What really happens in a London lunch break.

What a disaster. What a day.

With just two weeks until I'm due to show my face at a music festival, it's dawned on me that I better get some ID under my belt - before I find myself queuing for Diet Pepsi at an ice cream van while my mates get sloshed on Stella and Vodka concoctions. That would break my heart.

Anyway, I printed off some application forms for my new UreLife ID card. I know, it sounds about as official as a dog tag in a nursery. Having worked out that there's not a single form of ID in the country that doesn't require a ridiculous amount of identification to apply with in the first place, I finally settled on my choice.

I now have two appointments booked in over the next couple of days. One with my doctor and one with my college headmaster. I say my college headmaster, but I'm not sure there's any "my" involved given that I've never met the bloke and haven't attended college for 18 months. But who needs details?

The point is, I'm scrambling to get my forms sent away - all for the bureaucratic joy of being verified so that yes, I'm old enough to have a drink. They should just look at my face. You can tell from the wear and tear that I've already drained enough alcohol to water a small African nation. 

As part of the application process, I had to attach two passport sized images to send away for processing. As it stands, I have no such photos. And you know why I have no such photos? I have no such photos because W.H Smiths have installed the most heinous money grabbing machine since the invention of the paid cash point.

The W.H Smiths photo booth.

Now, for any of you who've yet to experience this delightful creation, let me first say that my W.H Smiths of choice so happened to be a crowded store in the center of London. Right during the peak of a busy lunch break, I waltzed in to the shop and I could just tell it was going to go wrong.

Everybody hates having their passport picture taken. That is fact. But consider a baking hot afternoon with your work clothes sticking to your back and the sun so strong that you can't help but sweat and sweat.

I stood outside the booth for five minutes and tried to cool myself down. 

Hey, wouldn't you? This is the photo that snide little bastards are going to be sniggering at for the next ten years. I sure as hell don't want to look like a sweating greasy slime ball. Some would argue that I achieve that without the effort, but that's not the point.

The point is, by the time I flicked open the curtain and sat down to have my mug snapped, it dawned on me that I didn't actually have five pounds in change.

I should probably say at this point that as far as good shirt days go, this wasn't one of my best. I was already looking distinctly Texan with a checkered cowboy top half unbuttoned down my chest. The second I sat down and saw myself in the reflection, I thought, "Holy shit..."

"Inbred paedophile."

I should have known better really. The second I walked in to the office, I caught earshot of the first Brokeback Mountain reference.

Anyway, I shuffled quickly out of the photo booth and stroked my tenner knowing damn well that I was going to have to break it. I spent what really shouldn't have taken as much time as it did to search the store for something nice and cheap that wasn't going to put too much of a dent in my wallet.

When I got back to the office, one of my mates asked why I didn't just buy a pack of chewing gum. Good shout, but unfortunately too late considering I'd already opted for a pritstick.

It was only when I stopped cursing and fuming under my breath that I realized just how dodgy that might have looked to the till cashier.

It can't be too often that you're left to serve a sweating, ragged Texan-London crossbreed who only wants to buy a pritstick. God knows what she thought my intentions were. Bad day at the office, I presume.

Back to the photo booth I went, this time with a pile of coins in my hand and the religious determination that through hell or high water, I was walking away from Farringdon with valid passport photographs under my belt.

I slotted in the coins and sat back with my eyes shell-shocked wide open. Have you heard how loud the instructions are on these machines?

Jesus Lucifer Christ, the entire DVD section of the store could hear the exact instructions that were being relayed to me. All the while, my feet are shuffling in plain view under the waist height curtain that offers my one and only privacy from this highly personal chore.

"When you are ready, place your chin in line with the screen and press the button"

I swat at my hair and wipe the beading sweat from my brow, desperately trying not to go all criminal eyed as I so often do when confronted with a forced lens.

The machine makes that false camera shutting sound - loud enough for the entire magazine row to wonder where the squeakiness is coming from. 

A few seconds later, my face flashes up on the screen and you don't need me to tell you that it wasn't pretty. I know this isn't going to be acceptable as a passport, so let me take another photo and lets keep my little cross eyes a secret. But no no no.

"I'm sorry. Your pose is not valid and is not acceptable as a passport photo. Please try again or press Print to continue."

I literally flinched and shot backwards as this fiendish piece of technology relayed my personal battles to everybody in the surrounding area. And let's face it. W.H.Smiths isn't exactly the loudest of stores. You get the odd flick of a page being turned and the occasional till sounding. But I could actually hear the sniggers as this machine effectively told me; "FAIL!".

For the briefest moment, my hand reached for the eject change button. Sod this, I thought. I'll go somewhere busy without a running commentary of my failures ejected over the airwaves for all to listen in on.

But no, I had another shot at it. The second photo was even worse. I was nervous. I was tensing up. I looked more and more like that Texan rapist and I damn well knew it.

"I'm sorry. Your pose is not valid and is not acceptable as a passport photo. You have one photo opportunity remaining. Please try again or press Print to continue."

More sniggers.

Listen, there's only one reason why they chose to have audio commentary on these machines. And there's absolutely no excuse for turning the volume up to the max - except for turning the screws on a poor paying customer who has one more shot at justifying the £5 he's spent.

By this point, it was a lost cause. I tried again, but I'd accepted that even if it had been a valid picture, that wouldn't hide the fact that I looked absolutely hideous. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights with death written in his eyes, I looked more resigned to my elastic face than anything.

I shuffled out of the booth and walked away downtrodden with my hands in my pockets.

In the distance I could still hear, "It appears that your photo does not fill the requirements for a passport picture..."

Why is that necessary? I know I've fucked up. You know I've fucked up.

The whole of W.H.Smiths is aware that I've fucked up.

Let's just forget about it.