The quick off the mark award goes to...

Post Office Ltd.

We finally got a memo the other day regarding the fact that our special delivery labels aren't sticky.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

A couple of points to mention here.

Special delivery is supposed to be our most secure service. If the label with the bar code falls off during transit, that makes it rather hard to track and, I'm guessing, makes it a bit less secure.

Also, does no-one at the factory that makes these things have any quality control? Did nobody notice that a shit load of these labels don't actually stick which is kind of their raison d'etre?

We've known about this problem in branch for over a month now. Why did it take so long for Post Office ltd to send out a memo about it (answer, they're shit).

Finally, we've not had a memo regarding the recorded delivery labels that don't stick either.

Fucking marvellous.

Top Deaths

Considering that most old people are a fall away from shuffling off this mortal coil, they are obsessed with death. Most notably, the death of their peers.

Sadly, one of my colleagues seems to share this morbid fascination.

As soon as one of the coffin-dodgers ceases to dodge the coffin, there's a mad rush to tell as many people in as excrutiating and unnecessary detail as possible. And once the initial news of the death has been disseminated, then there's al of the gossip about the wills, the funeral or any skeletons the deceased may have in their closets.

At times, it's like listening to a bunch of kids playing top trumps as they try to outdo each other with details regarding the stiff.

"Ooooh, did you hear about Doris?"

"Doris? No. What about Doris?"

"She died last night."

"Last night? Really? What happened?"

"Oooh, well, it's not for me to gossip, but she had a stroke."

"A stroke, yes. Well, I never."

"Yes, it was terrible. Her husband is soooooo upset."

"Upset, yes. Well, have you heard about Mavis."

"No. Is she OK?"

"OK, yes. No."

"Ooooh, what's wrong with Mavis?"

"Mavis, yes. She finally succumbed to her backside cancer."

"Oooh, Really."

"Really, yes. Whatever will happen to her pussy?"

And so on and so on. Often until one of the conversationalists dies themselves mid scentence and the whole cycle begins anew.

I know I'm a Genius, But.....

Some customers seem to expect an inordinate amount of knowledge from us. Most of which involves forecasting the future.

The most common request I get for my Nostradamus impression are from idiots who fret too much about changing currency.

It's usually the old folk who know that they're off on holiday in a month or two. They'll come in and ask the exchange rate for whatever currency they're after. Whatever we tell them will usually elicit a response along the lines of "Well, that's not very good is it? Do you think the rate is going to get better in a few weeks?"

Frankly, if I could predict the foreign exchange rates weeks in advance do you think I'd be working in a Post Office? No, of course I wouldn't. I'd have retired to my own desert island and spend my days snorting coke off some supermodel's tits while my army of solid gold robot monkey butlers attended to my every other whim that didn't involve sexual acts (well, except for a little light robot monkey butler buggery but you can't help that really).

For some reason, the kind of person who will ask me to predict the future in this way is exactly the kind of person who can't accept that I might not know. Even when I explain to them in very simple language that it's nigh on impossible for me to know. Obviously, this isn't good enough for some of them but, fuck 'em. Twats.


Car tax is often a source of stupidity from customers too. This is an actual conversation I had with a customer:

Customer:"How much will it cost to tax my car for a year?"

Me:"I can't say unless I know the age of the car, it's engine size and it's emissions."

Customer:"It's a ford."


Another main instance of customers expecting me to read minds or just generally being omniscient is when they phone up and the first thing they say is:

"You've got a parcel there for me. What is it?"

Where to start with this multi-layered twattery? Firstly, you've not even told me your address so it's kind of impossible to locate your parcel. Secondly, most parcels tend to have some sort of wrapping which is generally opaque which prevents me from seeing what's in them. Why don't you just get your lazy fat arse off the fucking sofa and stop ordering shit from QVC and whatnot then you might be able to keep track of all of the shiny things what the telly told you to buy that you neither need or can afford. Then you might stop being so poor. Just a suggestion.


Finally comes another stultifyingly stupid thing which people say far too often.

"I've got to send X item. How much will it cost?"

When I ask them how much it weighs or, even where it's going (often people will entirely forget to mention that it's going to another country and then be totally flabbergasted that the price quoted for inland second class is not accurate) it's actually quite rare that they'll have a clue. When I point out that this makes working out a price impossible I'm often told that I'm not doing my job properly.

So, to sum up, customers are fucking stupid and expect far too much of even someone as intelligent and good looking as I am.

Twats.