The Occasional Papers

I’ve been expecting a delivery of nice envelopes, so I can improve my posting-things game. It’s all go around here.

I thought they came today, but when I tore into the packet a bra came out.

I’d opened my wife’s mail by mistake.

Ordering bras on the internet though. What a pervert she is.

Meanwhile, at the Idler website…

“It’s drugs and bubble gum for me till July, says Robert Wringham.”

The Good Life for Wage Slaves is also their Book of the Week, and I’ll be doing a live “in conversation” on Zoom with Tom Hodgkinson on Thursday 16th. It’s practically a takeover.

Young people are so charmingly earnest.

I was watching Buffy last night with some new friends who are a bit younger than me. It was the musical episode.

I like the bit where Anya sings about bunnies, so I joined in:

🎵 They aren’t just cute
Like everybody supposes
They got them hoppy legs
And twitchy little noses
And what’s with all the carrots?
What do they need such good eyesight for anyway?
Bunnies, bunnies,
it must be bunnies!! 🎵

I hadn’t been singing along until that point, so the suddenness of my 30-second rock ballad must have seemed like Lucky’s monologue in Waiting for Godot.

Friends my own age would have either laughed sarcastically or thumped me into jam, but the younglings said “wow, yeah, great singing voice,” and (I kid you not) “wow, thank you for that.”

Ridiculous.

And yet, I feel really good about myself now. I left the party feeling like I really might be the next Celine Dion.

The judgy young host of an interior design channel: “the previous owner lived here for eighty years and they smoked throughout.”

Yes, terrible. And yet my prevailing thought is: people used to have such wonderful, wonderful, wonderful lives!

Samara is drawing a penanggalan, a flying human head with guts hanging out of the neck hole.

“I can’t get the nose right,” she says.

Samara: what’s in the laundy?

Me: the laundry.

This was written for New Escapologist‘s now-defunct Patreon situation in 2020. It was part of a show-and-tell series called Hypocrite Minimalist.

Object Number 4 in our inventory is a velvet jacket.

Full article here.

Samara’s mum reads Internet funnies to us as we watch the hockey.

“You got the dough,” she says, “We got the ho.” It’s the sign on a whorehouse door.

Well, I can do better than that, I think.

“You got the scratch,” I say brightly, “We got the snatch.”

I worry I’ve gone too far, but I’m disappointed by the positive and unscandalised reaction.

So here’s another one in case she’s reading:

You bring the green, we’ll bring the pink.

Doesn’t even have to rhyme. The secret is being vile.

Reunited with family in Montreal, a younger sister-in-law helps to juggle our schedule. It’s important to see everyone.

“The only way to do it all,” she says, “is a triple header.”

“I’m 42, Lisa,” I moan, “I can’t do triple headers any more.”

And we all laugh because I am old now.

Once the hilarity has died down after a full twenty minutes or so, I realise I’ve misunderstood. By “triple header,” she meant three parties over three nights.

I thought she meant three parties in a day.

God, I’m smashing.

I didn’t let on about the confusion though, in case it looked “old” baffled.

Spite is an underappreciated energy resource. It’s infinitely renewable.

A final act of spite, I’ve been thinking, might be to leave my organs to a local dogs’ home.

My wife — she knows about these things — tells me that would not be legal.

Could I leave my body to a cannibal?

“No,” she says.

You can legally put these things in your will if you want to, but anyone acting on such a beautiful bequest would be face criminal prosecution.

“Only technically,” I protest.

“Only actually,” she says.

Back to the drawing board then. The drawing board of spite.

Sometimes, I have an idea that will only ever amuse myself.

Overhearing the word “Argentina” this morning put me in the mood to sing “Don’t Cry for me Agentina” from Evita. It quickly became an earworm and, by the afternoon for some reason, I’d semi-consciously changed “Argentina” in the song to “Wolverhampton.”

Soon, I imagined a Wringham & Godsil live show in Wolverhampton, in which I slag off the Midlands for an hour — hopefully being booed and heckled the whole time — while Dan defends it. At the end, I tear off my suit to reveal a Wolves strip and sing my breakout song.

All I have to do to make this happen is convince Dan to come out of his well-deserved retirement from showbiz, build up enough of an audience in the Midlands for us to sell more than half a room, find a way not to throw up when debasing my body with sportswear, and learn (a) the lyrics and (b) to sing.

Other than that, it’s an obvious goer.

Sqelchy, squelchy.

“That was a fun sound,” said Samara.

I’d used my right hand to rub my left eye.

So I know exactly how to make that sound now.

Should I ever be called upon to do so.

We recently got new passports, which means it’s also time fors me to apply for a PRTD. A PRTD is a visa-like document to be fixed inside my passport so I can travel unhindered to Canada where I have resident status.

Why this is necessary I’ve never really understood. Why is it relevant that I’m a resident when I visit Canada? Why does my status as a resident nullify (instead of enhance) my pre-existing ability to visit the country as a tourist? I’m not trying to get away with anything and I’m not doing anything remotely wrong: I just want to visit my in-laws and cram some poutine into my horrible gob. Big deal.

The application process for a PRTD is nothing (nothing!) compared to slaloms of immigration officialdom we’ve wrangled though before, but it’s still irritating to have to do it.

They ask you to scan every page of your current passport, including blank pages. But they want to know your five-year travel history, so you have to scan your old passport as well. Given that a PRTD application is only necessary when you’ve been issued a new passport, this is a tad vexing. So we’re asked to scan every page of an expired passport (including the meaningless blank pages) and every page of a brand new passport (which consists entirely of blank pages).

I don’t mind humouring official systems if it helps them catch kingpins or terrorists, but sitting for two hours to scan the largely-blank pages of two passports for no conceivably good reason is not how I like to spend the precious sand in my lifeglass.

Next, I have to scan my wife’s new and old passports too. What joy! The whole process again. This, apparently, is to prove that I’m travelling with a Canadian citizen, which is the exemption allowing us to live in the UK without surrendering my hard won and expensive Canadian resident status. You’d think they’d just be able to look at a screen to know where on Earth one of their citizens might be and connect the dots, but apparently they need to see 120+ largely-blank pages of passport for that.

So we took care of this a couple of nights ago. It was a nuisance, but it was done and dusted.

Last night, an email arrived from Immigration Canada. I assumed it would be a receipt or perhaps the instructions on how to actually get the PRTD now that we’ve applied (which might involve mailing my passport somewhere, which wouldn’t be ideal because I’m flying to Utrecht next week). But no. It was a request to send “additional documents.”

The documents itemised in the email were not additional at all. They were asking for the passports again.

I suspect this was an AI system speaking rather than a human agent because the phrasing was a bit strange and the email had arrived very quickly by the standards of immigration authorities. Something had probably gone wrong and the AI hadn’t been able to identify that we’d sent passports, even though there were PDFs attached with the proper naming convention and everything. Bah.

Emphasis had been placed on “legibility” though, so I was worried that perhaps our scans weren’t high enough quality.

So I did the bloody things again.

Yes. I scanned every page (including every blank page) of all four passports again today. A doubly pointless waste of precious hourglass sand.

This time, I even scanned the front and back covers of the damn things. I can waste their time too, you know. And then I decided to also scan the pages of smallprint at the front and back of each passport — the print that says deeply ironic things like “Her Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State requests and requires in the name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance.” Hah!

I wanted to increase the resolution on the scanner to generate higher-quality PDF files, but the application system wouldn’t like that. You can only upload files smaller than 2MB each and a total of 3.5MB for the whole application. This is a teeny-tiny pixel budget when when you need to upload 120+ pointless and largely-empty passport pages (in addition to other documents I haven’t mentioned here).

But maybe the legibility issue (if there even is one) has nothing to do with our scanner (which is a perfectly normal consumer-grade flatbed – and what else could they possibly expect of normal people scanning their own documents at home?) but with the stamps themselves. Border officials must get tired wrists from all the important stamping they have to do, and sometimes they leave a weak and only semi-readable stamp. Well, that’s hardly our fault.

Never fear. The AI (if indeed it’s an AI) recommends uploading “entry or exit documents where passport stamps are illegible.” Which would be a sterling suggestion if there was any such fucking thing. Nobody gets an “entry or exit document” when they go on holiday. And imagine if there is such a thing: waiting at the border like a spod, holding the line up by insisting on being given a document instead of a stamp, just in case an AI (which didn’t exist five years ago — the period they’re interested in hearing about) ever requests such a thing.

You can’t call anyone to ask for clarity and the FAQ pages only tell us what we already know. So I have no idea if any of this effort — the empty-page-by-empty-page scanning of eight passports — has worked.

When I went through the process recommended by the AI to upload my “additional” documents, it asked me to enter “ONLY 1 of these 3 details: UCI number, application number, passport number.” Unfortunately, the UCI and application number fields are marked with mandatory red asterisks and there’s no field for passport number at all, so the instruction is 100% meaningless. Immigration forms are full of riddles and incompetencies like that one. I’m not being a smart alec: these apparently very-officious forms produced by the world’s biggest and most powerful national bureaucracies are full of amateurish grot like that.

Even when this process works (which it never does on the first time), it’s pointless anyway. Remember that tourists can come and go as they please, so why do I need a PRTD at all? And why isn’t there a global information retrieval system with which border guards can see the whole story of who I am on scanning my passport without any further application from me? And if we must apply for a PRTD, why are they interested in seeing so many blank passport pages? And why did I have to do it all twice?

I’ve been thinking lately about all of this. If I had my time over, I wouldn’t bother humouring the system at all. Unless you want a proper career overseas, I’d honestly suggest you don’t bother with visas or citizenship or residency status. Just go where you like as a “tourist,” work remotely for firms in your home country (or illegally in your new country if you’re bold), and when your six months have expired just go on holiday somewhere over the border (it would have been New York for me) and then come back for another six months when you’re ready. The visa hop.

Seriously, it’s all been largely pointless. My residency status in Canada allowed me to work for a year in a library there (which, frankly, I didn’t really want to do) and allowed me not to stress about visa hops (which, if approached the right way, would have been fun anyway).

If this passport-scanning episode seems absurd to you, you don’t know the half of it. You don’t know one thirtieth of it. The mountain of moose and thoroughbred horse crap we’ve tunnelled through over the years to satisfy the Canadian, Quebecois, and British governments at various junctures has been nothing shy of gargantuan.

Don’t bother. That’s my genuine suggestion to others. Just do the visa hop and get on with your life.

☕

20 minutes later:

My phone just buzzed. It was them. Immigration Canada. It gave me the fright of my life. I thought their sentinels had found this post already and they were thwacking my delicate knuckles for complaining about their systems and recommending the visa hop.

It was just a receipt for the “additional” documents. Interestingly, they didn’t send a receipt the first time. It says that “for technical reasons,” the additional documents may not be visible in my online account but not to worry, and also that I should try the “check your application status” tool at the website. I have a look at it but there’s no PRTD option in the menu.

Jesus. Buy me a coffee, someone.

Readers of New Escapologist will know about my demented commitment to recycling.

For instance, I save all of my Tetra-Pak milk cartons (which can’t be recycled in our regular home recycling bins) for five or six months and then walk them (yes, walk them) to the dump.

I did this today.

It’s a 90-minute round trip, but I enjoy the exercise and the sense of moral superiority I get from going the extra mile (or six) for recycling.

Another thing I like is how the walk becomes increasingly familiar. I’ve been doing this walk for over three years now, so probably seven or eight times.

Because I wrote about the walk in New Escapologist Issue 14, I remember a lot of the things I wrote about. For example:

I have a moment of mild anxiety when a woman is coming towards me, knowing that we must pass. I think it’s someone who worked as a barmaid in my local pub and that she probably doesn’t like to be recognised by old punters. Unsure how to behave, I decide not to say hello nor to ignore her. Instead, I will rest my face in absolute catatonia. As we’re about to pass, I realise that saliva is pooling in my mouth and I really must swallow. I gulp nervously as she passes. Then I notice that it isn’t her at all.

That spot is now “barmaid corner” despite, in reality, having nothing to do with that person whatsoever. I probably only remember the incident because I wrote about it.

The walk takes me through the grounds of a hospital:

I pass the hospital. Thoughts of coronavirus testing days and a couple of x-rays and ultrasounds flit briefly through my mind.

What I always see but didn’t mention in the original report is a plastic human spine through a ground floor window. It must be an osteopath’s office or something.

I saw the spine today and, strangely, it was being snuggled up to by a lovely golden retriever. 🎵 “Goldie and Spiney / working the whole day through / Goldie and Spiney / criminals, watch out.” 🎵

There’s a juncture where I must choose to stay on the main path and pass some shops or to walk behind the shops down a back alley where only bins dwell. If I take the former, my state of mind is public-spirited and I imagine myself walking down an Amsterdam boulevard. If I take the latter, I feel like Batman or Angel, staying out of the light for maximum brooding.

Today I took the back route but I thought of this: I choose between Netherworld and Netherlands.

Deep, Deep!

I dump my tetra-paks, a handful at a time into the correct dumpster. They fall on top of everyone else’s. I notice that most of the tetra-paks are soya or almond or coconut milk like mine, none of them dairy milk. I suppose only the most devoted of hippies bother to recycle their tetra-paks.

And this is where I noticed something truly remarkable. Oh boy. As I opened the dumpster I was confronted with several milk cartons (same brand as the ones we buy) squashed flat-as-a-pancake just like mine.

Anyone who has seen my super-flattened Tetra-Paks will remember it. I flatten them to get as many into the bag as possible, delaying my walk to the dump for a little bit longer. Nobody else does that. Or so I thought.

Who is the other person who flattens their cartons like this? It could be love. My real soul mate, sorry Samara.

The one thing that troubles me is how few of them there were: maybe 20. This person isn’t keeping them for five or six months like I do. This suggests that they drive to the dump like a muggle. You have to walk, you idiots, or your commitment doesn’t count. A trip in a car obliterates the benefit of any effort you make to recycle.

Even so, I’d love to know who else is doing this. Were they inspired by the sight of my own perfectly-flattened Tetras when they opened the dumpster six months ago?

Or were these flattened cartons, quite simply, my own perfectly-flattened Tetras from six months ago? Surely not. Surely the bin is filled and emptied more often than that.

I will never know. And that, my friends, is a tragedy.

The walk back takes exactly the same time as it took to walk out, but it always feels a shorter walk in psychogeographical minutes.

Not this time. This time, I was troubled by what I’d seen in that bin. And the walk home seemed to take ages.

Bin:

🎵 “Show us your garbage / show us your trash / if people like it / you’ll win some cash.” 🎵