What's Big, Red and Does Sod All?

I have been a relatively happy little bunny lately and that is a very dangerous state in which to be. You see, when the urge takes you to skip along while singing "hello flowers, hello birds, hello world" all the time you tend to lose sight of the fact that life is abso-fucking-lutely shite and almost every-bastard-one in it is a complete and utter TOSSER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

These truths I hold to be self evident and I was reminded of them when I toyed with the idea of towing the legal line by taxing The Wardrobe. I should have known better because this involved, as it turned out, reliance on those princes among pricks and kings among cunts.......the Post Office!!
The avenue leading to complete car conformity was closed off to me yesterday as I was unable to lay my hands on the required moolah (47 years fucking old and I couldn't even scrape together £99 soddin' quid!!). Undeterred, and still in a mellow frame of mind, I did some fiscal juggling and by the time the sun set I had managed to unearth the necessary from various corners of Pitherworld - too late for the Post Office, yes. Too late for the law, indeed, but probably in enough time to keep the filth from my door, stick two fingers up to the neigbours and do my duty as a good citizen.
The sun duly came up today (something which never fails to at once surprise and depress me) and so I steeled myself for a trip into the village to pay my belated dues. MoT certificate - check! Vehicle registration document - check! Insurance certificate - oops! Where the fuck was it? I renewed my policy in August and the money had been coming out of the Bank of Pither since so.......where the fuck was my certificate? A quick call to the insurance company certainly put my mind at ease:

"I haven't received my insurance certificate."
"Yes you have."
"What!! All right then, what did I have for breakfast this morning?"
"How am I supposed to know that?"
"Well, you seem to be pretty well acquainted with other things that go on round here. How can YOU possibly KNOW I received it?"
"Because we sent it out."
"My dear woman, sending something out and it having been received are two entirely different things. I assure you I have NOT received a certificate."
"Computer says it was sent out last month."
"During the postal strike?"
"Yes."
"Define for me the word 'idiocy'"
"So. S'not my fault."
"Pray explain how it might be mine?"
"Do you want another one?"
"That would be simply lovely!"
"It's £26 for a copy."
"Pardon my exasperation at that news but.....you are having a bleedin' giraffe, are you not?"
"We never joke here at Nobbit, Bodgit and Leggit."
"Have you thought of charging the Post Office £26 and just sending me a replacement certificate?"
"Nope."
"Thank you for all your assistance."
"Happy to help."

I now have to wait for a cover note to arrive.....yes, you guessed it......through the post. I can't do it online or over the phone because...well...well just because. The result is I am now officially a desperado, a ruthless bandit, a criminal, a callous villain on the run from justice. Publicising this fact on the internet is probably not the wisest thing I've ever done, particularly as my nephew is a copper, but there you go.

My final steps back into the real world were taken when I later phoned an assurance company to which I had written a week ago.

"Hello. I wrote to you last week about my policy and I wondered if there was any news?"
"You haven't written to us!"
"You're not related to the woman at the insurance company are you?"
"What?"
"Sorry, I just seem to recall a similar conversation I had earlier today. I did write to you, I can assure you - get it? Assure you!!! Never mind."
"When did you write?"
"Last Thursday."
"Oh, that'll be the Post Office. They're useless, aren't they?"

So it's good to be back in Crapworld again. I shall try not to stray into Happyland again. In the meantime, the Post Office can send itself to Grantham. Second thoughts, I will take it personally or else it will never get there!

Editor's Note: (This is also true) An hour after finishing writing the above there was a postal delivery at the Towers. The drop contained notification from my local hospital of an appointment for physiotherapy......last Thursday!!!

Pither The Posties' Pariah?

"Get back to work, you big-nosed bastard!!!"


I experienced the equivalent of seeing someone spit on my father's grave last night - I was called a capitalist, management lackey!!!
Pither! Pither The Red!! Nemesis of the Bosses!!! He whom destiny has charged with lighting the fire of revolution which will one day sweep through this land!!!!
Worse than that, this deepest of deep cuts was inflicted by none other than my big chum BGT (brain the size of a planet, capacity for alcohol to match).
To set the scene, and in fairness to my accuser, BGT had downed a few sherberts and was in the mood for an argument - if I'd said Hitler wasn't a particularly nice chap he would have protested vehemently, pointing out that he was good to his dog.
Anyway, we fell to talking about the Post Office dispute. The Farmer started it. During one of those lulls when you find yourself either staring into your pint or at the walls, he made the mistake of saying that he thought the postmen - sorry, postpeople - were not on the firmest of firm ground in their dispute with management. Why? Because they were being told that it was no longer acceptable to demand and be paid overtime for helping out with other work to take them up to the end of their shift if they had finished their round early. Understand?
"Fucking capitalist oppressors!!" belched BGT. "They just think they can run roughshod over the workers by suddenly changing their contracts and thinking no-one will or can object!!"
"It's not in their contracts that they can bugger off early or demand overtime if they finish their rounds before the end of their alloted shifts" The Farmer and I pointed out. "It's 'custom and practice', namely something which is just done because that's the way it has always been done.
That's when I made the mistake of going it alone. "I don't think it's unreasonable to expect someone to work until the end of the shift for which they are being paid," I said. "Everyone else has to do it and, after all, it is equitable - a fair shift's pay for a fair shift's work, and all that. Much as I sympathise with anyone whose working practices are changed after years of status quo, I don't think the management is out of order. They are NOT changing contracts, merely asking the posties to stick to their side of the existing work/remittance deal."
"Capitalist, management lackey!!!" BGT roared. "You!! Pither!!! Of all people!!!"
"Socialism isn't founded on the underlying principle that EVERYTHING management does is wrong and EVERYTHING your union says is right, is it?" I asked, not unreasonably I thought.
The BGT then stumbled off to the bar, muttering and mouthing obscenities as he went, all the while shaking his head in disbelief. Ten minutes later Brighton Dave came in, having also been at the bar where I suspect he had bumped into the BGT. He walked over to our table and enquired: "Is this Tory Corner?" Bloody Hell!!More than a tad unfair, I would say.
Don't get me wrong. There is a sinister side to the Post Office management's actions which have given rise to this dispute. Firstly, they brought in that oilbag bullyboy and well-known payroll porker Adam Crozier to cause trouble. That man is an utter arsehole and I shall waste no more words on him here. Secondly, anyone who reads between the lines can see that management is just trying to hack the Post Office down to Karen Carpenter-fatted pieces so that it can be flogged off to the private sector - the German private sector at that. Now that IS something which needs to be fought, and fought hard.
Anyway, with that insult mentioned at the beginning of this post still ringing in my ears, I shall stop this attempt at self-justification. Are The Farmer and I alone in our views? I know Betty is likely to be against us. How about everyone else?