ID my id

Over in his sandblasted obelisk, The Moai has recently raised the thorny issue of ID cards.

Now I have to admit, I'm rather in favour of these little gadgets. At present, whenever I get mugged by a needy immigrant I have to report my passport lost to the passport office, my driver's licence to the DVLA, my credit cards to the bank, my birth certificate to Somerset House, my mobile to Vodafone and my wife to the registry office - the list is endless. With the new card, once I have staunched my bloody nose and made myself presentable, I shall only have to present myself once at the local police station, where, with a mug of strong, sweet milky tea and a chocolate hobnob in hand, I can relate my tale of woe to a solitary, caring constable and be back on my way in just a few short minutes.

What is rum, however, is the cost of these little doohickies. I am hoping that the success of the ID card system will be monitored and that if tide of feckless and unwashed will not yield then Tony Blair will all give us a rebate like the King Cnut he is.

Musing further, I wondered if there could be a market for a more interesting card - the id card.
In Freudian theory, the id is the division of the psyche that is totally unconscious and serves as the source of instinctual impulses and demands for immediate satisfaction of primitive needs (thanks reference.com). Rather than the boring stuff about nationality, height, arse size etc., the id card would actually record what has made you you. For example, favourite sweets, first kiss, best ever gig, fear of cheese, those "funny" games with uncle Raoul, close encounters with Pam Ayres, etc. Carrying a PDA or mobile phone that could read other people's id cards would enable you to prepare a devastatingly pithy gambit to slap the saddoes down before they trap you in a corner at a party and the ensuing ennui makes immolation unavoidable.

LargetrouserS: Object in my trousers may be larger than they appear