Zombie Bakeries
For the most part, folks are reasonable and possess a sense of humour, provided they're treated like human beings. In my particular service sector, I've dealt with all kinds of folk, for the most part they've decent. However once in a blue moon, you'll end up dealing with a dimwitted cocksnot of the most contemptible variety.

One chap I used to deal with warrants particular mention here. I used to run weekly payrolls for a string of bakeries he'd bought into. His strategy was to hire a handful of superannuated old ladies to staff them and paid them just enough to be below the tax threshold each week. Within months, the bakery would invariably end up insolvent and the staff would be directed back to me when they asked for their last weeks' wages.

Sure enough, as the octogenarian staff arrived at work, they'd be greeted with a sign saying "I'm sorry but the business has had to close. It is insolvent. All wage queries should be directed to PJM at **** ******** Chartered Accountants"

*ring-ring* (PJM stops working on xyz payroll and picks up telephone)

"O'our bakury has only gorn insulvunt. I can take a cheque for mi' money if that’s orlroit please?"

Now, the owner paid the staff cash himself, but to avoid the shop being looted by the staff he’d sent them to me on vague (and false) promise that I’d be able to pay them out of my own pocket.

I'd then have to help the poor old biddies fill out all the paperwork and forms to allow them to claim from DETE for their money. It would take hours. I couldn't just leave them to it, I'd have to painstakingly explain the situation every time. What was I supposed to do, say "Well you fucking lucked out didn't you, you old trout!"?

However, he had one bakery that stubbornly refused to die. This was largely because at this point the owner had fucked off to Leicester and left a borderline senile "manageress" in charge whom he paid eighty quid a week.

Every week, I'd receive timesheets which were liberally dusted with crumbs, flour and the occasional currant. I'd have to chase up mysterious new names on the timesheet for a P46 form, because simply processing wages for someone called "Edith" wasn't an option. I think the manageress assumed I had a crystal ball somewhere.

In a drastic change to policy a couple of school leavers were hired. Instead of noting down who the person was and where they lived, I'd find "Goe's to collage" written on a discarded till receipt next to the person's hours. I'd then have to follow up with a twenty minute phone call. Everything I did at work was chargeable and given that I had umpteen things to do, often Just-In-Time my own time was in fairly short supply.

(PJM picks up phone, dials number. *Ring-ring* etc)

"I need some details for "little Stevie" Mrs Jones, can you tell me his surname and where he lives? I cannot process his wages without them"

"Oh wurl, 'ee lives down that Manor Road oi fink. I do know that 'ees at the collage (sic). Wi' that be alroight?"

"No Mrs Jones I'm afraid it wont. They don't know who Little Stevie is at the Salford Tax Office. I'm not allowed to process anyone's wages until I have their details."

I really wasn't being awkward. Those are the rules. If HM Revenue and Customs paid the place a visit, David - the owner of the business would end up in all sorts of trouble. Now that wasn't overly concerning, but given that he was a client of ours, I'd be obliged to spend hours sorting it out for him and deal with HMRC on his behalf.

Sure enough, I'd have to go through the same exercise to extract the details for every new member of staff. Every week I'd send in forms for them to give to new starters and had even designed new timesheets with handy reminders printed on them. No dice.

(PJM picks up phone, dials number. *Ring-ring* etc)

"Hi Mrs Jones, it's PJM here. How are you? Yes, yes, lovely. Can you tell me a little more about 'Doreen'? Yes, yes... I didn't know she had four grandchildren... Like her address and date of birth perhaps?"

The owner of the business had a massive aversion to tax and dealing with tax of any kind. He didn't earn enough to pay tax (allegedly) and made damn sure none of his staff earned enough for NI and tax to be deducted. He made sure his manageress paid his staff in cash on Saturday when the payslips turned up.

However, one morning, the unfortunate 'Doreen' arrived at work bearing a piece of paper, probably not unlike Neville Chamberlain for they were of a similar vintage. The note found it's way to me and having processed the payroll it awarded Doreen £18.72 in a tax rebate.

At 08:58 Monday morning, Doreen was on the phone.

*ring-ring* (PJM utters the words "fuck off", sighs in despair and picks up phone)

"Can I haves my tax rebate as a cheque from you please. Ol' David tells me that your'll sort it owt for me."

Yep, he'd dodged responsibility and told her to come straight to me, knowing full well there was nothing I could do.

(PJM picks up phone, dials Leicester number and waits *ring-ring*)

"When it comes to tax, we need to put the onus on the staff!" opined David "We need to make tax their responsibility".

"That's not legal David. You're responsible for paying her tax rebate, but you do get it back from the Tax Office" I replied.

"But I want nothing to do with tax! Can't you get Doreen to go and bother the tax office herself?" He continued.

"No David. HMRC will simply tell her that the employer deals with it, put a mark against your business and then investigate you sometime down the line. Can you imagine the fuss?"

Somehow he saw sense and at great protest arranged to pay her £18.72, complaining bitterly that the "tax people" had no idea about cash flow and the impact on his business.

He nearly hit the fucking roof when the Inland Revenue caught up with another employee.

*ring-ring* (PJM stops working on xyz payroll. Now hating the entire world, the phone is picked up with an irritated "Hello!")

"Sandra's given me a tax code notice which says BR! How much is that going to cost me?" she was under sixty five and had worked there long enough to sue the arse off him for wrongful dismissal. besides, it wouldn't cost him a penny. It would cost Sandra a straight 22% of eevrything she earned, which the business was oblidged to pay HMRC. It took five attempts to explain this to him.

"Look, I'll tell you how much tax is due at the end of every month and all you need to do is send a cheque in to the tax office. I'll even fill out the forms and post them to you" I replied.

Not even I was expecting what happened a month later.

*ring-ring* (PJM stops working on... Oh fuck it, you get the idea)

It's the office receptionist

"I've got a Sandra in reception here who needs to see you"

I went downstairs, grumpily distracted from processing a two hundred person payroll, due to be paid two hours hence. I was pointed toward a hatchet faced sextenegerian, frothing gently at the mouth.

"Ol' David sed I should gi' you my tax and yor'll sort it out. I ain't gots no bank accunt or nuffink, so you've gutta take cash." she explained, handing me over an envelope full of copper coins.

"An oi'm not leavun' 'til I gets a receipt!" she added.

Sure enough, she made me count out the £22.18 in copper, fill out two compliment slips as a receipt and while she was there leave an envelope containing timesheets, crumbs, caster sugar and currants.

I'd then have to hand over the copper to our gibbonesque, gurning Practice Manager (a man bearing an Alaska-sized grudge against me), who'd put it in petty cash and write a cheque to Inland Revenue for a corresponding amount.

Every fucking month this happened. Some days Sandra would turn up unannounced at ten past one and would kick off in reception because I dared be out having my lunch.

*ring-ring* (PJM answers mobile from pub "whatthefuckdotheywantnow?")

Sure enough, Sandra was in reception and causing a scene, demanding that someone came down specially to "Sort me' tax owt!". The sour faced old bag pensioner was sufficiently rude to all the junior members of staff to ensure none of them would deal with her and I'd have to sort it out.

*ring-ring* (This time, PJM is on a week long holiday in Wales with his friends. He's halfway up a mountain when his mobile phone rings). Oh joy, it's our practice manager again, no doubt with the senior partner listening in.

"Hello PJM. That mad old bat is in reception again. I tried to explain you were on holiday, but she's kicking off again".

Grrr....

And to rub salt into the wounds, I made a loss each and every time the payroll was processed. Why? By existing agreement with the firm's partners David's bill for professional fees was less than twenty pounds a month.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 5 Sep 2008, 17:08, 4 replies)

Wow.
That sounds absolutely teeth-grindingly, rage-inducingly irritating.
*sympathy click*
(Sundayturkey has the biggest mug of tea, Sat 6 Sep 2008, 0:32, closed)

*click*
for bank accunt ;o)

You have the accent spot on.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 12:24, closed)

You have the patience of a saint sir
I offer you a click, to be paid in the form of 893 copper micro-clicks...

click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click

etc
( chart cat has an itch, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 20:12, closed)

Christ, I'd have went postal.
*click*
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 13:08, closed)