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THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD
I visited England as part of a general European vacation tour. A lot of friends warned me that Britain was as bad as Breshnev’s Russia now. Many people expressed deep concern, genuinely convinced that I might never be allowed back out once I got there. I was nervous, but I wanted to see the new ID Card regime for myself. I had been to London once before, but ID Culture had not been introduced then.
I flew into Manchester Airport, which was now called Ringway again, as it had been in the 1970’s. Security was naturally intense and I was checked out at a dozen customs points. I wondered if I would be spending my entire week in Manchester in the transport terminals. As a foreign national, I was given a temporary visitor’s ID Card. I had one with number 5354329800987531-123 the dash and extra three letters denoted me as a Spanish tourist.
My card was different to a British one in other ways too. It had no biometric data. I did not need to be fingerprinted or to give a retinal picture of myself to secure it. I had only to have my picture taken. My card could be read through an ID Card Reading machine, but that would give out very little information on me. It would tell people my name (Manuel Sladene) and my address in Spain, naturally, and the date I arrived in the UK. (13th September 2015). It told the authorities that I could, if I wished, remain in Britain until 31st October 2016, though I would not be around that long. My card could be read and vetted, but no information or ID Card Inspector opinion about me could be added to the dreaded National Identity Register. My government had made it clear that its citizens were not to be subjected to such invasion and intrusion.
My travel Agent had advised me to be cautious, as many tourists had their cards stolen, often violently. Foreign cards were the best ones with which to avoid close inspection, and therefore the most commonly forged, and faked. I soon saw why. Though I went through many checks and searches and ID readings, from airport officials who were obviously familiar with foreign passengers embarking and disembarking, the British people coming home from travels abroad were going through much more hassle. They were queued up everywhere, often more than once. Some inspectors clearly relished the discomfort they inflicted and took as long as possible about their duties.
Outside the airport, I started to run into people less familiar with my kind of ID Card. The first was the taxi driver who I flagged down to take me to my pre-booked hotel. He was utterly baffled when he was unable to read his opinions about me onto the card reader. It kept sending him a ‘non-applicable’ message. He quickly gave up on me. It was something I would see many times in my visit. People just avoided checking my ID. Word got around quickly.
The Mancunians who had to be inspected at every turn were in awe at how many inspectors waved me by unmolested. I found myself ushered to bars at every opportunity to join people for an evening of revelry. They paid for my drinks all night. There was a catch however. I had to be the one going to the bar. If anyone else went, they were going to have their cards read and marked up accordingly. I was everyone’s temporary best friend. A few ID Inspectors followed me around, making notes about the people eager to exploit my charitable good will. Those people were subjected to inspections around me from time to time. Their records show how eager they were to support tourism, but in a very negative way. I, and many like me, become a loophole by which the British escape some, but not all inspection.
There was a sorrow and an air of danger in the air in Britain. People clearly regarded the ID Card regime in contempt.
A brooding threat of violence loomed everywhere. It was like being in a gunpowder store and having a nervous sense of being able to smell something burning. My Grandfather had fought against the Fascists in Spain’s Civil War in the early 20th Century. Some Britons, including George Orwell had come to help out, but they had lost. Franco won and it took many years for my people to free themselves, thanks largely to English tourism. Now our roles were reversed.
Despite their Government, the British know how to party. I left from Ringway Airport with one hell of a hangover. I kept my ID Card as a souvenir. On the lane, I read a newspaper to pass the time. European ministers admire the success the British authorities have had in maintaining their ID Card system. Other countries were expected to introduce a similar initiative, starting with Spain. I wonder which nation will send a tourist who will go to the bar for my drinks for me.
© Copyright. Arthur
Chappell
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