This isn't very interesting but...
... I needed somewhere to vent my spleen about the twats that run our local household waste site.
I'm in the middle of moving house and, being an almost fanatical hoarder or crap (old computers, boxes that'll never use, magazines, etc.) I had a ton of stuff to get rid of. So I loaded my car up to the gills with boxes of crap and drove merrily one recent Saturday morn to the local tip.
"Are you a business?" asks the Mr Prosser type refuse worker, to which I replied that I wasn't. I offloaded the crap and then drove back home for more, which this time included a couple of very dead Macs in various sharp metal bits.
I got back to the tip and officious little man came running out:
"You can't dump these here, you're a business! And you didn't sort out your rubbish in the last lot!"
It turned out that he'd found an envelope from my previous dumpage with my freelance business name on and it wasn't even the address I was living at anymore. So, despite my attempts to try and tell him that these were home computers, he refused to let me unload, telling me instead to hire a skip from the council (min. 28 day wait).
Muttering under my breath I hot footed it to another refuse site just over the border in Lancashire (I live in Yorkshire), where I was helped by not one, not two, but three very jolly council workers who were only too happy to help me get rid of my stuff.
I've been back three times since with more rubbish and they've got to know me, asking how the move is going etc. etc.
Craven District Council suck.
Pendle Council rock!

Apologies for shiteness.
(Ghostlight, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 15:21, 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.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 15:20, Reply)

Cheers
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 _______________

THE REFUSE VEHICLE HAS DIFFICULTY GAINING ACCESS TO EMPTY THE BINS/BOXES ON A _____________

ON THIS DAY COULD YOU PLEASE PARK THIS VEHICLE SO AS NOT TO CAUSE AN OBSTRUCTION."


I ride a bicycle.
( Regger, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 15:20, Reply)

Lewisham Council
A wall falls down in Blackheath, and it takes 8 phone calls and 5 weeks for someone to move the rubble.

They also employ the most ignornat, imcompetant and least articulate of any parking wardens in the world, who issue a ticket without even understanding the rules, and then you have to contest it, which is a terrible waste of everyone's time.
( Mr Gear the gay-maker, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 15:15, Reply)

I applied for a job in my local library...
for which I was way over qualified, but since I've gone back to university to do a second degree I just wanted a part time job. The bastards never replied.

How dare they!? Don't they know who I am!?!

That's about the only gripe I can think of. I actually like my council, since they wrote to me to say that "Since your house was unoccupied in June, we will not be charging you council tax for that month", when infact I was living there quite happily. Since they seem happy to believe the house was vacant for a month, and I'm happy to get a free month, there seems little point in disabusing them of the idea, and so everbody's happy. Paid July as normal.
(Seance Trumpet has got no beef with a man enjoying a croissant, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 15:06, Reply)

Tree House of Horror
A friend of mine used to build really really good treehouses and each time the council would call in the cavalry and bring em' down.

Arsebuckets

www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3G2H0_peQU
(BobbyDarin Was somewhere Beyond the Sea on, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 15:00, Reply)

No Humour, Just A Statement Of Fact
Birmingham City Council. Biggest unitary authority or something like that.

What they owe my workplace in unpaid Housing Benefit could buy a Premiership footballer. And whoever runs that section couldn't manage a piss in the morning - it's chaos and confusion. If a company owed that kind of money their ass would be dragged through the courts.

Don't even start me off on some of the ludicrous wages paid to council staff that were exposed by the Birmingham Evening Mail. Or the incompetence of their *outsourced* IT section...
(Jamie and his magic bat You can bump n' grind, it is good for your mind, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 14:59, Reply)

Answer to Legless 2.0
Stop watching that shite is my suggestion
(Sid, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 14:58, Reply)

Bristol City Council .... home of the Mk 1 lazy council git
I used to believe that police officers were there to protect the law-abiding and arrest criminals, and that council staff were honest dedicated people whose vocation in life was to help the citizens of the local area.

OK, let's deal with council staff first. In 1991, I moved to a shared house in Bristol. After a while, the register of voters form arrived, so I filled in my details and left it out for the others to fill in. It soon vanished, so I assumed it had been sent off.

In April 1992, it was announced that there would be a General Election. I was a little suspicious that the form might not have been sent off, so I wandered off to the Council office to check. I was sent to a little serviing hatch which opening into the room where the dealt with the register of voters. It transpired that there were no voters registered at my address. Oh dear, says I.

"No problem" she says, "You can fill in this form to register". So I do, and I give her the form. "You won't be able to vote in the General Election, though", she adds.

"Oh? Why not?".

So she explains that you need to be registered as a voter for a full 6 weeks prior to an election, in order to avoid fraud. "But, its err, umm... [counts on fingers]... 8 weeks until the election??"

Ah hah .... but there is further cunning in her plan. You see, they allow us to put the form in whenever we want, but they keep them in a little box until they process them. Once a month. And they did it last week, so they won't be doing it again for another three weeks. Which will leave me with only 5 weeks to go. She showed me the box - it had about 4 forms in it, including mine.

"Why can't you just do an extra inputting session 6 weeks before the General Election??" Ah ... it seems that would be an extra effort and they can't stretch to that.

Too much effort ... this is four forms, once every four years. And it's not as if there is any extra work - they would just be doing it earlier than normal, not as well as other stuff.

She explained that they were really busy. As I mentioned, the hatch opened into the room ... allowing a view of the many people lazing around doing sod all. Hmmm... this is obviously the alternative definition of "really busy".

"Why can't you date the entry onto the Register from today?" Ah, that would be fraud apparently. "Why would it??" Because it would so there. She gave a look which said "This is a Council Office; kindly stop trying to think".

So one lazy git of a council worker refused me my democratic birthright because she couldn't be arsed to type my details into her computer within 2 weeks of me giving her the form.

And the police? Shall we just say that (a) I drive a car, (b) members of my family have been burgled, and (c) I have perceived a slight difference in the vigour with which plod has dealt with drivers vs burglars. Nuff said?

So, of my childhood beliefs there is only Father Christmas. I'd be grateful if you could break that one gently, please.

Length? About three weeks, apparently.
(patently Was somewhere else on, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 14:53, 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.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Thu 26 Jul 2007, 14:33, Reply)

German Bureaucracy
Even though I'm an EU resident and so am entitled to automatic residency, I still had to (in 1999) have the infamous "Aufenthaltserlebnis" - the green card that says I, as an alien, am entitled to live here.

After 5 years, my green card expires. I have to go to the Ausländeramt (local immigration office) and renew it. I'm about to go in when the woman comes out and locks the door, and goes for her coffee-break, which takes an hour. When I finally get served, she dismisses me, saying that I should have a letter from my landlord.

My girlfriend writes a letter stating that I'm living with her in her flat. I go back and see the beamter. She takes one look at the letter and starts screaming that she's never been so insulted in her life. She prints out something from their website and shoves it under my nose, then rips it up and throws it in the bin before I can read it - which makes me suspicious. I'm sent away with no green card and a flea in my ear.

Next time, I take my girlfriend, but Frau Arschloch is not there - she's on holiday (or an extra-long coffee break) so we see Frau Katzenliebhaber, who has pictures of kittens all over her office. Frau K grants me a temporary green card until May the next year. After May I don't have to have a card. Frau A was wrong, I'm told.

In May, off we go again. Oh shit, it's Frau A again. Except this time, Frau A. can't be nicer, and prints out my EU exemption, and we're out of there in about a minute. I think she was on a warning or something.

Time taken : eight months of laziness on the part of one small-minded racist Beamter.

Hackney fuckin' council ain't even in the same league.
( Stevedix http://www.stevedix.de/blog, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 14:24, Reply)

Bailiffs
Before I start the story, I'd like to say that I admit that it's all initially my own fault for doing something wrong. That's my bad and I guess I paid for it. But I do think it could all have been handled very, very differently.

Ok, I'm starting the story now...

One morning, I was woken up by my dad knocking on my bedroom door. He said there was someone at the front door to see me, so I went downstairs.

"Hello sir, I'm a bailiff, I've clamped your car and will be towing it away unless you pay the fees, which come to £600."

I was rather surprised. This was the first I'd heard of any bailiff action so I asked what it was about. It took a while to get much sense out of him but basically it all stemmed from an unpaid parking ticket that was issued well over a year before the day he turned up on my doorstep.

It was one of those CCTV camera tickets, so nobody had ever put anything under my windscreen wipers. And to make matters worse, I had moved back home (split with girlfriend) and there had been a few months when I didn't update my address with the DVLA (this is why it's all technically my fault - the entire fiasco hinges on this one mistake on my part).

So... The ticket was issued and went to my old address. Several months later I had updated the registered address of my car, but they obviously didn't do a second check, they issued all subsequent reminders to the old address and, when I didn't pay, they sold the debt to a collection agency (ie a bunch of even bigger cunts).

So, that's why the bailiff is on my doorstep on this crisp spring morning. But wait a minute, aren't they supposed to notify you by letter that they intend to come round, and give you a chance to pay?

I asked him this, he said "yes, we did. We put a letter through your door last week."

"No you didn't."

"Yes we did. Look, here..."

He showed me a sheet of A4 paper with a date, hand-written in biro. The date was from the previous week.

"That doesn't prove anything," I said. "I can go and write a date on some paper, that doesn't mean I delivered a letter on that day." But he wasn't having any of it. I knew he was lying (my parents are fanatical about mail) but there's no way to prove that something didn't happen.

At this point I was wondering what my rights were so I shut the door in his face (I figured it's take a tow truck a good half hour to get there) and went to look on the interweb. One quick Google later and things weren't looking good. It seems that bailiffs operate in something of a legal grey area. There is a code of conduct but it's voluntary, the collection agencies aren't bound by it.

I called the number for my local police station, hoping for... Well... I don't know what I was hoping for but it doesn't matter because after 15 minutes on hold, It was obvious that they weren't answering.

I sat down and thought it through.

It all stemmed from my stupid laziness in updating my details with the DVLA. there was no doubt that I'd done something wrong and that I was liable to pay some sort of fine. But he'd said that the fine itself was about £200 and the other £400 was because he was on the doorstep, clamping and calling a tow-truck.

So if he'd put a letter through the door, I would only have had to pay £200. Still bad but a lot better than £600.

Could I prove that he hadn't put a letter through my door?

No. Impossible. You can't prove a negative and it would be his word against mine in court, which Google had just informed me they usually win.

My only two options were paying up or losing the car. It's not a great car but it's worth more than £600 so I decided to pay up.

But since I knew that it would take the tow truck a while to get there, I strung it out, argued, hurled abuse and generally made him work for it.

Motto: always update your car's registered address as soon as you move. In fact, do it beforehand.
(Jamey, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 14:17, Reply)

tip for young players
Don't want to pay council tax when moving to a new place?

1)dont ever tell them who's living there (works only if your landlord doesnt dob you in). Dont answer their threat letters and dont open door to them. if you do, close it again in their face. they can't send a baliff unless they can establish an identity for the debtor. they often give up after a few months.

2)failing that, put all the bills into a false name (add a bogus name, then take the original off in a weeks time to avoid starting a new account) and give them this name. it should give you about 1 years breathing space, then change the name again before the baliffs come and claim the ficticious person has moved out. rinse and repeat.

3)if this fails, send them a bogus letter of student enrolment. im sure all you b3ta potatoshoppers can mock up a convincing uni letterhead paper with logo taken from the interweb. use a self-lettering stamp for that extra touch of authenticity.

Ive used all three methods. Dont get mad, get even.
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 14:11, Reply)

In the course of my day to day work, I deal with:
Council Planning Officers
Council Building Control Officers
Council Highways Officers
Council Housing Officers
Council Environmental Health Officers
Council Conservation Officers
District and Parish Councillors

...No wonder I suffer from High Blood Pressure
( The Great Architect is still waiting for his account to be deleted on, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 14:05, Reply)

Memories...
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.
(EvilMeister, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 14:03, Reply)

Incidentally, Southwark Council's bin lorries
have a fabulous catchphrase emblazoned across the sides:

"Southwark Council: Making Waste Work"

They certainly do a make a lot of waste work, for sure.
( chart cat has an itch, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 13:42, Reply)

NHS Wales Are Money Grabbing Sods
One of the scant few advantages of being Welsh is that I get free NHS Dentist checkups until I'm 25. It's not much, but it's worth having.

Anyway, you have to fill in one form to make sure you're eligable. Nothing too strenuous, just something to make sure I don't have to pay money. I seem to remember it being one side of A4.

Thought nothing of it, went through uni, few checkups here and there, fine.

Until one day.

I had a day off, so took the Ms. Rhyswynne at the time to Chester for a bit of Deva Fun. Being English, she found it hilarious to shout "Where's my crossbow!" on Chester walls as it's legal to shoot Welshmen on them with a crossbow.

All in all, good fun day out, went home on the train (had a few in the Temple Bar in Chester, recommend it, it's ace), when I got a phone call from my dad.

"Hi Rhys, there's a chap in the living room wanting to speak to you, regarding dentistry."

Odd, got home and he was sat there. Sipping tea and eating biscuits.

"Hi Rhys! We want to question you about possible NHS Expense Aversion."

I was puzzled to say the least.

Anyway, long and short of it is that I couldn't prove the exact days there and then when I went to the dentist in the last two years, so they charged me for two appointments.

A cost of £24.

I was not a happy bunny.

What made it worse was after it, he said "Oooh! Looks like I've missed my last train back to Cardiff (I live in Colwyn Bay, North Wales by the way), I suppose I'd have to stay in a hotel for the night!", he said in one of those jokey accents that kids do to try and persuade you to get them to do stuff for them.

Even if he stayed in the shittest hotel in Colwyn Bay, it must've been more expensive than £24, not including the train fare (which, last time I checked, was £28. IF you book in advance).

My only hope for him is that he has a heart attack from wanking over too much hotel porn, and doctors cannot afford to treat him.
(rhyswynne - on every social network mullarkey known to man, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 13:41, Reply)

German bureaucracy
Living in Munich I have come across some fantastic efforts. Many Germans (most in fact) defy the stereotypes and are easy-going, willing to bend the rules etc. etc. for minor things, but naturally the government and council employees are a whole nother story.

The best moment for me was on my arrival. Job will not let me sign the contract until I have a bank account to put the money into. The bank won't let me open an account unless I have a residency permit. You can see this coming, can't you. Council won't give me a residency permit whitout proof of a job.

You would think that with about 10 000 working foreigners here in Munich alone they would have sussed this one out long ago, but, no apparently not.

Frankly, that was the least of some of what I have to put up with. Ironically I am actually one of them as technically here I am a civil servant.
(Bob the Scutter, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 13:37, Reply)

What really happens
is that council workers are bred in special tanks by the government. The rejects go to call centres.

100% true
(teasus likes tea, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 13:31, Reply)

Council Tax
Many moons since, I ran a pub. When I sold up and moved out I informed to council (Sheffield again - are you seeing a pattern here?) of my change of address. For nearly a year after they tried to collect from me council tax for the pub, since I had left. Although I was up to date at my new address they still tried to take me to court. Apparently it was my responsibility to tell them who now lived in the pub. They left me alone eventually.
(misspiggy In danger of having to get a job, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 13:29, Reply)

Blue Badges...
My dad has the same problem, Bob. Despite not being able to walk further than about two feet, and the parts of his body which aren't in crippling agony being completely numb, the local authority decided - on the advice of a doctor who'd never even met my father - that he was swinging the lead, and that his blue badge and disabled living allowance - including his car - would be taken away from him.

He's got the hearing for his tribunal this afternoon, but as he's genuinely in need and deserving of the meagre help he used to get, I can't see any result other than telling him to jolly well fuck right off so that they can give the money to some cunt who doesn't need it.
( CaptainCrackerjack live trout, slow motion, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 13:09, 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.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 13:00, 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.

Twats.
( Bob Todd whee, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 12:57, 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.
( chart cat has an itch, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 12:53, Reply)

has anyone

had any experience of these people?

www.iwca.info

not a funny story, just people who claim to oppose corrupt/incompetent/uncaring/selfish councils in Britain.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 12:53, Reply)

Maccclesfield Council
Despite a population (including the nearest villages) of around 95,000 it's still been nearly 10years since we've a had a cinema, we have a bowling alley on the outskirts which can't be accessed by public transport, a little tiny museum featuring a stuffed panda, a shit outdoor skatepark which was supposed to have been revamped years ago with money some of the local youth collected by packing bags at the local sainsburys, a copshop that closes in the evening, a hospital under constant threat of closure and to tope it all off.....Nick Winterton as our MP.

Macclesfield is indeed run by cunts.

Quick edit: www.ft.com/cms/s/9e383096-2bac-11d9-970d-00000e2511c8.html This may be 3years old but nothing has changed. Again, Macclesfield is run cunts.
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 12:50, Reply)

i'm a property lawyer
i deserve to win this qotw just for having to deal with every element of every council in the area.

however, this first story happened to my friend caro and her new husband, whose name is peter tarand. they live in st-reatham.

caro: we've just moved in; we'd like to set up a direct debit.

council cunt (cc): no, you have to wait until we have sent you a bill.

caro: no we don't.

cc: yeah, it's for data protection.

caro: riiiiiiiight. so you won't let me set up the account today?

cc: no. wait for the bill.

SIX MONTHS LATER

bailiff: we're looking for peter tarand.

caro (who had forgotten all about the council tax, what with getting married, moving flats etc): he's not in. er. why?

bailiff: got a warrant here for unpaid council tax.

caro: we never got a bill. wait here...

cc: council tax, how can i help?

caro: you never sent us a bill. this is mrs peter tarand of flat 3, 5 dawlish road.

cc: yes we sent numerous bills.

caro: no. you didn't.

cc: yes we did. they went to "mr philip tarran, flat 3, 15 dawlish road". you should have known they were for you.

caro: %^*%($^. OI. BAILIFF. PUT DOWN THAT FUCKING TV...

also, why is it that the council tax department of ALL councils picks up the phone on the first ring but every other department makes you wait for about an hour on a 0870 number!?
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 12:29, Reply)

Kent Council
Are the nicest, most lovely people ever. I've never met any of them, but I hear they do an amazing and fantastic job and that sunshine literally shines from every orifice.

(Currently hoping they'll give me a job)

Crap. Just realised I'm applying for a council job. Hmmm...
(Squash, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 12:27, Reply)

Oh my!
How appropriate! I'm a supply teacher and I received my payslip today which showed I was only paid for half of my time this month, plus the advance that I was given last month after the cock-up then has been deducted!

Then I turn to B3ta to relieve my truama. To laugh at other people's funny sex stories only to find this QOTW. Scraping the barrel methinks.
(Medibot, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 12:27, Reply)