Thursday, 10 May 2012

Incompetent fuckwittage (caution, this post contains 8 fucks, three shits and a motherfucker)

I know I whinge a lot. I know I rant about people being dumbasses. Ragey monologues are my thing.

And this week has been a veritable smorgasbord of utter fuckwittery.

Case number one: HMRC tax office twats.
Becoming self employed was actually pretty easy. I have now worked out that's because I was signing up to pay stuff them. Efficiency was no problem when they wanted to snaffle my National Insurance. And being the good girl I am I had no problem paying it. It was fuck all anyway.

When it comes to trying to become un-self employed I've had rather more issues. I sent off the forms. They sent me a new tax code, politely explaining that as I was still claiming the dole my tax code was xxxx. I stopped claiming dole last fucking MAY. I phoned what's laughingly called their 'helpline'. After listening to tinny music for 40 minutes some lass told me that the dole office (yes, I know that's not what it's called anymore but I can't be arsed to remember what it is called, so dole office will do) hadn't told them that I had signed off. No shit, said I, do you want to sort it out. Oh no, sez she. You have to do that. Do I? Do I though? DO I? Even though I did what I was supposed to do a year ago, it's up to ME to sort it out?

Two more phone calls were made (not free, I may add, oh no, they charge for this shit) only for me to be on hold for at least 30 minutes each time and abort the attempt to carry out my legal obligation.

I resorted to letters. I wrote three strongly worded letters of complaint to three different addresses. It appears that they deal with this shit from various offices situated in the arse end of nowheresville, but fail to have any kind of central record system. I'm amazed any fucker gets the correct tax code, frankly.

Then yesterday, while at work, I got a phone call from someone or other at the tax office. She explained that she's 'just calling to give advice about filling in my tax return'. Oho, I said. What about all the shit that you're meant to be sorting out? And why the hell are you calling me in the middle of the working day after I have spent hours trying to get through to you people on three separate occasions? I only work till 3 she said. I said tough shit. I can't talk now, I have magazines to write donchewknow. She said she'd call me at lunchtime today - one o clock sharp she said. Nothing. Nada. No phone call.

A part of me died.

Case number two: Marks & FUCKING Spencer
I have a lovely little courtyard garden thing. I say lovely. I think it's probably just lovely to me because I haven't had any outside space since I lived with my parents in 1962. And I want something I can sit on out there. A reasonable wish I thought. So, while buying shoes (naturally) I saw some furniture on the M&S website.

I ordered it.

While I was off sick it arrived. Happy days, thought I. Lovely. I'll set that up this weekend.

Oh, it's just a table. There are no chairs. I call them. They can't understand it. They'll 'investigate' and call me back. They don't call me back. I call them. They are 'investigating'. They'll call me back. They don't call me back. I call them. He's getting somewhere he said. The chairs are missing but he's working on it. He'll call me back. He doesn't call me back. I call them and suggest, ever so politely, that if some BASTARD at that end doesn't sort out these FUCKING chairs I will come down there and murder every single last motherfucking one of them. I didn't. I just suggested that maybe they might want to, you know, deliver another set of chairs to me and then sort it out between themselves and let me get on with my life. They don't have any others in stock. They want me to wait in between 9am and 7pm tomorrow so they can come and collect the table and then they will think about refunding my money. FUCK OFF, said I. I'm leaving them outside the house and if a tramp steals it it's not like he can use it for a wino party because there ARE NO FUCKING CHAIRS.

Weeping with rage.

Case number three: Scottish & Southern Electricity
I got my first electricity and gas bill. It covers six weeks in my new house. Electric came to just the £495 and gas to £165. What a bargain. I call them. They explain the concept of estimates. I reply that yes, I get that, but who the fuck were they estimating on? A family of 27? Turns out they owe me £50.

So actually that was quite fun.

I can't wait to speak to the tax office again next week.

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