I just got offered a Jaffa Cake by some guy in my office I’ve never spoken to. He’s got one of those Jaffa Cake tubes and is currently touring the office offering delicious orange jelly and sponge treats to all. That brightened up my day.

Then my day got overcast and pissed down raindrops of misery on me. The Royal Mail (should be called the Royal Fail) have lost a special delivery containing concert tickets. Despite the fact that it’s supposedly “tracked” and “a signature is taken from the recipient”, the peasant woman at the other end of the phone told me that because they didn’t get the letter back when it went out for delivery last Friday, they presumed it was delivered. Never mind taking a signature, nor the fact that I got a card telling me “we tried to deliver an item but you were out”.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Special Mail Services refused to hand over a letter to my fiancee because clearly she isn’t me. Never mind she answered my door, with access to my chequebook and all my utility bills as proof that I do actually live there. They think they’re Top Secret, like the Men in Black or something.

The Missus tried calling them up to arrange a redelivery and the guy answering got all flustered and was like “I can’t even discuss this with you” then refused to talk to her about my mail. I mean, she shouldn’t even know it exists, right? Like Area 51. Right, so you’re boss is going to neuralise you, take you to Area 51 and let the greys thought-rape you to see how much you know about Mathew Browne’s classified documents. Dude, it was just a letter.

Every delivery firm, be it couriers, the Royal Fail or Special Mail Services, are all Cunts. They should all hand over their businesses to the pizza delivery boys of Caroline’s Pizza. They always get it right.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 2nd, 2005 at 4:05 pm and is filed under life, work. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.