Mr Ford, isn't it?
This morning I received a letter. Nothing unusual in that normally, except that this time I knew the contents almost by heart on account of having sent it myself some six weeks ago. Somebody at the Royal Mail decided to return it to me. To do this they had to open it and find out who sent it, put the letter and the envelope into another envelope, address it to me and deliver it. This is no mean feat, considering.
Several weeks ago Sharon's mum wrote to me enclosing a gift and I wrote back by return. I wished her and Sharon's dad well, as one does. I sent the letter the same day using the second class post. The letter never arrived. A few days later, Sharon's dad died. Goodness, I thought to myself, it will look rather insensitive for it to turn up now. Well, I they weren't my exact words as I'm sure you can imagine. By this time, I had of course, already mentioned that I'd written, just in case it did turn up.
This morning I looked at the envelope to see why it wasn't delivered. "No such address" was scrawled on it. I looked again; ah yes, I see what I did, I wrote "Stratford, London, E17 ***" instead of "Stratford, London, E15 ***". OK, silly error but the house number also ends in 17 so it was an honest mistake. Unusually, it was the house number I used to get wrong, the postcode I've always known. If I'd got the house number wrong in the same manner it would only have gone to Norma next door anyway and she would have put it next door, not sent it back marked "Not Known". Besides, I had written "Stratford" on it. You don't have to apparently, the postcode is enough but I'm not a complete moron, there are people involved who don't care anymore. Had I not written the postcode on it at all, it would have probably arrived within three days. This is the modern world. Of course, when that was written by The Jam 30 years ago, there would have been no problem, the letter would have arrived. On the second post. No, in a display of ineptitude that is quite disturbing as well startling, it took them 6 weeks not to get out an A to Z Z. How they managed to work out how to send it back to me in Crewe, fully 175 miles north of Stratford is quite beyond me.
Stratford, unless you have been living under a stone since 5/7/05, is where the 2012Olympic village is being built and is an important transport hub for London. It's the biggest building site in Europe. It's a happening place. You would think that pretty much everyone in London knows where Stratford is, especially those charged with delivering the nation's mail. Wrong.
You see, the Royal Mail (and the Post Office) is run by one of my favourite people, Mr Adam Crozier. He used to run the Football Association and was responsible for moving it from Lancaster Gate to the centre of the entertainment industry, Soho. This ought to give an indication of Mr Crozier's business acumen and priorities. He also employed Sven, and while that wasn't a complete disaster, he allowed the nonsense that surrounded his appointment to occur. He does appear to be a complete moron though, with no thought for a company's core business, in this case selling stamps, delivering letters and parcels and being the village shop - not supplying overpriced internet and car insurance and employing wanky boybands or our Joanie to flog it. Under his tenure the Royal Mail has turned into a laughing stock. He is also in league with that other talentless twat Mandelson in trying to flog off the Royal Mail. Crozier's administration has resulted in morale and efficiency dropping to desperate levels; the second class post is now a complete lottery and as I've experienced, they are employing illiterates to try and deliver it. It's like asset stripping in reverse; surely, if you are trying to sell a state run industry, or any business, you want to make it an attractive concern. No, of course, not. No point in selling an efficient state-controlled business, would there. We have a socialist government, don't we? So we'll make it inefficient and offload it to someone who'll take the hit. Pardon me for being cynical. FFS, we've just seen our economy collapse because of business being run by wide-boy market traders after a fast buck, don't these cretins ever learn?
Several weeks ago Sharon's mum wrote to me enclosing a gift and I wrote back by return. I wished her and Sharon's dad well, as one does. I sent the letter the same day using the second class post. The letter never arrived. A few days later, Sharon's dad died. Goodness, I thought to myself, it will look rather insensitive for it to turn up now. Well, I they weren't my exact words as I'm sure you can imagine. By this time, I had of course, already mentioned that I'd written, just in case it did turn up.
This morning I looked at the envelope to see why it wasn't delivered. "No such address" was scrawled on it. I looked again; ah yes, I see what I did, I wrote "Stratford, London, E17 ***" instead of "Stratford, London, E15 ***". OK, silly error but the house number also ends in 17 so it was an honest mistake. Unusually, it was the house number I used to get wrong, the postcode I've always known. If I'd got the house number wrong in the same manner it would only have gone to Norma next door anyway and she would have put it next door, not sent it back marked "Not Known". Besides, I had written "Stratford" on it. You don't have to apparently, the postcode is enough but I'm not a complete moron, there are people involved who don't care anymore. Had I not written the postcode on it at all, it would have probably arrived within three days. This is the modern world. Of course, when that was written by The Jam 30 years ago, there would have been no problem, the letter would have arrived. On the second post. No, in a display of ineptitude that is quite disturbing as well startling, it took them 6 weeks not to get out an A to Z Z. How they managed to work out how to send it back to me in Crewe, fully 175 miles north of Stratford is quite beyond me.
Stratford, unless you have been living under a stone since 5/7/05, is where the 2012Olympic village is being built and is an important transport hub for London. It's the biggest building site in Europe. It's a happening place. You would think that pretty much everyone in London knows where Stratford is, especially those charged with delivering the nation's mail. Wrong.
You see, the Royal Mail (and the Post Office) is run by one of my favourite people, Mr Adam Crozier. He used to run the Football Association and was responsible for moving it from Lancaster Gate to the centre of the entertainment industry, Soho. This ought to give an indication of Mr Crozier's business acumen and priorities. He also employed Sven, and while that wasn't a complete disaster, he allowed the nonsense that surrounded his appointment to occur. He does appear to be a complete moron though, with no thought for a company's core business, in this case selling stamps, delivering letters and parcels and being the village shop - not supplying overpriced internet and car insurance and employing wanky boybands or our Joanie to flog it. Under his tenure the Royal Mail has turned into a laughing stock. He is also in league with that other talentless twat Mandelson in trying to flog off the Royal Mail. Crozier's administration has resulted in morale and efficiency dropping to desperate levels; the second class post is now a complete lottery and as I've experienced, they are employing illiterates to try and deliver it. It's like asset stripping in reverse; surely, if you are trying to sell a state run industry, or any business, you want to make it an attractive concern. No, of course, not. No point in selling an efficient state-controlled business, would there. We have a socialist government, don't we? So we'll make it inefficient and offload it to someone who'll take the hit. Pardon me for being cynical. FFS, we've just seen our economy collapse because of business being run by wide-boy market traders after a fast buck, don't these cretins ever learn?
posted by Richard at 1:53 pm
2 Vegetable peelings:
I had one returned to me marked "undeliverable". That's a bit wide, isn't it? What does it mean? Rabid dog unwilling to let postie through gate? Crippling ennui suffered by postie who can't be bothered to get letter out of sack? Bricked up door? Really, what will they think of next?
I feel unable to comment on this, as you seem to have posted it to someone else's blog.
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