The British Disease...

03/09/08

69 years ago today Great Britain declared war on Germany, and in typical British fashion did nothing for a bit. It was called the phoney war – until bombs started landing on our chip shops. Then we started to take it a little more seriously. People who came home to find a crater where their house used to be were often driven to tut, and in some instances raise an eyebrow to the sky.

I know I promised in my last Blog that I wouldn’t mention the war, but please, bear with me, because you need to understand something about the British. Our national pastime, apart from talking about the weather, is moaning – but only amongst ourselves. We wouldn’t dream of complaining about, say, poor service in a restaurant, directly to the person serving us. Its unlikely we’d even mention it to the manager. But, if we find ourselves standing next to a complete stranger at a bus stop? Well then, we sing like a canary.

To be British is to expect things to go wrong. The phrase ‘oh well, things could be worse I suppose,’ originates from the war. Come home from work to find that what remains of your house could fit into a your pockets, and that your whole family have been wiped out? ‘Oh well, things could be worse I suppose,’ quiet tut, brief eyebrow lift, and back to work.

So you see, my DNA is programmed to expect disappointment, as I suspect it will on the Visa front. I haven’t seen my passport for some weeks as its been flitting between the embassies of the countries I’m travelling through. By the time I get it back (if it ever comes back) it will have earned a holiday – which is just as well…

The Russian Visa process is typical. They need a form, photo, passport, more money than I earn in a week, and an invite from an approved source. Naturally the form must have no errors or crossings out. A flourishing signature that finds itself outside the designated space of the signature box is an immediate rejection. Perhaps the Russians have something against flamboyant people. Maybe so, but they’ve nothing against money. Rejection on administrative grounds means they still keep the application fee.

The invite is an interesting element, China do this too. I’m visiting a country, not one of its citizens, so how would I get an invite? They’ve thought of that, so most hotels can offer an invite – for a fee.

I’m being invited to Russia by Hotel Tourist, formally state owned (wasn’t everything), which their website informs me ‘has been functioning for 50 years.’ I don’t know about you, but the word ‘functioning’ doesn’t fill me with confidence. I like hotels that say ‘been looking after our guests for 50 years,’ or ‘celebrating 50 years of service with our loyal customers, who we think of as friends and love more than our own families.’ Functioning just doesn’t do it for me. But they did invite me, and it would be bad form not to turn up. Naturally being British, I’ll bring a bottle.

The Belarusian visa is an even bigger con. I won’t be so much as planting a toe on their beloved soil. I’m only travelling through. In fact, I’ll probably be asleep as the train cuts a swathe across its green and fertile land. On second thought I’ll stay awake. I want to see what I’m getting for my money. The visa’s costing me about £1 per mile, I don’t care if it’s dark.

My DNA tells me I will never see my passport again. I’m not holding my breath, but I might bore the arse off the person next to me in the bus queue later about the trouble I’m having. I’m not sure how the discussion will start, but I know how it’ll end. ‘Things could be worse I suppose…’