Forms of identity (Was RE: Open versus closed PKI systems)

[Owen Lewis]

> -----Original Message-----
> From: ukcrypto-admin@chiark.greenend.org.uk
> [mailto:ukcrypto-admin@chiark.greenend.org.uk]On Behalf Of Q G Campbell
> Sent: 21 May 2001 10:51
> To: ukcrypto@chiark.greenend.org.uk
> Subject: RE: Forms of identity (Was RE: Open versus closed PKI systems)
>
>
> > Hmm. I went to Dublin last week, from Heathrow. No-one asked
> > my name or looked at my passport, in either direction.
>
> Given the number of flights to/from Dublin/Heathrow they either don't
> bother because of passenger numbers or they have a more sophisticated
> means of monitoring passengers.

Think on as you wish. I'll tell you a story to cheer you on your way.

During WWII quite a few young Ersemen left their neutral country for the fun
of being given a gun and encouraged to kill people with it. Sadly, quite a
few found that this was not quite as much fun as they had hoped it would be
and unilaterally abrogated their contracts of service, skipping home, to
where they were assured of a warm welcome, Guinness, safety and no
extradition. Over time, the hundreds became thousands, yea even unto ten
thousand (or so 'tis said) (albeit still but a small fraction of those who
loyally fought and sometimes died to the their greater honour and the
security of their homeland).

The war ended and years passed and many a young Mick, deserter, matured and
prospered into Mr Michael, cattle owner or artic driver.

Now, though those nasty old Brits have little sense of humour, the truth is
it was, post '45, too embarrassing to ask for all the Micks who had deserted
to be handed over for the jail sentences that would await them. So the
matter was tidily swept under the carpet, along with De Valera's aid and
succour to Nazi Germany that prolonged the Battle of the Atlantic and thus
helped kill a few million more in lands far away of which a good Irishman
knows little. No one noticed - or wanted to notice that many Mr Michaels
were regularly popping over into England and Wales, either to go to market
or to see Aunty Flora in Balham.

All went well and sleepily until the last bout of unpleasantness in NI, when
some of the boyos started slipping over here from time to time to frighten
old ladies and startle (or even kill, on one occasion) the horses. The no
sense of humour Brits then decided to take a *very* close look at all those
making the crossing and to arrest on the spot all those wanted for criminal
acts against Her Majesty.

And lo, it then came to pass that Michael X, Michael Y and many, many of the
other young Mick deserters were being promptly arrested at Fishguard or
Holyhead. This was very embarrassing and, really, not the point at all.

A modus vivendi was quickly derived.  Mr Michael would be taken gently into
a side room where he would be asked to confirm that he was indeed the young
Mick deserter who ran home some 30-40 years before. It was rib-ticklingly
Kafkaesque. Mr Michael, now a married man, sons who are priests or
themselves married (all of them) to the Taoseach's daughter; prosperous, a
pillar of his church and local community; he was now, out of the blue
looking down the barrel of a ten year stretch. He could say yes or no. If he
said yes, he was given a cup of tea, asked to sign a simple statement of
admission on the promise that he could then be at once about his business
and that all charges would be waived and an administrative discharge from
the British Army would follow to his home by post.

However, should he have denied that he had been that young Mick, why then,
he was flung into a cell to be arraigned before a magistrate which, if he
had been nicked coming a Friday night boat, could be some 60-70 hours later.
In the meantime his 40 tons of Irish beef was going niffy on the dock
without refrigeration - or worse if he was carrying livestock. The
magistrate could but did not always grant bail (probably according to the
state of his liver that morning and the amount of abuse being hurled at him
from the dock).

Now one might imagine that the no sense of humour Brits would have relished
the latter situations. Not a bit. There was even talk that more than one Mr
Michael was - how shall I put it? - *persuaded* by the offer, from burly,
case hardened Military Policemen, of a large ice-cream on a hot day or
buckets of water carried to his cows, if only he would *please* save them
all the paperwork and the rib-tickling in the mess as to the nature of their
'catch of the day'.

If it was ever true, it must be all gone now. All the old Micks are either
dead, administratively discharged or too
geriatric to make the trip. But perhaps not. My father went to Ireland on
the Fishguard crossing only a month or so ago. AFAIK he's still wanted there
(since '41) on smuggling charges - but that's another story.

Night Night.

Owen




>
> Quentin
>
>