Wednesday, 22 December 2010


So I spent the day at work. I'm a data entry clerk. There is nothing about this situation that screams 'stellar comedy material'. I imagine an article on the fun ins and outs of reconciling account receipts would make the average audience want to punch me, and I haven't even got an audience.

Anyway, I'm going to talk about a customer of the tax department. Let's call him Cunt. Cunt does not pay his tax. Cunt has not paid his tax for several years, actually, because he is apparently in dire financial straits, what with barely having the money for his first-class ticket to Rome for the second time this year.

Okay, fair play. If you want to give the finger to the bailiffs I'm not going to stop you. If you want to ignore the department phone calls, I really don't mind - I don't even work for the tax department, I just sit in the same office as them because the Government hasn't got any money any more and they can't afford such luxuries as enough walls and floors for everyone. And if, when you finally do answer the phone, you want to tell the tax man that you WILL not pay and do not HAVE to pay, go right ahead.

But for fuck's sake, you're crossing some kind of stupid threshold when you actually take the time to phone THEM to tell them all this. It's like you've woken up to find an alligator in a half-doze right next to your crotch so you decide the best course of action is to smack it in the face with a stick. Although in this case it's the sort of alligator that sends you annoyed-sounding letters instead of ripping your arm off. And then sends Bailiffs that take your stuff. And then sends you to prison.

Anyway. I must take a moment to point out that I do not deal with Cunt in any way, shape, or form. I have never met him, never spoken to him, never even seen him.

I must take another moment to reiterate that I don't do Government stuff, and also to point out that this office is fairly big. It takes a good ten seconds to cross from on end to the other at a brisk pace. The people who deal with Cunt sit at the other end of this Clerical expanse, far too far for me to eavesdrop. And God forbid I ever try to do anything like make conversation with my co-workers.

How, then, I know you are wondering with baited breath, do I know the fine details about Cunt?

Simple. Because despite all that - despite that it's not my department, despite that he's on the other end of a phone on the other end of the office - I CAN STILL FUCKING HEAR HIM.

Seriously. Cunt doesn't sound like he's ringing up about tax, he sounds like he was a leading contestant on "World's Noisiest Fucker" and got told in the middle of the proceedings that a tax man murdered his children. The people who deal with him have to hold the phone like a foot from their ear just to avoid having tinnitus for the rest of the day. I know there are people out there who believe that the Government is putting sedatives in the water supply, but having heard some of these phone calls I can assure you that a) they're not and b) they fucking should be.

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