Hamish Champ: Security? Wot security?
It probably hasn't escaped your attention that we live in an increasingly security conscious world. Events in recent years mean we can't enjoy the freedoms we used to. Some tightening of security is a good thing, but a growing number of people are concerned that we are in danger of replicating George Orwell's 'Big Brother' scenario, as illustrated in his classic novel '1984'.
Take CCTV cameras. Everywhere we go we're being watched. The UK has one per cent of the world's population, give or take, but around a fifth of the total number of CCTV cameras that exist on the planet - 4.5 million. They don't seem to actually prevent anything bad happening, they merely seem to be designed to help collar those who've done the bad thing, or make some of us feel 'safe'.
And if it's not the powers-that-be keeping their beady eyes on us, these days you need to be able to prove who you are at almost every turn too. You need a photo ID for this, a biometric gizmo for that. Oyster cards track your movements on public transport and your mobile phone shows where you are whenever it's switched on. And if you're not careful, someone will nick your identity and that'll be that.
Security has its place though. And one such place where one would expect security to be red-hot is the seat of our government, the House of Commons. And yet entering the Palace of Westminster last week I was reminded of a scene in an episode of I'm Alan Partridge, in which our hero is set to host a sales conference for Dante's of Reading - "the Ferrari of the coal effect fire industry" - at Choristers, a local country club.
He has a swipe card pass to enter the premises, but prefers to press the intercom and utter provocative but ultimately vacuous threats, just to see what kind of reaction he'll get: "Hallo security? I'm an arsonist with a big box of matches. Please can I come in to set fire to the staff?" He is buzzed in and as the gates swing open Partridge mutters to himself: "Unbelievable."
I felt a bit like this on entering the House of Commons last week to attend a press briefing following the publication of the latest Business, Skills and Innovation committee report on the pub industry.
"Hi, I'm attending a meeting in Room W1," I said to the policeman on the security gate, somewhat hopefully since I'd forgotten to bring a copy of the email inviting me to the meeting. He pointed towards the long slope that takes one towards the visitors' entrance. "Down there sir," he said.
No "Can I see some form of identification?" No "Where is your invitation?" Just a smile and a gesture of welcome.
True, I subsequently had my photo taken for a visitor's pass; true, I had to pass through a metal detector and have my bag checked as if I was about to board a plane bound for New York.
But no-one actually asked me where I was going, nor sought of me proof that I was there in any legitimate capacity whatsoever. I could have been anyone, aiming to do anything once I'd gotten inside the walls of power.
Near where I live there is a stretch of a residential street where cars are funnelled through width restrictions positioned either side of a section of bus lane that runs down the middle of the road. The bus lane is about 12 yards long and is to be monitored by a host of cameras, which will undoubtedly prove to be a money-spinner for the local council.
Someone's got their priorities wrong somewhere…
