SONGS AND SCRIPTS AND DUNKING BISCUITS

For those of you about to read this blog beware, I may not be who I say I am.

I may not even exist.

I only mention this because over the last couple of months, authorities in my country have yet to be convinced that my identity is genuine.

In this world of identity theft and scams at every turn I’ve found my quest to update my records to account for my change of address and/or email address fraught with suspicion and doubt.

Currently I am in the troubled process of informing the Driver and Vehicle License Authority (DVLA) that I now live somewhere other than the place I did when I passed my driving test back when avoiding crashing into a horse and cart was a daily source of danger.

I have attempted to do this online, but the online system doesn’t allow for people like me who passed my test before a license required a photograph. Back then a piece of official paper that said who you were, where you lived and my National Insurance number was all that was required.

How recklessly simple.

The other problem is that my passport, which has always needed a photograph, has ran out. I simply haven’t left the UK for several years. How unfortunate am I? So the main two areas of identity, a passport and ironically a drivers license with a photo, I don’t have.

So I have to apply for a new, non-parchment, driver’s license. With a photo which had to be signed by a friend saying this is him, I know him, I have drunk alcohol with him on more than one occasion, he is sometimes annoying, but it is definitely him. I wanted him to say he looks much younger in the flesh than in this photo but there simply wasn’t the room.

But the DVLA returned the form saying they need something like….and then a long list of things most of which didn’t relate to me such as a EU Citizen card (thanks Nigel Farage and your misguided Brexit army of fools), or copies of my immigration papers. When I immigrated to the UK from Hong Kong I was three months old and I left the paperwork to my parents, I was too busy defecating and dribbling down my chin, thank you very much.

And besides I was born on what was then British soil thanks to our tendency to imperialise huge areas of the world, including China. Say what you will about our shameful brutality in the 18^th,19^th and early 20^th century, we knew how to punch above our weight.

But I digress.

I am now on my third attempt (my paperwork has been returned to me twice) to prove to them I am a person of reliable heritage. Watch this space. And if you do see a space, it’s because I haven’t filled it in properly.

Which brings me to the Department of Work and Pensions (DWP), a monolith of a government department which has basically, all information about anyone. With the exception of me, it would seem.

I just wanted to tell them I had moved. Moved about a mile and a half, as it happens. So again, with no photo ID that was permissible – despite having a Proof of Age Citizen card issued by the National Police Chief’s Council with a photo– they asked me for my bank details including account and sort code, and my National Insurance Number, which I duly supplied.

I waited for completion. But no. Even with all those details they informed me they were unable to confirm my identity.

This leaves me with the glaring possibility; do I actually exist?

My birth certificate isn’t acceptable even though it is written evidence I did exist at one point. But then what? Did I just fade away to a barely contained memory? Am I just a rumour? And if so, does this clear any credit card debt?

Have I been living on this island for all these decades like Bruce Willis’s character in The Sixth Sense?

Does this explain why my blog output is so low? Am I really writing this one?

I await my email from the DWP to inform me of my next move. If I get the email, maybe it is proof I did send it and this may convince me at least, that I’m here. Wherever here is because, you see, I’m not allowed to give you my new address….