Apparently not due to the recession, the person behind T-Shirt Hell has decided to call it a day, which is a shame as I always keep meaning to buy more of their stuff. Espcially since the import restriction on good was raised above the frankly, pointless £18 limit a couple of months ago.
However, I do still have quite a few shirts on my wish list. So if you fancy getting me some natty new wears for when I get back home in June, I’d not say no to a handful of them…
If some of you are daft enough to chuck some cash my way via a dodgy t-shirt shop run by an apparent racist homophobe with a child porn fetish, then “thank you” and please remember to update my wish list so that someone else doesn’t buy the same one!
Today the Post Office (and therefore it’s four subsidiaries) announced that it was in the black for the first time in four years. Incredible given the current economic climate, but perhaps not so surprising given its still near-monopoly position in a lost of cases.
However, I can tell you one thing that they’ve managed to do which would explain their financial stead-footedness: they’re ******* ****. Still.
I’ve railed on about the post before, and today I found another example. Last week I ordered some laptop memory from a company called Offtek. I had it sent recorded delivery and expected it in a couple of days, maybe a week as the post at Leah’s is particularly ****. I think Hanoi is the only other place I’ve been with such regularly inexplicable delays.
I remember from one argument a few years ago, that the Post Office now promise to deliver your mail by midday (remember when you got it before breakfast?), yet Leah’s arrives around 13:30 each day. Not that it makes any difference to someone who’s working as they won’t be in to collect anything that requires a signature anyway.
Regardless, I got an email from a member of staff at Offtek earlier. My package had been bounced back to them as the postie couldn’t find the right letterbox and gave up. For ****’s sake. Without giving her address away, Leah lives on the third floor of a 3-floor block of flats. There are two flats on each floor.
The address on the package was “Flat 3/2”. Now, this could mean two things – third floor, second flat; or third flat, second floor. As the latter simply doesn’t exist you’d think the obvious reasoning therefore is that it must be the former.
Remember that the package was recorded delivery, so someone would have to sign for it anyway. This means they could double-check. And if nobody was there to receive it, then they’d have to provide ID to pick it up at the parcel depot.
So why the **** did it end up being returned to sender? Oh, that’s right. Because the Post Office is ******* ****.
I do know someoe who works as a post-person and I don’t think she’s that stupid, so perhaps we just have a particularly workshy, brain-starved YTS-er working here. Either way, it’s bloody frustrating as I’d really like the chance to burn in the memory before I bugger off to Thailand next Tuesday.
As it is, Offtek very kindly agreed to re-send it to Andy down in London for me. And they reckon it’ll get to him tomorrow when he’s working from home. All at no additional cost to me. So thank you, Offtek. Assuming the memory works you’ll be getting a very rare recommendation from yours truly!
The Post Office, on the other hand, can **** off. I don’t care if you’re doing well if the reason for doing so is that your service is ****.
I tried to register with the local doctor’s today. I spend so much of my British rest-time up in Dundee courtesy of the gorgeous Leah, that is made sense to register up here, and transfer all my records up from Bradford.
Proving my identity wasn’t a problem. The well-travelled passport did that for me. But they also asked for something with my address on. This was a problem. And still is. And will be for some time.
I’m staying at Leah’s place. Her name is on the mortgage, the utilities and the tax bills. I don’t get any paperwork through from banks – I do all that online. My driving license hasn’t been updated since I left Bradford as the instructions on there insist that I must give a residential address and I’m not resident in the UK in any one place long enough to make that worthwhile.
This is just me. But given that even those ridiculous new ID cards the government seem hell bent on inflicting on us don’t have to have an address on, how do you prove where you live?
If you rent and pay cash then you may not have any utility bills in your name. Council tax is based on the property so the property owner will get that bill, not the tenant. Online banking – should you opt to have a bank account or credit card – means no paperwork with your address on. Nobody says you have to have a driving license and you could shove any old address on there anyway. Passports have no address. As for phones, how often do you give out your landline rather than your mobile as a primary contact number?
Thing is, people move all the time. I’m an extreme example, but in one period my parents shifted address four times in less than a year as my father chased work. Keeping on top of all the address changes could be a nightmare if you do update everyone, but unless you need to get communications from them what’s the point?
Do we need to give people an address any more? They’re nigh-on impossible to prove anyway and with the way the internet makes us address-anonymous, it’s becoming almost an outdated concept. Even when I was working, I would get most packages delivered to that address rather than my home one as I was more likely to be in the office during delivery hours.
If you went for online billing/banking and therefore didn’t get any paper mail from such places, how many things would you now get “through the door”? And without these, assuming you also don’t have a driving license, how would you prove where you lived?
Yeah, one of those posts again. My mind had time to wander the other day and I reckoned in recent history the best place I’ve farted was in the shower just after I’d soaped up the old back passage for supreme cleanliness.
The reason this wins is the awesome Donald Duck-esque *QUACK* that erupts with little or no effort required as far as muscle control goes. Oh, and if you follow through you’re in just the right place to clean up.
I do think a small elevator full of nuns would be a superb place to release an SBD though.
Well, the UK at least. Come on, I can’t do a worse job that that fuckit who’s in charge at the moment that nobody voted for.
I’ve got a ton of ideas and I’ve listed them before but I’ve come up with another to add to the list. It’s a nice simple one. You know how the scrotes from the council estates who live off your tax money always go on about how everyone has to be polite to them? Shop workers, benefit officers, council staff and so on? And if they’re not then they complain and get recompense and apologies and waste more money and time?
Well, fight back time. All council staff will have a simple class in how to be insulting. Only those with a sharp with will be hired. People who can cut someone down verbally with barely a bat of the eyelid and who don’t mind putting someone in their place. Staff will be actively encouraged to tell someone they’re a “******* workshy waste of space” and that until they tidy up their pit of a garden and repaint the doorframes of the house they’ve been given they can “whistle for your ******* dole money, you ****“.
Make them learn that respect is earned and that being a dole-scrounging chav wanktard puts you right down the bottom of the list of people who deserve it. Somehow connecting money and respect may give these shitstains a ******* clue. It’s the only thing they seem to understand. Take away the stuff they get for nothing and watch their entire crappy lifestyle fall apart to the point where they might actually get off their bastard arses and ******* wash.
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