MyTube

Your best friend in London will be a tube map. Guaranteed. Designed in 1933 by draughtsman Harry Beck, it is was revolution in spatial design. Of course as with anything fresh, and innovative, it was instantly rejected by officials. Ol’ Harry must have known that he was onto something good though, because he sat on it for a year before resubmitting the identical design. This time it was adopted, so much so that it grew wings and soared, not only in London, but it took off in New York and Sydney, where his designs were plagiarised and still used today.

Other maps have been produced. The Heritage and Transportation webring has a great history of tube maps as they’ve developed in the past century. For contemporary use, you can purchase walking maps, which show connections between stations which are a short walk apart. While Beck’s schematic map is simple enough even for American tourists to navigate through, it obviously doesn’t give a true representation of the geography. For that, you need to check out the alternative tube map, a scale overlay of the tube’s colour-coded design. You could even opt for the ultra-pedantic Way Out map, a design which shows every station exit, and even tells the traveller which carriage will bring them closest to the exit.

There’s more, much more. For the lunatics, you can visit Animals on the Underground, where you can buy, well animals made from the schematic. I really don’t want to go on; it’s as inane as it sounds.

But by far the most fantastic layout I’ve seen to date is the Google Map-esq layout, from nyclondon (who, since I read the page properly, covers many of the links above). It’s a high-res satellite photo of London with tube lines overlaid. I could knock it a little and point out that the Jubilee line gets muddied into the background, and the DLR is all but non-existent, but it will do little to sally what is essentially a work of art.

Personal pain and embarrassment

Regret is something you perform over a past act. By the time you’re reading this, it will most likely be the emotion I’ll be most inclined to be wallowing in.

Its cause is imbecilic. After toying with my new UK drivers license, a childish thought invaded my mind. “Goodness,” I thought to myself, “wouldn’t it be funny if I placed all my photo ID’s side by side to compare?”

I don’t know what name psychologists give to a mental affliction that takes pleasure in cruelty to self, but I think I have it.

How (not) to open an English bank account. Almost done.

It’s almost over, and victory is certainly in the air.

In my possession is now a small piece of plastic labelled rather unimaginatively, ‘DRIVING LICENCE’. It doesn’t have to be much more. It bears my name, my face, and my address. Clutching it and my passport, a visit to the bank was necessary.

“Are you currently employed?” The assistant at Barclays asked. It was like déjà vu.

I responded in the negative, and asked “What does it matter?” I told her about our previous conversation and whipped out my UK drivers license, all with a stupid lottery winning smile. She gave me a look that either meant pity, or that she wished I could be set upon with a soldering iron.

“It’s just that we can’t give you a current account until you are employed, yeah.”

Nyeah. I explained to her what a catch-22 was, and to apply it in this present scenario, meant that I effectively couldn’t get a job until I had an account an employer could pay money into. After an awkward silence, she went away to “see what I can do.” Returning a few minutes later, she advised that current accounts were off limits, but a savings account could be managed. I booked an appointment with a consultant for 2pm so I could argue the matter further.

I walked out of Barclays and wondered whether other banks adopted a similar policy. Down the road to Lloyds TSB. I asked the lady over the counter about their policy for opening accounts. “Do you have two forms of ID?” She asked. I showed them, and she handed me a form. There was the typical hullabaloo on the form about employment and expenses, but after I returned it for inspection, there was little fanfare. “You’ll receive your notice in five to seven working days.” Perhaps this was the British method of avoiding conflict, but it was far more successful than my Barclays endeavour.

2pm, and off to Barclays. I met with a friendly consultant, who, upon discovering that I had arrived from New Zealand, couldn’t imagine why I had set foot on English soil. “But why would you leave?” She asked, not just once, but several times throughout our conversation. After a while I was thinking to myself the same. Why did I leave?

Nevertheless, she was a bastion of information, so I stuck on my journalist hat and asked some questions. Let’s get cracking:

It is virtually impossible to open a bank account on your own.

Bollocks. It wasn’t exactly the word she used, but it’s close enough. Opening an account is easy, she told me, as long as you can prove your identity and your address. It doesn’t even have to be all UK stuff. A New Zealand passport, a New Zealand bank statement. The trick is to gather this stuff before you leave so when you enter the UK you won’t be caught out. She told me that even proof of a New Zealand address would be sufficient, but I was so surprised I don’t want to quote that as fact just yet.

You must be employed before banks will let you have an account.

The much-fabled catch-22, and thank goodness, wrong. Granted, many accounts will be inaccessible to you as a job-seeker in the UK, however banks can still issue basic accounts to you (no overdraft, no chequebook, no debit card features). In my case, I was offered a Cash Card Account, which I gladly accepted.

It’s a complex and lengthy process

If you count the two weeks to obtain a UK drivers license, and the week it will take to process my license application form, then three weeks is your turnaround to open a bank account manually. If you can’t wait that long, then by all means head to 1^st Contact. It’s also a good idea to arrange a meeting with your chosen bank’s staff, rather than rely on the generic assistants. I guess you could add that once I have a job I’ll need to apply for a current account to get more benefits. I’ll cross that hurdle when it comes.

I guess the point is that no, it’s not impossible. It’s not even amazingly frustrating or difficult. You need to be prepared with some official documents, to prove (once again) your identity and your address. As for using a middle-man, go ahead and spend the 35 pounds if you want peace of mind. You pay money for convenience, but they won’t be taking mine.

The cherry is not yet on the cake, but the icing’s laid out. My applications are being processed, and I’ll be grinning like a fool before the month’s out.

How (not) to open an English bank account. Part two.

It’s a fortnight since I decided to forgo the smart option and attempt to open a bank account without commercial assistance. Oh have I learnt plenty since.

After my blog, an email appeared from my brother to the effect of “don’t be an idiot.” He’s right, of course. 1^st Contact does take away the fuss. My point, however, was to wonder whether there was actually much fuss to begin with. My visa still works, as does my Westpac debit card (just look for the Maestro signs). What this means is that I’m not exactly put out when it comes to accessing my (dwindling) financial resources. I will concede that it does become important when you gain employment, employers after all need a UK account in which to deposit your pay. But honestly, who finds a job within a fortnight?

I did a little homework. Actually, I emailed 1^st Contact, and enquired after their turnaround. A lady named Kelly emailed me back a few hours later with marketing guff. “It is virtually impossible to open a bank account on your own . That is why 1^st Contact created the...” It drones on, the long and short of it being that she neglected to answer my question. Of note was a request at the end of the email, asking readers to “Please consider the environment before printing this email.” I reached to my keyboard and hit ‘delete’.

My Kiwi friends Dave and Maz have been in London for over a year now. When I caught up with them I asked them about their strategy. I suppose it wasn’t fair. Dave used to live in England, and already had an NHS number, which he promptly renewed. For him at least, opening an account couldn’t have been easier. His NHS number, and his passport guaranteed him a smooth ride. What was more sobering was his warnings on the perils of credit. His credit limits are constantly extended, a ploy by banks to entice overspending. One subject at a time though, Dave.

What I hope you’ll notice by now is that the process does not appear to be as catch-22 as marketers make it out to be. Let me demonstrate. On Barkley’s website, they offer this advice: “To open an account we need confirmation of who you are and where you live, according to government regulations. We need two original documents (emphasis added) ...”

You can read the rest yourself. Your two original documents are: a passport or something that confirms your identity, and a utility bill or something that confirms your address. Please note the bold. Identity. Address.

I’ve read it a few times now. I even wonder what the catch is. Identity. Address. I have a passport, thankfully a UK one, and I will be receiving my UK drivers license shortly, which for kiwis is simply a matter of filling in a form, parting with some money and relinquishing your NZ license to the good people at the post office. The process takes about two weeks.

I suppose if you don’t have two weeks, then 1^st contact will be perfect, if they can assure you a faster turnaround. Perhaps I’m not being fair on them, after all, I only asked them once.

Most likely this whole account nonsense will nip me at the posts, but for now I am envisioning myself on the podium, rakishly smiling at my triumph over advertisers who market on fear, while clutching my precious Barclays account in my hands. Victory will be sweet.

Orwellian Nightmares

A number of years ago, back in New Zealand, I was blissfully going about my business and stumbled upon an ad for this funny thing called ‘Big Brother’. I had heard it bandied around here and there for about a year, but had never really thought to ask about it. My flat didn’t have a telly so I never floated through life wondering which insurgents had captured Gaza, or what level the Department of Homeland Security had arbitrarily set its threat indicator to. In other words, life was good.

So when I asked, I think it was a cashier, I was greeted with a raised eyebrow or two. I must have appeared primeval. The thing to do would be to watch an evening of telly, and see what the fuss was over this Big Brother malarkey.

It was like the world had gone on speed. Reality TV, shaky cameras, cheap programming. Even the serial blockbusters appeared to have been filmed on handy-cam. And of course then there was the main event, ripped from the pages of Orwell’s masterpiece, whittled to attract an audience with an IQ of eighty.

Zoom to the present, and I find I can’t escape this beast. I go on the tubes and the newspapers are telling me why Zoië (or whoever), should just, like, go or something, yeah. You can flick your TV to the Big Brother channel (a twenty-four hour voyeur live feed), or wait for the weekly live eviction episodes. Even writing this, I know I’m behind on the times; this has been happening for several years now. It suddenly makes me feel, well, old.

And here’s my gripe. I don’t care. In fact, I could go even further and wish that I could erase any memory of ever knowing about the program. But it’s unavoidable. Every paper I’ve picked up has some trashy column dedicated to this nonsense. Someone in the halls of power has decided that This Is Still Important. And it strikes me: this isn’t Orwell, it’s Huxley. It’s no brave new world, but rather one catered for idiots.

Hastings

To pique your memory of British history, in a field outside of Hastings a French king and his army took on a bunch of Anglo-Saxons and after some fracas, earned himself some land. It was the last time Britain was successfully invaded, and it all happened circa 1066AD.

Less medieval, but also significant, is that my grandma now lives there. A marvel of longevity, she’s battled through two world wars, and an emigration to Rhodesia. Gran is ninety-three, lives by herself in a one bedroom apartment, and refuses to be placed in a home. Vociferous, and Geordie by birth, she has more spirit than most I’ve met.

I took the train to Hastings, which I was advised by National Rail, would take about two hours. Evidently time must be relative, because by my reckoning, it took a tad longer. Allow me to demonstrate:

Kentish Town – St Leonards Warrior Square (Hastings)
Official time for journey:2.5 hours
Actual time:7 hours

To be fair, at one stage I boarded the wrong train (but it was on the right platform, at the right time!). I also had to sidetrack through the underground to Charing Cross on a Saturday lunchtime. But on the South Eastern to Hastings, it took us two hours just to get out of London. The convenience trolley was wheeled around the carriages, and the poor man was handing out free food and drink to keep punters happy. “I had a wedding to go to today,” one annoyed lady told the man. “It was two hours ago. They’re married now.”

I pitied the man, but when the trolley finally reached me, he’d ran dry. He trundled his empty trolley away as I burned holes into his back with my eyes.

The driver kept hailing the passengers on the intercom. First we were going to be half an hour late, then we were going to backtrack to find another way around some broken points. Next, he had organised a bus. Everyone got off the train at the prescribed station to board the bus, but were advised to re-board after some confusion and much groaning. We shuttled back and forth and back and forth. Finally the driver turned on the intercom: “Look. We’ve had a long day. I’ve been working since early this morning and frankly my shift should have finished hours ago. What I’m trying to say is that I understand your frustration.”

A few hours wasn’t going to change much. I made it to my gran’s flat, after a fifteen year absence. Time is a conjurer. She had shrunk, I had grown, and we both stared at each other in disbelief. “Ya durnt look enything like how I remember ya. Ya sure ya me grandson?”

We talk, which means she talks for the next two days. About the war; about moving to Rhodesia; and later, the trip back to England. She tells me about the friends they made in Africa and a holiday to Mozambique. She reaches to the past, recalling memories of yester-decades, but she struggles to remember the present. “I just need ta find me glasses. Have ya seen where I put me glasses?”

She continues, “I tell ya, the world’s going ta end. Everything’s bacome crazy. All people do is shop and drink, shop and drink.” I tell her that I hope the world will hold off for a few more decades, and she turns to me, “Don’t get married. Stay young and enjoy yourself.” I didn’t know whether to laugh, so I laughed.

She takes me on a walk along the beach, proving for all time that the only word to do justice to British beaches is ‘ugly’. Even in summer the beach is stony and a dull grey. A dull grey promenade runs along it, while the beach itself is made of is dull grey stones, separated by dull grey concrete walls, all washed by limp dull grey waves.

We take a cable car atop a hill where William of Normandy built his first staging post for his invasion. I’m relieved to find open fields and green grass, so we settle for a few hours. A ruin sits on the hill, but with a three-pound-something fee, I’m not encouraged to enter.

Gran stares out at the ocean. “I’d move here if there were shops around.” It is a world of chimneys, fields, and sky. Perhaps it’s more her world up here, before televisions and crowds.

Two days were never enough, but they pass quickly and soon I find myself walking with her to the train station. Gran is going to the dentist. “I’m having me teeth cleaned. They’ll be gone for four days!” I’m just happy that she didn’t whip them out for me to see.

A promise to return, and a hug, then she shoves a ten pound note into my hand. For the train journey. She looks embarrassed. “I don’t need the money - If I won the lottery I’d give it ewey, every penny.”

The journey back took two and a half hours.

Sign me up

1. Go to London.
2. Ignore the tourist-traps. Take photos of signs.
3. Post online.

In a South African department store. At least Kobus looks happy. Oh. Wait.

Found in Putney -- check out the fumes from the turd.

They're called 'tides'. Hastings, where more than the beach is dull

The mysterious empty yellow triangle is alluring, but tar deposits?

How (not) to open an English bank account. Part one.

Kiwi’s are told that is a frustrating task to open an English bank account. Let’s see about that.

If you are planning to make it to the misty shores for more than a cup of Earl Grey and a tour round London, your best bet would be to go online to 1^st contact or inlondon, established firms which perform some of the trickier aspects of immigration on your behalf. Basically, you pays your money, you gives your details, and you gets your account. They have grim forecasts for any person who doesn’t go through their scheme, warning that it’s best to sort it out before you touch down in Heathrow.

Obviously I didn’t, so my options are limited. I pop into the local Barclays in North Finchley, skip the queue to the tellers and ask the lady in the information desk what I need in order to open account. I stress that, despite my accent, I am British and even held an account with them a number of years ago.

“How long ago?”

“A few years.”

“Like five?”

“Closer to fifteen.”

She runs away to fetch a wad of paper entitled ‘dormant account form’. She hands it to me, and I smile through my teeth. I wonder whether the two pounds or so I had in the account would be worth the hours of work to fill this form. My account was most likely closed years ago by my parents anyway. I continue, and press this girl for new account information.

She asks whether I’m living in London.

“Yes.”

She asks whether I have a job.

“No.”

She asks what I’m doing in London.

“Looking for a job.”

She stutters an “oh.” and trails off.

I do have an essential item: a UK passport. This little book was a double-edged sword in Africa. It got me through the continent, but cost me anywhere between US$40 – US$55 in port entry fees. I’m hoping that it will redeem itself while I’m in England, so I point it out to the girl.

It helps, but it’s only the start. I need to provide proof of my address in London. “Like what?” “A utility bill, or council tax bill. Something official with your name and address on it.”

Shit.

It’s a catch-22. I’ve just moved into a place. How am I supposed to pay bills without a UK bank account? From my New Zealand account? With my visa? It’s an established flat, which means people are already doing this stuff. I ask whether there’s another way.

“You could get a provisional drivers license from the post office.” She waves her arm vaguely to the left. I take it to mean that the post office is vaguely in the direction of her hand. I thank her and leave.

This time I can’t avoid queuing. It’s lunchtime, so the series of bodies waiting in the post office snakes through a series of cordons, erected to pacify us. Flat screen TV’s entertain the queue-folk with advertising and trivia. I read a dozen times that Istanbul is the only city in the world bridging two continents. How true.

I reach a teller and ask to apply for a provisional drivers license. I expect three things. A form. A fee. A delay. Bingo: a booklet, a £45 ‘administration’ fee, and a two week turnaround. I also receive another booklet explaining how the first booklet works. When I return home to fill in the form, the second booklet tells me that I can go online to a further booklet to clarify the booklet that explains the booklet.

For a kiwi, the deal is that you hand over your driver’s license and they replace it with a UK license. From what I could tell, and frankly it’s confusing enough, there are two catches: you need to hand your passport over to them so they can check it over that two week period. You also need to provide a photo with sufficient proof that you are the face on the picture. ‘Sufficient’ basically means having it signed by someone respectable in England who has known you for more than two years and is not a relative. It’s not the friendliest of methods.

But I have a British passport! It’s a newfangled one, which just gets scanned and proofed on the spot. Hallelujah, for once I get a break. I sign where it tells me to ‘WITHIN THE ALLOTTED BORDER’, and head back to the post office.

The guy ahead of me in the queue is having difficulties. He signed his form, but a bit of his signature scraped the border. It’s being rejected, and he’s asked to rewrite his form. Rightly, he’s angry and complaining, and like a wimp, the teller runs away, “to check it out with the manager.” She returns a few minutes later armed with confidence. The poor man is worked up, and shows the teller where his penmanship scraped the border, just brushed it. He struggles like a fish out of water. He’s spitting while he complains, and wipes his mouth with his hand, but the teller stays put. She knows that she stands safely behind the weight of bureaucracy. He continues arguing, but knows his number’s up. He glances up at me, then tucks his t-shirt into his tracksuit. For a brief moment our eyes lock, and a world of thought passes between us. He knows he’s morally right. He also knows he’s lost, but with pride he continues his fight against inevitability.

My turn. I feel diminished. I pay my money, hand over my details, and embrace the system.