied myself for the revealing walk through the archway, soft-pop-rock tunes still in my mind, I looked up and noticed a sign affixed to the wall.
"The music in this area," announced the sign "is provided by HMV."
And so dear travelers, I deem this moment, the moment that the UK airport authority decided that while we're all standing in their lines, shoeless, beltless, seperated from our belongings, lost, shivering and scared, that this would be a fine time to sell us CDs, to be the shark jumping moment of airport security.
The only logical conclusion now is that eventually we'll arrive at the airport bagless and naked, and purchase everything that we need for the trip from the duty-free shop.
Oh, and the war on terror? I say the terrorists won. At least until someone gets me my $28 back.