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This is a question Council Cunts

Stallion Explosion writes "I was in a record shop in Melbourne, flicking through the vinyl, when I found a record entitled 'Hackney Council Are A Bunch Of Cunts'"

We agree.

Have you been trapped in the relentless petty minded bureaucracy of your local council?
Why does it require 3 forms of ID to get a parking permit when the car in question is busy receiving a parking ticket right outside the parking office?

Or do you work for Hackney Council?

(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 10:51)
Pages: Latest, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Have you been trapped in the relentless petty minded bureaucracy of your local council?
No, but these council workers will soon realise they have been trapped by all the hard work they had been doing...... putting up bollards.......

(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 19:35, Reply)
Colonel Dracula: Part man, Part Homeowner, ALL ACCOUNTANT
All I wanted to do was pay my council tax by direct debit. I didn’t realise this would involve a Kafka-esque bureaucratic nightmare. After what seemed like days of my life wasted completing forms and listening to hold music I snapped and informed the numptey on the helpline:

"Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against an accountant when money is on the line! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha... " I then hung up (I really hope that call was "recorded for training purposes!")

I abandoned the halcyon notion of paying by direct debit and decided to pay monthly through my Internet bank account. Now this is where I get my revenge: I always pay at least 10 days late.

10 x £100 instalments per year.

10 days each chargeable month payment withheld = 100 days payment withheld each year.

5.75% bank interest x (£100 x 100/365) = £1.57 profit each year. £1.26 after 20% tax deducted at source.

Click "I like this" if you think I have beaten North Somerset District Council in the weakest possible way.
(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 15:20, Reply)
Cheeky Cnuts
Council tax re-evaluers want to charge us more if we live in a nice area.

That ought to mean discounts for those of us who live in rough areas.

We have a huge council house in our street. The extended family is run by a grumpy old woman with a pack of fierce dogs.

Her car isn't taxed or insured, and doesn't even have a number plate, but the police still do nothing.

Her bad tempered old man is famous for upsetting foreigners with racist comments.

A shopkeeper blames him for ordering the murder of his son and his son's girlfriend, but nothing has been proved yet.

All their kids have broken marriages except the youngest, who everyone thought was gay.

Two grandsons are meant to be in the Army but are always seen out in nightclubs.

The family's odd antics are always in the papers.

They are totally out of control.

Honestly - who'd live near Windsor Castle?
(, Fri 27 Jul 2007, 15:50, Reply)
Southwark Cuntcil parking permits
My dad and brother wanted to visit me over Christmas a couple of years ago. At the time I was living in my friend's flat, which was part of an ex-local authority estate with a huge, half-empty car park. I hoped it wouldn't be too much bother to get a parking permit for the two days they wanted to visit.

Oh how hopelessly wrong I was.

At the time, and probably still today, you can't phone Southwark Council’s offices directly, but instead have to navigate a twattish phone menu system voiced by a menagerie of indecipherable accents, which eventually connects you with some arrogant, no-skill wasters. I realised quite quickly that this was a futile pursuit. The only way to get what I needed would be to visit them in person. This presented its own challenge, as the offices were only open between 09:00 to 16:00 Monday to Friday, i.e. working hours for most people including me.

I took the day off work in anticipation of a long-winded experience, and that's exactly what I got. After arriving at the airport terminal-style building and daring to walk straight over to one of the dozen available clerks, I was grabbed by one of the four (!) security gorillas on the front door and redirected to a machine with three big buttons. The man-monster then interrogated me briefly to establish the purpose of my visit before stabbing the green button, which issued a deli counter-style ticket. After being shepherded over to an otherwise empty waiting area, the system announced that "ticket number 2" should proceed to desk 12. Quelle surprise.

I explained myself to the disinterested lady behind this desk, who helpfully let me speak for several minutes before telling me that there was a separate office solely for parking queries approximately 30 minutes walk from the main office. I made my way over there and queued up behind a selection of angry people waving parking tickets. When I finally made it to the front, the jaded clerk told me that he could only deal with me if I owned the car (which I didn’t, it would be a hire car driven by my dad) but he suggested I go back to the main office to purchase a strip of ten temporary parking permits, which they supplied for precisely this sort of thing. So, Southwark Council has a parking shop solely for parking queries, except temporary car parking. Fucking sweet.

I begrudgingly traipsed back to the council offices and again made the foolish mistake of walking straight up to the lady who’d served me previously, only to be accosted by the door security then put through the rigidly-enforced deli-counter-ticket routine. I subsequently found myself sat opposite a different clerk despite the fact I was still the only customer in the building, so I had to endure all the standard questions for the second time. I finally got round to producing my comprehensive proof of address, ID etc. The only thing which was lacking was a stool sample, or so I thought. She brought out the strip of ten temporary parking permits and requested £6 for the privilege. I slapped a tenner on the desk, only to be greeted by a scowl. The clerk slowly turned and pointed at a sign behind which stated “No cash held on the premises”. Bemused, but not defeated, I whipped my debit card from my wallet and her face screwed up like a bulldog licking hot piss off a nettle. “We only accept cheques or postal orders Sir”… I couldn’t believe my ears. I hadn’t used my chequebook in years and had no idea where it was. It would have to be postal order, whatever that is. “Luckily, the post office is only a 30 minute walk, Sir”.

I made the journey to the Post Office in darkest Bermondsey and queued behind a long line of pensioners, mothers with screaming children and benefit cheats. As each query was horrendously complex, this ordeal also took ages. To rub salt into my weeping wounds, postal orders come with a premium attached, so you have to pay extra for the privilege of paying someone else. Fucking marvellous.

£7.20 lighter, I made my way back to the council offices determined to finally get the parking permits and return to normal life. It was now after 3pm which meant I had less than an hour before the offices closed. I rushed back clutching the Postal Order heroically, before hesitating at the door as the security detail eyed me suspiciously. Not wishing to be harangued by them for a third time, I got my deli-counter ticket, waited and went to desk 12 again to be faced by the first lady again. She looked quite displeased to see me. I tried to maintain my composure and regaled her with the story of my epic journey as she pottered around looking for the parking permits.

After completing the formalities, we got to the final stage where I’d shown her various licences, documents and utility bills to satiate her desire for proof when she asked me for my tenancy agreement as well. I didn’t have one, as my flatmate and I were good friends and we had a verbal agreement which worked perfectly well. She insisted that he would therefore have to be present as the leaseholder of the property. I reminded her that neither she nor her co-worker had made any mention of this earlier, but she insisted that parking permits (temporary or otherwise) could only be given to named council tenants or leaseholders. My entire day had been wasted for nothing, so I calmly put my documents away, stood up and began a meticulous character assassination of her and her fuckwitted colleagues. Just as the door security men started pacing towards me, I braced myself, called her a cunt and stormed out.

As it turned out, my dad parked in the estate car park over the holidays and we didn’t see a single traffic warden, which was both satisfying and irritating in equal measure.

In case you’re wondering, it was about 6 hours long and ten tickets wide.
(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 12:53, Reply)
Council tits
I would just like to say that the lady on the reception desk at Weymouth and Portland Borough Council has the biggest norks I have ever seen on any woman, ever.

Well worth the £1,300 a year I pay in council tax, even though I am puzzled how she got planning permission for them while they turned down my application for my somewhat smaller loft extension.

That is all.
(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 13:00, Reply)
Parking tickets
Outside my house there is a single yellow line. Lord knows why, its a residential area, a good mile or so from the town and for some reason it only goes down 1/4 of the road. The sign only restricts parking from 8am to 8pm on a Saturday, again, god knows why, but the net result is all the poor buggers who live in the top 1/4 of the street, after a long week at work, don't get a lie in on Saturday morning as we have to move our cars before the traffic cunt comes along for his easy kills.

So ... I have lived hear for over 10 years, and being a lazy bastard and unwilling to get up early, I got a couple of tickets a month.

Also because I am an unorganised bastard, I seldom paid on time and so usually paid at the higher £45 late payment rate.

Now comes the good bit.

Quite a while ago, a B3tan posted "the magic words" on a QOTW about parking tickets. I forget who, but I love them dearly.

After reading this god like B3tans post, I did a bit of research and found that the yellow line outside my house was invalid. It had not been terminated (look it up on the web).

One photograph and letter later, I entered into "lengthy correspondance" with the council and was eventually sent a refund cheque for £5,550 after they were forced to cancel all tickets issued on the line.

I then wrote up a newsheet type thing detailing what I had done and posted it through every letterbox on my street which resulted in many more thousands of ponds paid back to my neighbours (and quite a number of bottles of wine whiskey and boxes of choccies to say thanks to me from said neighbours).

You may call me petty, but I kept the cheque for a few days until the next saturday so I could wait for the joyless traffic Nazi to turn up to do his usuall ticket run outside my house. I popped out to meet and greet him, waved the cheque under his nose and followed him for 100 yards up the road laughing hysterically calling him a useless cunt.

If the B3tan who made the original "Magic words" post messages me, I have a bottle of the finest malt with your name on it mate.
(, Tue 31 Jul 2007, 15:37, Reply)
Council Contracting...
Worked on a short-term contract for the glorious London Borough of XXX, having been headhunted and promised the earth just to get me onboard.

Due to get paid, and nothing appears in my bank account on payday. Odd Methinks, so I phone the payroll department.

Aparently the right paperwork hasn't been processed, but it's only been 2 weeks since the start of the job, so no big deal - just lump the outstanding pay on the next cheque.

Roll onto the next month - no sign of any pay. Now getting rather short on cash and not a happy bunny seeing my savings being used to prop up my drinking/living. Cue many more phone calls, promises of it all being sorted out and a cheque being drawn especially by the director of finance for me... who happened to mysteriously go on a 3 week holiday (probably using the money they owed me).

It's now 2 days before the next payday, and I'm seriously starting to worry. I've not been out, not drunk anything and there's a rather large bill due any day for the car's service and MOT which I've been trying to put off until all this is sorted.

Payday comes - no payslip, no money deposited. Nothing. I've been checking my online bank account hourly since Midnight and nothing magically arives...
So I calmly walk into the building at around 6am - remove the two switches and patch panels that I had provided for the establishment I was placed in (for which they had not paid for yet either. Un-installed the network management software and collected all the backup tapes (again, all paid for by myself-and not reinbursed for). I placed my keys and swipe card at reception, not forgetting to lock all the servers, (without leaving any passwords) and leave a note for the Director of the Facility to ring me after 10am that day to resolve the situation.

They tried ringing at 7:00, 7:15, 7:30, 8:00, 8:10.etc before I switched my phone back on at 9:58.

The head guy's deputy phoned me at 9:59. (I let the one minute slide just to amuse). Threats were made, mostly revolving me being arrested for theft and vandalism. "Fine" I say - "please telephone for the police, I have all the receipts and invoices for my property, as well as a signed contract that says you'll pay me £x amount to slog my guts out - which you people have failed to do. Now please have the director phone me urgently"

Turns out the Director had absolutely no clue what was going on, nor had he got any memos or notes about my pay situation. His ever reliable deputy had intercepted it all and not *bothered* to authorise any of my payments with the payroll department. Because, as it turns out "I just didn't get around to it".
Lamest cnut-like excuse I've ever heard - and one of the reasons I stopped working for local government - it's staffed and run by people who wouldn't last 10 seconds in the 'real world'

Still - it took them all of 30 seconds to authorise a cheque from another local budget and 2 months later, a written apology from the Chief Executive and damages for costs incurred.
(, Mon 30 Jul 2007, 22:56, Reply)
next rant
why do you get caught and pursued ruthlessly for driving in an empty bus lane at 2am (the 24 hour bus lane sign was beautifully and cunningly hidden behind a tree) but noone gives a fuck when your house is burgled and some twat, probably a council tenant, runs off with your laptop?

more seriously, my friend's boss was beaten up in the street and stabbed in the eye, which he subsequently lost. the council hadn't fixed its broken cctv camera so the culprits got off in court.

two months later, he comes home from holiday to find his house all boarded up. this is because he had been burgled and it had been trashed. the police had been round to secure it.

and had left him a bill for their time.

they never caught the culprits, but they made sure he paid for the boards and nails...

AND congestion charging. i know full fucking well i was on the right side of the border. they sent me a picture of my licence plate and a demand for £100. i demanded to see the full picture. they demanded £20 for "data protection". what the fuck? is it a picture of me, or not?

i won that one.

this qotw is raising my blood pressure. bureaucrats suck. vote for me - i'll make sure everyone has to do something to get any money at all; thieves have their hands amputated after three previous offences; arsenal fans are all deported along with their grey faced manager and it is the law that everyone gets laid at least three times a week. oh, and a three day weekend.
(, Fri 27 Jul 2007, 11:43, Reply)
Sort your bush out
I got a badly-worded, ungrammatical, but still fairly supercilious letter from Salford council last year with regard to my slightly unkempt privet bush. It was the icing on the cake, given the pisstake levels of intransigence concerning the estate I live on and anything to do with it's upkeep. I therefore felt honour-bound to respond in kind :

Dear Ms. Smythe,
I thank you for your letter dated 24th inst, in which you call attention to the three-and-a-half feet of slightly overgrown privets in front of my property. Being a busy working man and full-time father, it is comforting to know that New Prospect is looking out for the interests of its’ tenants, despite the continuing presence of a huge dilapidated camper van festering and promoting vermin in the front garden of the house not two doors away from me, for the last five years that I personally know about. I won’t go into further detail about dead cars under tarpaulins, and various other impromptu garages/safari trails/white goods graveyards currently subsiding on driveways up and down this marvellously uncompromised estate, because I’m sure you are already aware of it and are taking steps to redress the situation --once you’ve ridded the town of the clear and present privet peril of course.

I share confidence that your plan of sending a letter and stern, implicit talking-to will influence them to change their ways (assuming their disability benefit isn’t compromised by an ability to read.) It may even induce some of them to seek gainful employment and give up growing herbs for a living, who knows…?

On a trivial note, I only wish I had received from you, a missive of similar zeal (heck, even an acknowledgement would have been nice) on the three occasions last year that the back garden and rear portion of my house was almost burnt down, and the fire brigade had to be called to douse the flames. Unfortunately, despite numerous phone calls from myself and my wife, and even entreaties from the beleaguered brigade themselves; the dumped tyres on waste ground directly adjoining my property at the back of Kenyon Way remain to this day. I am looking forward this year (especially with the hot spell we are currently enjoying) to a conflagration of Kuwaiti oilfield proportions one of these balmy nights soon.

Still, it’s nice to know that our council tax contributions aren’t going entirely to waste -- what with the privet police out in force -- protecting citizens everywhere against the horrors of greenfly. I will sleep safer in that knowledge tonight; and thank you for the sterling work that so clearly gives your life meaning.


Ps – May I also respectfully suggest that you invest in some form of punctuation, if only to break up some of the unremitting patronisation in your letters? Commas are your friends.

(, Fri 27 Jul 2007, 13:01, Reply)
Many years ago (before I moved to the states to become a movie star,) I had the misfortune to be stuck working at a council for a few years.
Hopefully I can give you some insight into the 'quality' of people working there.

I worked on the 'computer team' (they didn't even realise it should be called the IT helpdesk, but there you go).
My boss was a lady who's previous experience was being a teacher for small kids. She'd done some homestudy course and managed to blag her way into the job (I seem to remember she was the only applicant).
Anyway, she didn't have a scooby about what she was doing. Heres some examples:

Asked me once what the little plastic thing in the corner of a floppy disc was. "You mean the write-protect tag?"
"oh is that what that is?"

She didn't understand the concept of 'alt-tab'. So, if she was working a word document and wanted to use excel, she'd save the document and close down the app and launch the other one. No matter how many times you'd explain it to her, next time she do the same thing again.

She decided that she would go on a unix course and that I couldn't go (even though I did all the work). On her return she wanted to make a copy our database, so instead of doing it herself pressured me into doing it. When I explained I couldn't as I didn't know how (cos the stupid cow didn't let me do the course) she decided to 'talk me through it'. She told me the wrong commands and we overwrote the live database. Her response? "Now look at what you've done". I was supposed to be going on holiday that afternoon and the bitch made me stay until I'd fixed everything.

If she gave you a project to do, it wasn't enough that you took the job and did it. You had to do it the way she wanted and follow all the steps she'd follow. Hence, a simple project that might only take a day (if approached the right way) could take weeks. If you complained that you knew how to do it better she'd call you insubordinate.

Whilst working for her, I had appendicitis and had to be rushed to hospital to get it taken out. It wasn't much fun, but I got six weeks off work so I didn't mind to much.
When I got back I was put on disciplinary as she thought I'd faked my sick leave. I had to go visit the council doctor to prove that I'd been cut open, after which had to go through the whole formal procedure of the disciplinary. It went something like this:-
"Ok Mr Evilmeister, you've had six weeks sick leave and the council regulation states you are only allowed 13 days in a year."
"yes, I had my appendix out. Do you also want to see the scar?"
"that's irrelevant, is it true you had more than 13 days sick?"
"Erm yes?!?"
Black mark goes on record. I was told the reason doesn't matter, the fact is I'd broken the rules.
This one still makes me shake my head to this day.

I ended up going crazy with frustration and one day, just couldn't handle it anymore. I typed up my resignation and kept it in my pocket. I thought to myself, if she pisses me off once more I'm gonna give it to her.
It took about two minutes before it was on her desk.

On my last day, they asked if I could say a few words to the department. My speech in full:-
"I'd like to tell you all how much I've enjoyed working here.
But i haven't."
Speech over, room in silence, Evilmeister departs for the pub.
(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 14:03, Reply)
as a teenager,
I had a friend (also teenage) who was attending the local college full-time, and lived in one of the tiniest, grottiest little council bedsits you ever did see. Unsurprisingly, he was eligible for full Council Tax Benefit.

One day, he got a letter informing him that he owed the Council £0.00 in unpaid council tax over the last few months, and should come to their offices to pay it within 28 days.

He dutifully made his way to the council office where they assured him that it was a computer-generated letter and that obviously £0.00 wasn't anything to worry about.

Couple of months later, and there's another letter. This one tells him that they are taking him to court for his non-payment of the outstanding £0.00 and gives the date and time of the hearing. Again, he goes to their office. Again, he is told it is obviously a mistake and to just forget about it.

Shortly after that, and fast approaching exam time, another letter. This one informs him that as he didn't attend the hearing, the Council have won by default, and he is now required to pay not only the £0.00 but also £40-odd in fees and costs. It gives another hearing date. My friend was rather alarmed by this, as £40 is a lot of money when you're on teenage-level benefit and have no family to fall back on.

He showed up to that hearing, to make sure that a human being would have to actually look at the details of his 'non-payment'. It was thrown out by the person in charge of the hearing within minutes. No one from the council apologised.
(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 16:21, Reply)
I've mentioned a few times
that I work at a local council. Within a couple of months of starting here my marriage fell apart and I was distraught. So, I did what any self-respecting man would do and somehow managed to sleep with as many of my female colleagues (just the under-40s mind) as I could.
Most of whom promptly left.

So I guess it's fair to say I've seen my fair share of council cunts.
(, Wed 1 Aug 2007, 14:59, Reply)
On the back of a bus...
..this morning, in Torquay.

Sex education poster from Torbay Council, and it says:

'Do you need help talking about relationships and sex with your children?'

Hmm, no, but I AM tempted to offer my services as a proof reader.
(, Sun 29 Jul 2007, 22:31, Reply)
Another vote for Wiltshire County Council. They're absolutely fantastic, and are particularly forthcoming with compliments: the other day a very nice traffic warden put a note on my car saying "Parking Fine".

What a top geezer.
(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 22:26, Reply)
Fire! Rats! Filth! Terror!
There were seven of us living in a large house in Sheffield. We were all men in our early twenties, lazy to a fault, and our lives revolved around takeaways, drugs, dancing and playstation. We were not the tidyest of groups. This untidyness was exacerbated by the fact we were a party house - the after party was usually held at ours and on more than one occasion I came home at about 9 or 10 in the morning to find a party going on in my living room, and me not recognising anyone.

Periodically we would have a mass clean up, and shovel everything into bin bags. However, as there was too much for a bin to handle, we just lobbed it into the garden. This carried on for months, and eventually there were in the region of 60 black bags, full of rubbish; old food, cans and so on.

Our landlord persistently asked us to remove this steaming pile of crap before the rats came. We agreed to, but just never got round to it. Then the council were involved, sending over environmental health inspectors and giving us 28 days to remove the rubbish, or they would do it and give us a hefty bill.

We agreed to do it. However, a couple of days before the agreed mass clean-up was to happen my folly solved the problem. I left a newspaper on top of the oven. The last person to use the hob had left it on, but switched it off at the wall. My mate put some food in the oven, turned it back on and when I went in to check progress the kitchen was ablaze. Panicking, we scooped the burning matter into a tray. That caught fire, owing to the fat and grot still on it. We opened the back door and lobed the tray out, straight onto 60 bags of highly combustible litter.

We didn't have to clean up the litter, or deal with the rodents that were indeed living there. However we did have a lot of explaining to do to the Fire Service, Police and above all the council, who were determined to believe it was deliberate.
(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 11:02, Reply)
I live in Sweden..
I pay 40% tax and this is what happens...

www.sj.se This company run all bus and train systems. Busses in the middle of town go every 3-5 minutes, with nearly every street covered.

A fresh timetable is posted to you every 6 months, and you can do a quick search on the web and plan your journey... parties usually end with people tapping in their destinations and working out when they have to go to the bus-stop. In Malmö you are never more than 4 minute's walk from a bus stop..

Trains are entirely usable, and a train ticket allows you to use the buses at you destination town.

The streets are cleaned regularly (once a month) and this is marked on each street on the parking signs... If you're there while they try to clean, you'll get a ticket.

This Ticket is payable online in a few seconds. If you forget to pay your ticket, you get a polite reminder with no extra charge... 2 months later you'll incur a 150kr (10 quid) extra charge. Standard Parking Ticket is about 20 quid.

The road surfaces are impeccable, with HUGE cycle lanes and integrated cycle-traffic-lights etc. All bus stops have massive bike racks for cyclists to dump their steeds at.. all with steel cables built in to make your wheels safe too.

In the winter the council pays for the many fountains in town to be set up as ice-skating rinks. This in most cases involves hauling bit refrigeration units into place and sorting lots of other things too...

Also "Marshals" line the paths. www.cpsc.gov/cpscpub/prerel/prhtml06/06168.jpg throughout the center of town, replaced nightly for a month. Sod the environment =)

The police are devastatingly quick, roadworks last all of a week with workmen tending to concentrate their time on the weekends and nights when there are less road users to inconvenience.

.. and the lasses here are stunning too.

The ONLY downside is that alco-ma-hol is NOT cheap...

This country runs like clockwork. And after reading your stories about the pure stupidity that the UK seems to run on, I'm damned if I'm ever coming back.

That is all.

*dismounts orange box with a back-flip*
(, Fri 27 Jul 2007, 13:33, Reply)
What really happens
is that council workers are bred in special tanks by the government. The rejects go to call centres.

100% true
(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 13:31, Reply)
I lived in a Gingerbread house next to a Magic Walrus. It's a nice little cul-de-sac in rural Toyland and though the houses are all similar, they are large and detached and decorated in slightly different fashions so as to fraudulently mark us out as individuals, rather than the generic mass of lollipop dwarves that we really are. Life was one endless round of Lemonade, sugar drops and candied hosepipes.

About two years ago, the Magic Walrus left and in his place came a purple Octopus from a distant land, where they worship a different wizard in the sky. In tow were his family. We welcomed them just as we had been welcomed by the Magic Walrus before.

Each house down Gumdrop lane on our side of the cherry-ade river faces towards the South. They are staggered so that the East elevation looks out over the garden of the house to its left. Obviously, when the genie made the houses many moons ago, he didn't want the occupants of the houses looking into the windows of the adjacent dwelling and its garden. However, to brick the wall up entirely with gingerbread blocks and hundreds and thousands would prevent light from entering each dwelling. The genie had a masterstroke: he commissioned windows made of opaque icicles and lemon-peel pearls which enabled light to enter whilst simultaneously preventing the occupants from seeing out and snooping into the lives of their neighbours.

This was the case for, ooh, let's say... 40 FUCKING YEARS.

This magic glass is not un-stylish or out-moded as you would otherwise imagine and in 2007 in the biggest city in Toyland, interior design types gladly pay THOUSANDS of sherbet pips for a small pane.

The Octopus came round and asked if we minded if he changed the pane.

'YES' we replied.

For two years, nothing happened, then one day, the nasty Octopus changed the window without telling anyone. Papa Tin man went round to object.

'I did it because I knew you'd object' he slyly garbled.

Because Gumdrop lane is a nice place, the genie didn't feel it necessary to place a covenant to cover the window. Papa Tin Man spent hundreds of sherbet pips finding this out from the council and eventually hd to do his own research. Consequently, the Octopus is within his rights to do what he pleases with his window.

Papa Tin Man planted a bean he purchased off a passing Troubadour and this grew into a massive beanstalk which occludes the offending window. It is legal.

However, Toyland council are persisting in that it is illegal and the whole process is becoming tedious and expensive. At the end of the day, it is people who are the problem: a certain type of person wants to work for the council in a particular manner, or as a traffic warden or wants to see into your garden.

Tin Man Jr has offered to do something v.bad with Goldilocks from down the road and he and she are confident that a few hours in the garden making little Tin Goldilocks and having a tea-party with exotic treats will be a) pleasurable and b)sufficient to have the window re-instated.
(, Tue 31 Jul 2007, 10:48, Reply)
Ooo OO ooo I have one!
Although it's about school bureaucracy which is sort of like Council stuff... Spose.

Couple of months back there was a happy little farce in my place of work. Scene: Science department of a large comprehensive.

The chemistry prep room door doesn’t close properly sometimes and that morning two naughty little students were found coming out of the place. About half an hour later a knock comes on my door with a teacher asking me if I know how hazardous the contents of this little pot is. Little pot is about 4cms high and contains around 1g of indicator powder. Indicator shows up pH range of ~7.5 – 8.3 for all you (interested) boffs.
“Dunno” says I, “Perhaps ask the chemistry tech.” (I be a stand in Biotechnician. I did a degree in maths & physics. Hmm)
This red indicator had been snaffled from *somewhere* by some little cherub and mixed liberally with water to create a lovely dye that has stained hands and about 40 square feet of science lab. Teacher duly sets about cleaning it up with a mop and bucket, which is no mean feat considering how much it stains. Understand that I would have done it, but my agar was setting. A nasty complaint.
Chemistry tech berates students slightly who ask “Will it kill me if I breathed it in?!”. "Unfortunately no", is the answer.

Pot had been taken from the corner of the shelf nearest the door of the prep room. Smash & Grab without the smash. I maintain that if they’d have just looked a little further along the shelf and taken the magnesium ribbon, it would have made everyone’s day a whole lot easier. All that would have occurred were four burnt eyes.
Teacher wanted to know the hazards of this material of course, and off I go to find out. Partially for my own curiosity and partly because I’m anal. I’ve no idea where the hazard cards are, so google becomes my friend. Google’s offspring says that it’s an irritant on skin… irritant on eyes… irritant to upper trachea if inhaled… the usual. Similar to what you’d get with simailr washing powder and suchlike. Heck, soap would be worse in the eye…

I present teacher with the sheets just so she’s informed, with the appropriate bits asterixed as it’s a long document of bumf. Teacher says that the kids who nicked it say they can’t breathe properly which is probably a load of tosh. Hypochondria by twumps. Teacher takes it off in the direction that the students were removed – towards the offices of deputy heads of doom.

A couple of hours later and I am glared upon as I enter the main prep room. Who was it put these people up to the idea that it was a dangerous compound? Myself, by giving teacher what she asked for. Dear oh dear. Why is this a bad thing? Well we have ambulance peeps coming to collect the evil pot of death to take it away for analysis. Oh… my… What the feck?

Titter we do. Because that’s simply stupid is it not?

Count one for the jobsworths.

But it does not end, no no no.

Teacher goes to hospital. Three students go to hospital. The bucket full of soapy water that they washed their hands in in the nurses room has to be disposed of properly. And the bucket has to be got rid of because it’s contaminated.

Count two, three and four.

Contaminated water is disposed of scientifically. Down the nearest sink.

And of course… there was the area the indicator covered. That would have been a spill would it not? Of a chemical? So… A chemical spill?

Four fire engines arrive.

There is no chemical spill of course. Although I enacted one by squirting some detergent on the desk and screaming pitifully.

Four fire engines leave.

Bearing in mind that the town is serviced by one fire station about half a mile form the school & it has two fire rigs.
The other two have come from a distance away. My mother wondered where the engines were going when she heard them blaring to the rescue a little after midday.

Count seven million, five hundred & sixty four thousand, three hundred & seventy two for the jobsworths.

Apparently as soon as they had called the ambulance, it was too late to back down… They would have looked silly… A certain deputy head takes it upon himself to basically scour the whole thing clean with as many emergency services as possible. And no, he wasn’t scientist. I don’t think anyone thought of talking to the technicians.

Drop of indicator becomes flood of chemical becomes spill of toxins. Pupils from the class queue up complaining of feeling odd, not that they’d be getting home early on a Friday of course. Office goes into a frenzy. SWAT team called in. All chemicals shot on sight.

The proper hazard cards were dug out and it said exactly the same thing as the sheet I printed out: As chemicals go, it’s pretty tame. You’d have more trouble with the agar powder and that smells awful aswell.

As the chemistry technician pointed out, “I wouldn’t even wear gloves to mix up the damn indicator solution anyway.”

Frickin’ idiots.

Mmm long. Enjoy it. It's well funny.
(, Sun 29 Jul 2007, 14:04, Reply)
Human Resouces?
That set of fucking vampires?

I had the HR attack dogs set on me when I worked in LaLa land.

An Indian girl said that she'd be interested in applying for the position of HEAT Administrator (helpdesk software). I replied:

"You've got no chance. That job requires technical ability and you've the technical ability of a biscuit"

She reported me for racism. I was only saved by the intervention of another girl, also Indian, who happened to be a mate of mine. She told HR that that of all the people she worked with I was probably the the most un-racist person she'd ever worked with.

Racism? For calling someone a biscuit?

*shakes head*


P.S. It later turned out that my accuser was hounded out of her job when it was discovered, and spread around the council, that she ran a porno website starring herself.

Wonder who discovered that then? Never piss off a techie.
(, Fri 27 Jul 2007, 13:14, Reply)
Village Tales
In my village we're on fortnightly rubbish collection. So that means that we get lots and lots of rubbish piling up in the streets. And the council won't come and take it away.

But we've a secret weapon. A certain individual (who's name I'm not giving out) occasionally goes around in the dead of the night and fills his van up with rubbish. Then he drives to one of the local councillors gardens and flings the whole bloody lot over the hedge and all over the garden.

There's soon a bin man around to pick that lot up.

(, Fri 27 Jul 2007, 12:20, Reply)
I live in a cul de sac with a residential car park. I just this morning found this very informative piece of paper poking from the wheel.

"TO THE OWNER OF VEHICLE _______________



I ride a bicycle.
(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 15:20, Reply)
Every couple of years we have to apply for a new Blue Badge
(for non Britons, it's a parking permit that lets disabled drivers, or those driving disabled passengers, park in places where normal drivers may not), for the benefit of my brother, who is a genuine, honest-to-dog mong.

And every time it takes ages and lots of forms to get him one, because they question us fiercely over whether he really needs one. The implication of this, as we tell them each time, is that they're telling us either
a) all the previous Badges were issued in error
b) he's magically got better from being a mong.

(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 12:57, Reply)
In My Local Town
The binmen turned up to a Chinese Restaurant to empty the bins and couldn't find them. So the binman bangs on the door until a Chinese guy appears.

"Hi. We're from the council and we want to know where's your bin" says binman

"Ah. I bin upstrairs" says Chinese guy.

"No,no" says Binman "I want to know where's your Wheely bin"

"Ah. Ok. I weely bin upstrairs, having a wank"


Thank you very much - I'll be under the pier all week.
(, Tue 31 Jul 2007, 11:25, Reply)
Kafka must have worked for Lewisham Council.....
So,we were students living in grotty cockroach infested flat in Deptford. Being students, we wee exempt from Council Tax, as long as we can provide evidence from the University. No probs on that front, we've all got our little stamped letters, and in the post they go to Lewisham Council.

Couple of weeks later, we get a receipt for these letters, followed one day later by a Council Tax bill for the full amount. I give them a ring, and the nice lady on the phone says "OK, sorry about that, I'll get that sorted for you now, just ignore that bill."

Fabulous, sorted. Off down the pub then.

Then another bill arrives, the full amount, plus fine for late payment. I ring them again, and they tell me they never got the letters, so can we send them again. *sigh* OK, we get new letters, and off they go in the post again. Again, the receipt arrives. Again a bill arives, this time red. Oh shitting christ....

Off we troup down to their offices in Catford, interestingly just opposite a gun shop. Not pausing for too long to ponder the possibilities lest we do something rash, we go in, give them all the info they need in person. NOW it's definitely sorted.

Until a bailiffs notice appears, along with a letter saying that Lewisham Council have taken us all to court and as we weren't there to defend ourselves (errr, tell when the hearing is then!) we're liable for the whole lot, including fees and bailiffs charges and court costs.

After a very VERY angry phone call, during which I make a point of not hanging up until they've sorted it for good, the person on the other end says: "Hang on, I've just found three copies of your exemption letters in an envelope in this drawer here, do you know what that's about?"

It turns out what it was about is that every single time, our letters got filed, but no-one could be arsed to make the changes on the computer system - thereby incurring the wrath of all involved.

Utter cunts.
(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 14:33, Reply)
For my sins I used to do 2nd/3rd line support for a shitload of councils - until they fired me for blogging and calling a server droid an incompetent fuckwit.

But, working there gave me a lot of interesting stories, a few of which I'll share with you. The first one is Bird Flu.

I'm sure you can all remember the scares about Bird Flu a year or so ago but I bet you've no idea how many mongs used to phone their local council about it. As the calls were recorded I got to listen to some of the more bizarre ones. This is one of my favourites.

Fuckwit: "I'd like to report a case of bird flu"

Op: "Yes sir - can you give me the details"

Fuckwit: "Well I was cleaning out my budgies cage and it sneezed. It's got bird flu. I've put it in the garden and I want someone to come round and take it away."

Op: "Sir - just because your budgie sneezed doesn't mean it's got Bird flu. It just means your budgie sneezed"

Fuckwit: "You don't understand. It's now fallen off it's perch and is lying upside down in it's cage"

OP: "Sir - it's minus five outside. I'm not surprised that it's fallen off it's perch"

And so on.

(, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 11:55, Reply)
My dad got a parking ticket 2 years ago
He got it on New Years Day. The law and the council says that he could park where he did on a bank holiday. He phoned up the bank of England:
“was it a bank holiday on New Years Day mr bank of England man?”
“why yes it was mr dad”
Phone up council:
“was it a bank holiday on new years day? Mr council man”
“get the fuck out of here! No. It was NOT a bank holiday. Pay your fine you silly little man”
Queue 2 years of my dad boning up on parking law….
(obviously he didn’t have to pay –he had that sorted quite quickly – but not because of the bank holiday dilly, because of a technicality with signage).

He has now made it some sort of crusade to sort the parking out in his borough. Good for him.

He took the council to a Tribuneral or something of that ilk after months of trying to get relevant info and his parking data from them. They tried to block him. As an example they clamed it would take them 2 weeks (or some such ridiculous amount of time) to query a database
2 weeks to write a 4 line db query. nice
My dad catalogued the lies told to him by the council. And had enough evidence to put the man in charge in prison.

Rather then turn up for the Tribuneral thingy the guy in charge resigns. After the meeting it turns out that my dad knows more about the parking rules then the council. He found out that all the
signage was illegal in his borough. They have to fix it costing millions.

– they now ask him for advise as a consultant now and again.

Just recently his friend got a ticket for parking with one wheel on the ramp/curb of a driveway. You know – that bit that where the curb ramps down to the level of the road. My dad has investigated and found that it’s illegal for them to ticket in this case. He’s forcing them to refund ALL tickets to people in this situation. Costing millions. You know they come and ticket for this “wheel on ramp” thing at 11.30pm on roads which don’t even have yellow lines on them. Not any more. Now they’re gonna pay it aaaaaall back.
Yay for my dad.

Excuse the crap writings. I don’t have time to make it funnies.

click i like this if you think my dads a star for socking it to the man!
(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 13:10, Reply)
coucil tax jobsworths
I was trying to organise paying my council tax by direct debit. I live opposite the council offices so brought the DD form to them in person. But no, I was told they would only accept the form if it were received in the post. WTF??? It was the same address! So after much protestation I posted the bloody thing. I don’t know what happened because they didn't take my tax money and I got hit by a summons. The council told me the only way I could avoid paying a £96 summons charge was if I paid my whole year’s council tax in one go. I decided to challenge this and went to their customer services centre and queued up for about an hour to speak to a person. Despite my begging she said there was nothing she could do. I then agreed to pay the £1000. But I couldn’t pay there. No that would be too easy. I had to walk to another building where they process the payment... Long. Anyway, I did this and went back to the customer services centre and queued up again. Got the same woman. Showed her the receipt I got from the payment centre and she dually cancelled the summons charge with one press of the keyboard. Once she'd shown me this was gone I then said I wanted to close my council tax account as I'm moving. She looked mighty confused at this and reminded me I'd just paid my council tax for the following year. I stuck to my guns and closed my account. "By my reckoning, you now owe me £900. I'll accept a cheque" say I. It was about this point that she began to clock what was going on. "Do you know how much admin this is for me?" says she. It’s safe to say I didn't give a f*ck. Got my cheque and then re-opened my account with the right to pay by instalments again. Lots of hassle but I’m glad I played them at their own game. Ar*eholes.
(, Mon 30 Jul 2007, 12:03, Reply)
Social Services
If you're ever looking for a job, try Social Services. They're always after staff as they have the highest long-term sick and highest resignation rate of all Local Government employees.

I can remember one conversation I had with a Social Worker who was having trouble with her computer. I took the job as there was only me and one other techy who was allowed to work on the Social Services computers due to the nature of the information held there. They used a database called "CareFirst"

Social Worker: "There's something wrong with CareFirst. I can logon OK and I can get into "Families" but I just can't get into "Relationships".

Me: "Neither can I - I'm scared of commitment"

She fell off her chair laughing. Poor souls - they don't get many giggles in their job.

(, Mon 30 Jul 2007, 10:13, Reply)
You think you have it bad...
Five years back Mrsk and I moved to France (cheaper wine, and yet to invent the Chav).

When it comes to buttock-clenchingly torturous bureaucracy, you can't beat the French (even the fudding word comes from the French).

Over 30 per cent of the French work force are employed by the government in some form or another, generally as 'fonctionaires' which is French for 'soulless vindictive rubber stamp monkeys'.

Some typical examples:

On settling here, we decided to apply for a 'Carte de Séjour', a kind of 'green card' that , amongst other things, entitles one to find work. In order to get one, we were told, we had to demonstrate that we had an income...

Recently, we started converting a derelict barn into a gîte - a kind of self-catering holiday let. In order to run it as a business, we decided to set up an SARL (a limited company). In order to complete the set-up of an SARL and receive the company inscription papers, you need a company bank account. In order to open a bank account for an SARL, you need to be able to provide the company's inscription papers...

People have been driving too fast through our village for some time (it's one of the more picturesque routes to access a rather lovely mountain). Recently, one of the mayor's dogs was run over, which has proven a wonderful catalyst for action: as we speak, one of our neighbours, a local council employee, has been telling me about the progress with installing the speed bumps. Thanks to the French equivalent of the Road Lobby (who campaign for the right to drive too fast through villages), speed bumps are all but banned in France - the only way you can put one in, is if it protects a pedestrian crossing. Two houses up the road from here now have their own private pedestrian crossings which lead from the end of their drives to the other side of the road where there is a low wall and a 6m cliff down to the river...

Still, if either of them decide to end it all by hurling himself into the raging torrent, he'll run less risk of being hit by a car en route (as we say hereabouts).
(, Sun 29 Jul 2007, 9:57, Reply)

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