International Refuse
I had my passport photo taken.
The last time I had my passport photo taken, two years ago, I was aghast. My hair was so white against the white background of the photo-booth that it disappeared, the phosphorescent flare biting deep into my forehead. I saw what I would look like with no hair: an antique dealing Mitchell brother, a sulking bollock, a Japanese flag getting some very bad news. I was Artist in Residence at the Mac at the time but the photo didn't say Artist in Residence to me. The photo said misunderstood bouncer. When the Mac lost the photos, hastily stripping my artist's studio two days before the end of my tenure, I was almost pleased. I didn't renew my passport.
The time before I had a passport photo taken was over decade ago. The passport system was different then: you had four goes at getting a picture you liked in those days and you could change the background colour too. Also, I had cheekbones and my pout looked almost natural then too: resting fish-face. Nowadays it looks as though someone has photo-shopped out the bubble as I blow my bubblegum. There was more colour in my hair and more snap in my skin. My eyelashes were darker and my eyebrows less like a neglected hedge. I looked quite handsome.
That was the photo I had in my passport for ten years: a clubbable Dorian Gray while I waltzed around the picture of ill health. On one occasion I flashed my passport at the woman behind the desk as my voting I.D. "Ooh, you look like a rock star" she trilled. Then she looked up and saw the creepy nonsense my face had become, the crepey pink folds, the hokey cokey of crows-feet, the tufted wool of my hair, like elderly pipe-lagging. I immediately apologised. "Sorry," I said, "Its been a rough few years". It must have been she replied with her large sad eyes.
Today's photos are the worst. I mean they would be - I'm two years more haggard than even the last ones. I do look like I have hair in this one which is odd - is the colour coming back? But my face, my poor face, is swollen and sun-ripened like a weeping legume. The hollows of my cheeks have been filled in by some expert panel-beater with a toffee hammer. The pout looks like a split inner tube now or perhaps an un-pricked sausage. The eyes - windows to the soul - suggest that I'm not going to have one of the best eternities. They glower under scrub-land eyebrows, leaden grey/green puddles teeming with murky intent. Finally there are the wattles, a loosely packed club sandwich of uncooked hamburger patties, leaving my shirt collars smelling like a butchers apron. A cravat of mince. Its quite the package.
The photo-booth gives you three goes. I only bothered with two goes. It was clear that they weren't going to improve. Next week I'll get a new passport. It'll be a British one before the stupid fucking Brexit colour-scheme comes in. I expect I'll get an Irish one further down the line but its my first time applying and they make you leap through hoops to get that sweet European access. From here on in I'll be carrying that flavoursome steamed gammon about with me as my access to foreign lands, giving passport control exactly the wrong idea about who I am. I am not my big pink face.
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The last time I had my passport photo taken, two years ago, I was aghast. My hair was so white against the white background of the photo-booth that it disappeared, the phosphorescent flare biting deep into my forehead. I saw what I would look like with no hair: an antique dealing Mitchell brother, a sulking bollock, a Japanese flag getting some very bad news. I was Artist in Residence at the Mac at the time but the photo didn't say Artist in Residence to me. The photo said misunderstood bouncer. When the Mac lost the photos, hastily stripping my artist's studio two days before the end of my tenure, I was almost pleased. I didn't renew my passport.
The time before I had a passport photo taken was over decade ago. The passport system was different then: you had four goes at getting a picture you liked in those days and you could change the background colour too. Also, I had cheekbones and my pout looked almost natural then too: resting fish-face. Nowadays it looks as though someone has photo-shopped out the bubble as I blow my bubblegum. There was more colour in my hair and more snap in my skin. My eyelashes were darker and my eyebrows less like a neglected hedge. I looked quite handsome.
That was the photo I had in my passport for ten years: a clubbable Dorian Gray while I waltzed around the picture of ill health. On one occasion I flashed my passport at the woman behind the desk as my voting I.D. "Ooh, you look like a rock star" she trilled. Then she looked up and saw the creepy nonsense my face had become, the crepey pink folds, the hokey cokey of crows-feet, the tufted wool of my hair, like elderly pipe-lagging. I immediately apologised. "Sorry," I said, "Its been a rough few years". It must have been she replied with her large sad eyes.
Today's photos are the worst. I mean they would be - I'm two years more haggard than even the last ones. I do look like I have hair in this one which is odd - is the colour coming back? But my face, my poor face, is swollen and sun-ripened like a weeping legume. The hollows of my cheeks have been filled in by some expert panel-beater with a toffee hammer. The pout looks like a split inner tube now or perhaps an un-pricked sausage. The eyes - windows to the soul - suggest that I'm not going to have one of the best eternities. They glower under scrub-land eyebrows, leaden grey/green puddles teeming with murky intent. Finally there are the wattles, a loosely packed club sandwich of uncooked hamburger patties, leaving my shirt collars smelling like a butchers apron. A cravat of mince. Its quite the package.
The photo-booth gives you three goes. I only bothered with two goes. It was clear that they weren't going to improve. Next week I'll get a new passport. It'll be a British one before the stupid fucking Brexit colour-scheme comes in. I expect I'll get an Irish one further down the line but its my first time applying and they make you leap through hoops to get that sweet European access. From here on in I'll be carrying that flavoursome steamed gammon about with me as my access to foreign lands, giving passport control exactly the wrong idea about who I am. I am not my big pink face.
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