*Please note: Contains adult themes and material that some people may find offensive*.
Date: Friday 17th April 2020 Quarantine: Day Location: Yer ‘uddersfield innit Specifically:
Real World: How the f**k should I know I can’t see owt for this bloody mask! Virtual world: Apollo 11
Choice - Spend another day in the house with Alex choosing one of the following stimulating activities; count ceiling tiles/dots on the wallpaper/tiles in the bathroom, poke Alex with a snooker cue to see if he’s still alive, poke myself with a snooker cue to see if I’m still alive, see who can find the most cash by feeling around down the back of the couch, put on my VR headset and have a ride go to the moon in Apollo 11. Hmmm .. let me see.
After listening to the famous speech by President ‘I did not give Marilyn Monroe a good seeing to over the desk in the oval office’ Kennedy - the one where he says “the Russians may have sent a dog into space, a little spiky ball called Spunknik and a man calked Yuri Gangrene into orbit but America will be the first to simulate a moon landing in a TV studio and pass it off as the real thing!
(Yee Hah! Clap,clap clap).
Theres no doubt sitting in the cockpit is a real buzz! (titter)
B*****d!
I bring down my fist and slam it against the bedroom door.
I repeat myself - B*****d!
12.30 a.m and all I want is to sleep.
Instead I have to try to remember what it was I wrote about yesterday.
Why?
... because for the fourth time in as many days the information that I had so painstakingly worked to produce has disappeared. About the only reason I can think of is that, since I’m writing most of my blog on my mobile, I‘m somehow inadvertently saving over previous material. The app does have an autosave feature so maybe that‘s the explanation. But why now? I’m sure I’m not doing anything duffetentky now to when I first started.
Oh well, what’s done is done. I won’t bore into you any further with it.
Wheeeeeeeeeee several hours later (about 5.00 a.m) I’ve managed to redo most of the post and though I say so myself it is an improvement on the previous one. In future though I’m taking no chances, I’ll write the app elsewhere so that I have a backup copy.
Right then - the post office!!!
Post offices. I Bloody hate them! I especially hate them today because I have a number of parcels to post, stuff I’ve sold on eBay. I know exactly what it‘s going to be; 20 questions...
Question 1: Whats in it?
Ideal Answer: “Mind yer own f***ing business”
Actual Answer: ”Books”
Question 2: Does it need signing for?”
Preferred Answer: ”No ’cos you'll charge me extra”
Actual Answer: ”Yes”
Question 3: Would you like a receipt?
Preferred Answer: ”Absolutely not because then I might stand a million to one chance of getting my money back if you f**k up the delivery”
Actual Answer: ”Yes”
Question 4: How much is the item worth?
Preferred Answer: Three quid - (because if I tell you the real answer your eyes will light up and you'll bump up the price when we both know that if your drivers smash the parcel to bits you'll make up some idiot excuse to get out of paying compensation)
Actual Answer: £2,500
(Posties eyes light up)
(Oh sorry sir but I’ll have to bump up the price”
Question 5: Does
Preferred Answer: ”No ’cos you'll charge me extra”
Actual Answer: ”Yes”
Now comes the part that they really enjoy - See, these creatures (hardly human are they?) Are frequently hen pecked little men or matronly women who have seen way too much to have seen any er....action. To make up for this they use the one little bit of power they do posses and use it to be bureaucratic, pompous and officious little shits demanding you follow rules which are probably outmoded, outdated and, in most cases, totally unnecessary.
First of all a bit of background as to how this loathing of the post office came about.
Sheffield circa 1990 main Post Office situated in a circular area atop a set of moss covered and very slippery steep stone steps - not so much an accident waiting to happen as a car crash waiting to smash through the doors of a nearby hostelry (the ‘Penny Black’), deliver the occupants to the afterlife and collect their earthly remains in a skip waiting without ceremony at the bottom of the steps.
At one time the building would have looked grand and imposing, enhanced by the salubrious
presence of finely dressed lords, ladies and gentlemen, stately individuals pulling up in horse drawn carriages to conduct their business within and long headed fellows talking in hushed discursive tones that they may be percieved as being of greater standing than they deserved. Now, it simply looked a state; a sad and decrepit looking inebriate hunting around in the hope someone may provide a morsel of food or a few meagre coins for a jug of ale.
Small wonder the staff on duty - despite sandamacious galubrigging signs promoting a wide range of services - had only one intention, to make your life as miserable and as difficult as possible. If you are unfortunate enough to remember any of this band of curmudgeonly, arrogant, po faced, rude, argumentative and deliberately obstructive piles of dung peering out at you through the dark slivers of their hollow eyes - then please, go away now and do something nice for yourself. You very much deserve it.
So!!! The officious little shit bit.
Here are just some of the experiences I’ve had at the hands of the little runts who hide behind bullet proof glass.
Location: Rotherham Main Post Office
“Is that your original motor insurance certificate or a photocopy?”
“A photocopy”
“Wrong answer” Next
“We can’t accept this MOT certificate because it is due for renewal in a week”
“Post office regulations state that I need a valid MOT certificate. This is a valid MOT certificate.”
Sorry (Walk away leaving me stood there).
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