Teacher Tales

Technological Purgatory

It sounds like a lascivious old rake calling the latest victim to his charms: 'Mysejahtera'. Go on, try it- breakdown the syllables. My-Sejah-Tera and and raise your eyebrows. Just me? Ok. I have no idea what it means but is it the title of the app that all visitors to Malaysia have to download in order to gain entry.

Now, despite often presenting as a hairy hobo, with about as much style as a hippo on an ice rink, I am actually organised when it comes to travel. I do care and I do want everything to work and be correct. It figures then that I downloaded the app immediately and followed the instructions. How hard could it be?

This is, in truth, a two part rant- the first regarding my personal irritation with this specific app and the second, over-arching rant, is about the total lack of help and control that we have in this 'brave new world'. So- my irritation...

I fill in the details and am told, as usual, that I will receive an email or message via text when my account is ready. I wait and I wait and I wait. I wonder if there was a glitch when nothing arrives and so I try to log on with the details I had set up. Did it work? I think you know the answer.

No.

It didn't.

In truth, perhaps I hadn't waited long enough and I hadn't had the confirmation. Patience my young padouan I hear, in the back of my head, with inevitable Yoda vocals. I am patient and the next day, despite still not receiving any confirmation, it did work. I began to fill the necessary pre-departure form that is designed to keep Malaysia free of Covid. I wouldn't want to kill people.

The detail required is immense, including flight numbers, Covid vaccine batch numbers, dates for just about every event in your life. I was almost expecting them to ask for the name of my penis. To add to the frustration, after almost every question, you are asked if you are robot. I can only think that Malaysia high command are big fans of Isaac Asimov as they definitely want to keep droids out of the country and if I was a robot I would certainly feel very discriminated against. I then arrive at a question that asks for when I am travelling, but then realise that the only dates I am allowed to enter are the next seven days. Keen to move on with this and realising that entering this data with only seven days to go would not leave much room for error, I log on to the online website where you can also fill in your pre-departure form. This one accepts the dates.

Great.

We're getting somewhere I thought.

Wrong.

Only a click or so away from finishing, I reached the section where you have to upload the Covid certificates, which of course I have next to me and ready to go- they have even been laminated! I clicked on the section that says read the bar code- as you aren't allowed to upload the pdf of the certificate. Secret computer cyclops reads it, albeit slowly and I submit...

The pause is agonising, like waiting for a penalty taker to smash the ball into the back of the net and yet expecting them to miss.

The wait is over.

I am greeted with a message, in red, of course, saying that it rejects my form as the details on the bar code do not match the name of the traveller on the application. Did I groan and shout and immediately blame technology- which, in truth, is my modus operandi. No (well a tiny bit) I was patient. It might be my error. I re-check the details on the form. Name- Tristan Weston- spelling correct. All details about date of birth etc are correct. So, is the bar code wrong? It certainly says Tristan Weston- spelt correctly- on the certificate. However, as I don't speak, 'computer', I cannot ascertain what the barcode says.

We are now of course moving rapidly towards the second part of the rant. Total impotence. What can I do? I cannot speak 'computer' and in this insane new world, who do I ring to sort this out? The NHS? What number is that? The doctors? My mum? We are now part of society where if something goes wrong, we cannot problem solve or check for ourselves and we have no-one to help us, beyond chat platforms and youtube clips. Did I concede? No, of course not.

I am made of sterner stuff and underneath this hobo-chique style that I seem to be cultivating beats a caveman heart. I read the platforms and laughed hysterically, and somewhat sadistically at similar stories of woe. There were few solutions offered however and the platforms seemed more like a virtual counselling world for poor souls like me, trapped in a technological purgatory. There was a brief glow from a small glimmer in the cave of misery, stating that you could reverse the forename and surname on the application as that is how it is presented on the bar code. I was excited.

I tried it.

It failed.

Then Rach spotted that the bar code on our booster certificate was out of date. On the certificate it claims that the bar code will cease to work after twenty eight days in order to protect our personal information. My head started shaking in disbelief and the shaking started to crawl across my body- it was rage, which I eventually brought under control. What was left and is still left, is bizarre bemusement. What are they protecting? What information is contained on this bar code? Waist line? Political affinities? Information about when I pissed in the sink when I was drunk at the in laws? Surely, it just says who I am and that I have had the vaccine. Why would I or anyone else want this protecting?

We live in a world where photographs of us are bandied around like confetti at a wedding and where we are watched by CCTV almost all of the time and yet, now they want to protect me, when I don't want it; when I don't need it and when it is extremely bloody irritating. After my all body shaking, I settled and was comforted that I had solved the issue and so updated the bar code via the NHS app. I then scanned the new code, honestly, and presumably stupidly, expecting it to work.

It didn't. 

The same message, still in red and now more annoying than ever, that this code did not match the traveller. I scanned the code using Rachel's phone, hoping it would show me what information was contained there. maybe there was an error on the bar code. Surely that's not impossible. Computers are after all fed by humans. Unfortunately, the result of the scan was: 11111111222221111212121211222222112288599038730bvwliejfhqiwfe[JITI [G3U\P

or something like that. I might be paraphrasing. As I said, rant number two says there is nothing I can do to check anything. I wondered, 'what I would do if I didn't have a phone'? That said, I probably wouldn't be in any worse position. : in the dark, clueless, with no friend and no idea, and not even the hope of a strong arm to pull me out. Where am I now?

See above...technological purgatory. 

On the Wrong Tracks

This morning I transferred fifty pounds from my bank account to my son’s at the click of a button on my mobile phone. We are so lucky to have such systems that allow us to pass money back and forth so conveniently and so easily. Yesterday, I transferred forty five pounds from my bank account to my son’s at the click of the same button. Again, so easy. And yet, so mind-blowingly frustrating. Why? Because the first transfer was to pay for a single train ticket (the cheapest I could get) from Loughborough to Cambridge. Loughborough to Cambridge!!! Ninety four miles. That’s, as near as damn it, a quid for every two miles. A train covers a mile in about forty seconds so that’s a pound every 1 minute twenty seconds.

Now, I know Cambridge is a beautiful place full of brainboxes, artists, philosophers and well, increasingly, beggars; I also know it is a place of culture, stunning, decorative parks, beautiful architecture and the birthplace of the late great Stephen Hawkings but I’m sorry, it is not worth a 45 pound single ticket journey. Mr Hawkings himself delved into the complexities and profound physics of black holes, proving that there was a big bang at the start of the universe and yet the professor himself would be hard pressed to explain the enigma of train ticket prices in the United Kingdom.

This, of course brings up a more serious and deep seated problem- the cost of trains in this country, in general. Yes, there are railcards, though they impact the cost of tickets about as much as a mouse’s fart impacts the noise at a Metallica gig. Yes, if you booked a ticket during the stone age, you might get a few quid off the price in 2021 but I’m sorry, these prices are stranger than fiction. We were promised tough competitions between rail companies, which would drive the prices down to meet the need of the average consumer. What did we get? The opposite: ‘fat cats’ and CEOs drunk on avarice and self-importance, meeting with Scrooge like leers in protective hunched postures over their growing mountains of cash.

So, the second transfer. 50 quid may I remind you? A lovely meal out perhaps, a belated birthday gift for my wonderful son maybe or money put toward exciting holiday plans. No- you guessed it- the return journey- Cambridge to Loughborough! This means for my son to go and see his sister for one day cost me 95 quid- 95 spondoolies!!! Now, how in any world can this be justified? There are a huge range of folk online commenting and comparing our impossible train prices with other big European cities and I know it is complicated but I’ll just say this...I could purchase a ticket from Berlin to Hamburg (157 miles) for 4.99 euros. Today! I could purchase a ticket from Rome to Florence (171 miles) for 9.00 euros. Today! I could purchase a train ticket from Athens to Thessalonica (311 miles) for 19 euros. Today!

Go figure!

The Worst Embassy in the World?

So theoretically I head back to Tashkent in a few days. Am I stressed? Enormously so! I am not stressed about work, leaving the UK or any of the usual travel based stresses.

No! Absolutely not!

I am stressed because as it stands I won't be able to fly.

This is simply because of the debacle and staggering incompetence of the Uzbek embassy in London. I posted my visa application on August the 1st and was told I'd receive it in 7 days. However, it isn't the wait that annoys me it is the lies, the ineptitude and the hope, which they crush with every single step of the wait. The depressing, slow turning of the wheel of time and the excitement felt every time the postperson arrives, only to discover my visa is not amongst his collection of letters.

The story goes that I sent my visa with a stamped addressed envelope, recorded delivery. When it didn't come back in the expected time I contacted the embassy last Wednesday and he said he would post it that day. Two days move at a snail's pace stirring up a volcanic eruption of anxiety.

I call on Friday, only to be faced with the following:

Embassy: Hello Tris:

Hello. I am ringing up as i am flying soon and really need my visa.

Embassy: What is your name?

Tris: Tristan Weston

Embassy: OK I post it today.

Tris: Woah. Hang on! I spoke to a person on Wednesday and they said they were posting it.

Embassy: I post it today.

Tris: So, do you still have it?

Embassy: I speak to you on Monday?

Tris: No, on Wednesday.

Embassy: What's your name again?

Tris: Tristan Weston.

Embassy: OK, Tomorrow.

Tris: What?

Embassy: Tomorrow, you will get the visa.

Tris: So, you have posted it?

Embassy: Yes.

Tris: When?

Embassy: Erm...

Tris: Is my visa in the post already?

Embassy: Yes.

Tris: So you put it into the hole in the wall- or the post box?

Embassy: Yes.

Tris: When was it posted?

Embassy: Wednesday.

Tris: OK, so it is on its way?

Embassy: Yes.

Tris: (Puffing cheeks out) Thanks.

And if this had been the end of the saga I would have been mightily relieved.

I had spoken to HR In Tashkent who also contacted the embassy from their end. Apparently, as I awoke to find no visa on Saturday morning, the man who I had spoken to had not posted it at all. He told our HR that the stamp was out of date (the one the post office had put on for me). I checked this and it is apparently not possible. However, they wanted another stamped addressed envelope. So, as a man with a gun to his head, I paid for another stamped addressed envelope and sent it.

This morning I rang again to be greeted by an apparently more efficient chap who said he would phone me back. An interminable hour plodded on and I, realising that the office closed at 1, and knowing that it can take up to two hours to get through to them, made another call. He answered miraculously but was very shirty, saying he would call back as he said he would. I tried to explain the almost nordic saga that had gone on in the previous days and that I stood to lose a thousand pounds if this wasn't sorted. He told me he would call at 1.

At 1.15pm I finally received the call. I answered sounding out of breath, a desperate man hoping for great news. Ï am on the way to the post office", he says. Great! Joy...rapture...relief.

No. Absolutely not. We couldn't have that!

I asked him what had happened before and he reiterated this business about the expiration on the stamp.

"Oh", he said. "Actually this one had expired too".

Grrrrrr.

I made a noise as if I had stubbed my toe really hard and then pulled back to control myself.

"There isn't an expiration date on these stamps", I said.

"16th", he said. "The post office might not accept this".

I am lost in a fog of confusion, an inexplicable miasma. What to do! What a 'to do!'

He tells me he'll try and I say:

"Please phone me back if it is a problem".

It is 2.30pm. No call. What does this mean? Has he posted it? Could he be bothered to call, if there was a problem?

They're closed tomorrow so I sit in a state of permamanent fear.

The Lowest Common Denominator

My first official rant!!!!

Argh!!

Sorry, just getting myself pumped up like a boxer before a bout. These pages of rants are not designed to make everyone think that I am some sort of lunatic, angry wild thing. I just get frustrated internally by certain aspects of our life that I truly, do not understand.

The first of which seems strange since now I am in Tashkent, I do not need to drive. This rant is actually a throw back to my time in the UK. And it is:

'Please get rid of traffic lights on roundabouts'. Now you will of course need to bear with me on this one. Of course, we know why they are there don't we? 

They help movement and help conduct an orderly flow by giving right of way to some cars and not others. They not only make car traffic a lot safer but also pedestrian traffic. They help reduce the number of accidents and make collisions at intersections a lot less frequent.

Now like many of you I have driven on lots of roundabouts; some of which, such as the ones in Birmingham are insanely busy. This is something I don't think we can alter in the forseeable future with public transport amongst the most expensive in the world and where a deep rooted culture of car ownership pervades through our society like gun ownership in the states. However, I want you to picture something for me:

You are driving towards a busy roundabout and of course you need to queue. After a difficult few moments you arrive at the critical moment, the moment where you as an animal, a creature, a sentient being of evolution has to commit and make a decision. You have to use your senses, your ingenious mind; the same type of mind that helped put men on the moon, developed heart surgery and teleported light. You have to way up those around you, calculate the speeds, trust your instincts. Sometimes you might make a mistake, put your foot down too early or pause (fatal error) after going. Then what? Well, then another person has to adapt and think also.

Why are we so desperate to take all of the thinking out of society? We used to have lanes in the post office. I loved that. You picked one and hoped it moved quicker than the others; sometimes you gambled, sometimes you changed lanes but then regretted it. But, eh, you were able to make a choice to use your brains and not just be the mindless automatons we have created in post offices now. Now, we stand in one line, we take away the competitive edge; we stop people needing to think and in the name of what..,fairness. Is it fair on the cleverer person, the chancer who wished to use their nous to get on in the world and post their letter first? Why do we insist on reducing every human being down to the lowest common denominator?

Ok. Now I do know the counter argument. Of course I do. Roundabouts are different and of course it is rare that anyone dies in a post office queue. However, in my experience traffic lights do not help the flow of traffic at roundabouts or reduce accidents. Firstly, everyone rushes and puts their foot down at every change to get over on amber before the dreaded turn to hellish red and perhaps another 30 second wait which in itself increases the chance of accidents in my eyes. So, not safer! Secondly, lights force everyone once again to go slowly, to wait longer than the vast majority of people would need to. So, not quicker! On the many occasions that I have arrived at a roundabout where the lights are broken or not working, the traffic has always flowed better. I know stats will say otherwise but they'll tell you anything you know. It is simply a form of control.  Yes, there may be supremely cautious drivers who are forced to wait longer than others without lights but isn't this just 'natural selection?'Maybe time to stop driving. I know civilization means making life better for everyone but sometimes in making it better, you make it worse for the majority and better for the minority. Is this right?

It's like prehistoric people chasing mammoth across the plains, poised after unleashing a trap and seconds from killing the unfortunate beast and then pausing before the spear attack as they realise that lardy boy (the fat hunter) is behind the others so better to wait until he has caught up before making the kill. A primary school in Nottinghamshire recently wrote to parents saying '98%' of our children are happy at play time. Dubious statistics I'm sure. 'We want to make sure it is 100%' they added before suggesting the introduction of...come on you guessed it:

'supervised play sessions'- thereby probably reducing pupil happiness by 20%. Also, I agree dubious statistics.

My point I suppose is that in our typically capitalisitic mentality, we have to improve everything until everyone is equal and all is fair. I guess I prefer the sense of competition, pitting your wits against others, the waking of the lively mind rather than the dull boredom of fairness and robotic movement.

Traffic lights on roundabouts. No point.