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)