Seven mind-crumbling hours, five tough challenges and one concrete example of why Brutalism should be swept hastily into the architectural recycling bin…
Welcome to Her Majesty’s Passport Trials.
On tonight’s programme, Rachael and Dave attempt to infiltrate Newport town’s passport renewal office, with the aim of successfully acquiring a new document. Having realised her European passport is going to expire, two weeks before she’s due to leave the country, 18-year-old student Rachael is forced to venture into the dark world of “fast track instant passport renewal.” It’s devilishly enticing strap-line guarantees a new document in a mere four hours–the only condition being:
That she survives the process…
[Cue: Heart of Courage- Thomas Bergersen]
[Cut to Rachael on the back seat of a Ford Focus, an indefinite location along the M6]
Voiceover: It’s 5:00am: Stage 1: The pilgrimage.
Cameraman: How are you feeling about today?
Rachael: Optimistic, I think. The pilgrimage they’ve given us is fairly decent. Just 4 hours to Newport.
Cameraman: So why is it you’ve set off so early?
Rachael: I mean, this is testing your alertness and organisational skills: with appointments only available between 8 and 10, can you plan the journey and remain awake for the duration of the drive? Me and Dave have been taking it in shifts from Derby.
Cameraman: Tactical.
Voiceover:
The test begins with all contestants taking a pilgrimage across the UK to locate the nearest passport office. If ever you find yourself stuck for something to do on the M6 (which is not beyond the realm of possibility), why not indulge in a bit of passport pilgrim spotting? From the driver’s aura of despondency and a small forest of paper envelopes on the dashboard, you should be able to identify him/her with relative ease. I promise you, across the nation, Ford fiestas are tirelessly travelling to and from accessible locations such as Durham, Glasgow and Newport. For myself, a Midlander, a gentle 5AM wake up and drive to South Wales where HM revenue had set us our first challenge.
7:30am : We arrived in the dark, the car thermometer recorded one degree Celsius as we hurried into the town centre of Newport, paper envelopes in hand. High above us in a bulletproof glass bubble, I imagine the staff peering down and rubbing their hands with glee as we approached a signpost.
HM passport office- to the right, five minute walk. It took us thirty-five minutes, a street map, a Sat-Nav and a local Grocer to decide that this signpost was in fact incorrect and rather provided the scenic route to “Ujee’s Hats and Tats”- a shop that boasts one pane of glass between three windows and a cardboard cut out of Elvis Presley. However, with the help of said Welshman, we descended upon the genuine passport office- a concrete 60’s atrocity, notably in a different location to either map. Less fortunate pilgrims have already fallen by the wayside, endlessly following street directions to a building that changed location six months ago. “Ujee’s hats and tats” receives more custom than it’s ever had before, as helpless Brits tattoo themselves with the face of the European passport.
Meanwhile my dad and I had reached reception, where a surly looking man in his late thirties was crammed behind a desk. The sort of man who looked as if a life of administration had gradually taken something from him. I like to think of the following as the troll under the bridge stage.
Stage 2:
“Hi I’ve got an appointment for half-past eight”
“It’s ten past.” He scowled, pointing at the clock behind him.
“Yes, we’re quite happy to wait in the waiting room,” my father replied.
“No you won’t. wait outside. There’s no room until twenty-past.”
The pair of us glanced behind him at the empty room of chairs, stifling a “what the fuck”, before shuffling to the exit. Behind us we could hear fellow pilgrims attempt a similar pursuit and fail, joining us outside. At twenty-past eight on the dot, the eyes of the Foyer troll mechanically unglazed and as a group, those who hadn’t frozen to death, scuttled in from the cold, as he waved us through.
Stage 3: Security. This is where many of the remaining few realise they could live without a passport after all. In militarized ranks, shoes are handed over for the linings to be unpeeled and the soles scanned for secret compartments. Barefoot, you must remain stationary, for fear of appearing overtly suspicious, as your belongings are emptied into plastic trays. Behind the desk, a hoard of sniffer dogs are chomping at the bit, slathered with foam as they ready themselves to divulge upon a Kleenex tissue or packet of twiglets. My father takes five minutes at the desk emptying his pockets of change, all the while an emotionless man in grey staring into his soul. An overhead metal detector blocks his way and naturally he sets it off immediately, another grey-haired man hurries to scan him up and down with a luminous metal probe. Luckily, the ravaged corpse of another unfortunate must have been occupying the pack of Doberman and so he is allowed to remain. It is my turn.
“Do you have any sharp objects in your possession?”
“No.”
“No knives?”
“I’ve got a fork? ” I laugh, holding up the Sainsbury’s bag of lunch we had brought, in the event of a return journey. This was confiscated and handed over to the foyer troll. A sheet of paper was attached to my files with the word “FORK” branded there in black marker pen. This safety precaution is of course due to the recent increase in cutlery-related crime. The amount of times they must have heard: “renew the passport or I’ll spoon your eyes out like melon balls “… it’s almost understandable.
Stage 4:
Once through security, if you have successfully avoided arrest for the possession of an AK47 or a Ploughman’s, your mental stamina will then be assessed. Handed a series of letters and numbers on a post-it note, you must join the remaining candidates in the plastic-seating area, braced for an indefinite period of constant vigilance. Every 5-10 minutes a broadcast will appear on the screen above you. When your combination of letters and numbers is released, you will have exactly three minutes to make it to the correct cubicle in order to discuss your application. May I take the opportunity to stress the 3 minute time-frame. I wouldn’t wish Mr. 3:01 on anybody..
“Person 03596cft4dh87jook attend cubicle 1”
At the sound of the intercom everyone grips their seats, scrupulously nodding through each digit on their coloured post-it. As ever, by the third digit some poor fool will have lost count and assumes it is not him, blissfully unaware that his dreams of ever reaching the end have been mercilessly crushed. This man is destined to remain in the waiting room for the rest of his existence.
Those who do recall their numbers may pass on to the next stage. My father and I were among the lucky. We sat down in front of a young woman with square glasses. She was good at her job: don’t acknowledge the customer, don’t face the customer, attempt to instil feelings of despair. It was 8:29. The meeting we’d driven three hours for, was concluded one minute later at 8:30 with a jerk of her head and a “come back in four hours to pick it up”. In the minds of the weaker candidates, doubts begin to creep in- “surely there must be a more efficient way? This entire one minute interaction will collectively cost me seven hours of my life.” But these people will not make it back.
Three mugs of coffee, two hot cross buns and a potential sighting of Katherine from season 3’s Bake off later, my father and I survived four hours holed up in a Costa in the town centre. After a while you begin to question how many of the surrounding people are here for the same reason. I wonder if in ten years time, when students pick up their geography textbooks whether a yellowing photograph of the high-street will grace the pages, captioned ” Newport town economy: the only in Britain to be sustained entirely by passport tourists”
When we finally went back for collection it was with triumph. The air smelt sweeter, the high street less run down and the spring in my dad’s footsteps said- “GARY DIDN’T END IT ALL AND NOW HE FEELS EPICCCC”. They handed over the documents and we burst out of the foyer doors, the wind in our hair and the smell of freedom on the horizon. We vowed never to repeat this experience. Therefore I can only thank and congratulate Her Majesty’s Passport Office, Newport for successfully engraining in their clients the desire to always check the validity of important documents.
Humans 