I’ve just been to renew my passport, after ten long years of panic-stricken flying and seafaring. I’m sure most people share this feeling of inadequacy, but my current passport is a major source of embarrassment. The photo was taken in April 1996 when I was at the tender age of 24. I don’t so much look like a deer caught in headlights, as a fan of jangly indie music caught in headlights. Section 10 of the application form for renewing a UK passport states that if your appearance has changed significantly in the previous ten years, you need to get the whole thing countersigned by someone of “standing in the community”, who has known you for at least two years and can vouch that the new photograph is of you, and not some crazed imposter. I dithered for hours about getting a countersignature, for 2 reasons: a) I’m not sure whether I’ve changed that much other than losing an anorak and some hair, and b) I don’t know anyone of standing in the community. Exhibit a) is below:

Compare youthful dole scum in Dog Faced Hermans t-shirt (left) with receding columnist in unpleasant stripey shirt (right). I’d like to think I’ve retained some of my youthful joie-de-vivre, but who knows if the UK Passport Service would share my opinion? I decided to play it safe, and find someone of standing in the community. Who can look down their mobile phone’s address book and find a chiropodist? A Salvation Army officer? An auctioneer, or even a dentist? Not me. Then I remembered that strictlytrue works at the House of Commons, so i went round to his house with some forms and a pen, not that he didn’t have his own pen, but hey, the least I can do is pay for the ink. “I certify that this photograph is of Rhodri David Marsden,” he wrote. Time known applicant: “3 years”. Relationship to applicant: “Er, LiveJournal friend?”

I’ve had a bad history of passport photos. When I was a guitarist in Welwyn Garden City’s answer to Banana Bran, The Keatons, we would spent weeks slogging around Europe, and at EVERY passport control (this was before the Schengen agreement, so it happened nearly every day) my passport would come out, containing a photo of me aged 14 in National Health specs and a really lovely jumper. The van would rock with laughter, every time. Guitarists would weep, drummers would smack their palms on the side of the van, helpless with mirth. It was as least twice as funny as the photo above. Imagine that. I continue to have a bad relationship with photo booths. The photocard I have for my Oyster travelcard makes me look like a rapist after a stodgy 3 course meal. I don’t think you even need a photocard with Oyster cards. What am I playing at? Answers below. Thanks.