The Twitmarsh Files E-Book

R T Fishall

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2010

Beschreibung

Patrick Moore is Britain's most respected and best-loved astronomer. But under his nom de plume R. T. Fishall, he is also the scourge of bureaucratic incompetence, exposing stupidity wherever he finds it, especially amongst tax inspectors and traffic wardens. From humorous (and genuine) examples of how they can make a mountain of paperwork (in triplicate) out of a molehill to essential tips on how to counter their machinations and give them a taste of their own medicine, it also includes an explanation of the Fundamental Laws of Bureaucracy and the Twit Percentage. The Twitmarsh Files, combining both Bureaucrats: How to Annoy Them and The Twitmarsh File, is the perfect tonic for anyone who has ever had to contend with the more ridiculous aspects of officialdom.

Leseprobe

To all Bureaucrats and Civil Servants, everywhere.

If this book makes your lives even the tiniest bit more

difficult, it will have been well worth writing.

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

BUREAUCRATS: HOW TO ANNOY THEM

Introduction: Or, the Gas Bill Cometh

1 Fundamental Laws

2 The Inland Revenue

3 A Note on Languages

4 Official Jargon

5 The Twit Percentage

6 At Random

7 Writing to the Papers

Epilogue

THE TWITMARSH FILE

1 Bureaucrats Revisited: The Tomlinson Effect

2 A Look Around

3 Support the Good Cause!

4 The Golliwog’s Cake-Walk

5 What’s in a Name?

6 Red Peter

7 Queerer and Queerer

8 Postman Pat in the Doghouse

9 The Freedom of the Press

10 Please, Teacher …

11 Without Comment

Copyright

BUREAUCRATS: HOW TO ANNOY THEM

INTRODUCTION

Or, the Gas Bill Cometh

One glorious spring morning, when the birds were singing happily in the tree-tops, and from my rose garden I could hear the waves murmuring softly in the distance, I had a Final Demand from the Southern Gas Company. It was signed by a Mr K. Whitmarsh, and was quite uncompromising. Either I immediately paid a £10 bill for repairs to the central heating system in my house, or else I would be prosecuted with the full rigour of the law.

Since my central heating system is powered entirely by oil, the situation was fraught with interest at once. Rather wanting to see what would happen, I sent a cheque for £10, with a letter of inquiry. The results were remarkable. I had, on successive days:

1 A letter from Mr Whitmarsh, saying that I probably didn’t owe the £10.

2 A second letter from Mr Whitmarsh, saying that I certainly didn’t owe the £10.

3 A refund of my £10.

4 A second refund of the same £10.

5 A second Final Demand.

This struck me as being rather curious, and I began making investigations far and wide. Evidently quite a number of people had heard from Mr Whitmarsh in the same vein, some justifiably and others not. I christened him Twitmarsh, a name by which he is still generally, if not affectionately, remembered.

All in all, it set me thinking. What if Mr Twitmarsh’s letter had landed on the doorstep of an old-age pensioner of modest means and nervous disposition? And anyway, why should the great British public be pushed around by Twitmarsh or any other Twitmarshes? We are not ruled directly by Parliament, but by minor officials – Bureaucrats of all descriptions, safely embraced in the arms of the Civil Service, with immunity from dismissal and nice, inflation-proof pensions. Unfortunately they hold all the cards, particularly since they can always retire behind a cloak of anonymity if things get really hot.

Of course, there are exceptions. Do you remember the Crichel Down scandal of more than half a century ago? An open piece of legal skulduggery, involving the compulsory purchase of land belonging to one Commander Marten and its subsequent sale by the Civil Service at a vast profit, was taken to the highest levels, and led to the eventual resignation of the minister concerned, whose name I forget. But not everyone has the courage, the skill, or – more importantly – the financial resources of Commander Marten, and lesser mortals have no choice but to give in meekly.

Unless, of course, we can do something about it.

I thought that Twitmarsh must have been in a class of his own so far as the Gas Board was concerned. But not so! A year later I had a brusque Final Demand from the North Thames Gas Company. This time it was for £865.47, and concerned the installation of gas central heating in a building in Lowndes Street, SW1. Again I was baffled. The letter was signed not by the Mr Twitmarsh (who had moved on to higher things, and wasn’t in the North Thames orbit anyway), but by a Mr W. Bonney.

I could have played it gently, and upon reflection I wish I had. In fact, I admit that for once in my life I became cross. Mr letter back began: ‘Dear Mr Bonney: I realise that Gas Board officials are notoriously thick as well as rude, but for sheer dithering incompetence your letter is unrivalled in my experience.’ I continued along the same lines, pointing out that I had never heard of Lowndes Street, and that the entire gas supply in my country home consisted of a small stove upon which I occasionally boiled a kettle.

I then telephoned, and elicited some useful information. Fortunately I was put through to a junior clerk, who was not accustomed to such contretemps, and who blurted out the whole story. First, although the letter was signed ‘W. Bonney’, not ‘p.p. W. Bonney’, it was not Mr Bonney who had signed it; he was away on sick leave, and the signature had been written by a Miss Whitty in the same department. There really was someone of my name in Lowndes Street, and he did owe £865.47, but it wasn’t me. Not being sure whom to chase, Miss Whitty had consulted the current edition of Who’s Who, looked up the first person of that name – who happened to be me – and launched her Final Demand.

The next person I contacted was Mr Gadd, the Chairman of North Thames Gas. After considerable difficulty I got through to him on the telephone, and put him abreast of the situation. The next part of the conversation went like this:

Me: Well, what is the explanation?

Mr Gadd: It was a mistake in our computer department. It was an administrative slip-up by a senior employee.

Me: Oh, no, it wasn’t. It was a slip-up by your Miss Whitty. Didn’t you know?

Mr Gadd: Gulp.

Further researches showed me that the real owner of the Lowndes Street premises had departed for Spain. I last heard of him in Madrid, and whether Mr Gadd and Miss Whitty ever caught up with him I do not know. But there are several much more serious aspects of the whole aspect.

An O.A.P. receiving a threatening demand of that kind would possibly have a heart attack. I was not in the least alarmed – but I am not of a nervous disposition, I was not an O.A.P. at the time and I am not penniless. As soon as my initial annoyance had passed, I could see the funny side of it. But the clanger was even worse than Twitmarsh’s, and if it is typical (as may well be the case) then something ought to be done. Moreover, how did Miss Whitty come to sign the letter ‘W. Bonney’? Signing other people’s names without a ‘per pro’ is not exactly within the law, and even Mr Gadd could not deny that this was what Miss Whitty had done. (Whether he would have told me had I not found it out independently, it is not for me to say!)

Somehow or other, Gas Boards always seem to be edging their way into the news. During the early autumn of 1980, for instance, Southern Gas put up a truly superb performance at Emsworth in Hampshire, a pleasant little village near the coast. Their workmen dug a large hole, twenty-five feet across, on the west side of one of the main streets, and left it there, ostensibly because they were laying a new main. Nothing more happened for over a month, and since the hole was right in the middle of the main shopping area, all pedestrians had to thread their way around it. Presently it became a sort of rubbish dump, and was filled with miscellaneous bric-a-brac, together with weeds sprouting in all directions. People complained, but the Gas Board remained silent. Mr Mike Hewish, director of a house furnishing firm, was particularly badly off, since the hole was slap in his way. He persisted in his inquiries, but with no result. Mr Hewish then fell into the hole. After another month, a Gas Board spokesman explained that the two workmen assigned to the task had been away on sick leave.

Note that the statement was issued by ‘a spokesman’. These gentlemen always prefer to stay strictly in the background, and it should be the public’s task to ferret them out. Gas Boards in general are, it seems, a haven for Twitmarshes. Moreover, in a country with over two million unemployed, it seems a little strange that the local officials were unable to find two other people competent to fill in a hole. Remember, gas prices have risen out of all belief over the years.

Not that Gas Boards are alone. Electricity Boards have their Twitmarshes too. They have a delightful little habit of sending deliberately inflated bills to O.A.P.s who haven’t paid up promptly, the idea being that it will frighten them – and it does. (We have here a symptom of the unpleasant species known as the Bureaukraut, of whom more anon.)

Next, consider the Post Office Telephone Service. These Twitmarshes send out bills which cannot possibly be checked, so the luckless subscriber has no option but to take the demands on trust, which is always a dangerous thing to do. When one can make a firm check, it is often found that the demands are a good deal too high, but checks are now becoming more and more difficult to make – the G.P.O. sees to that, not because of deliberate chiselling, but because Post Office officials depend entirely upon computers, and can’t be bothered to work things out for themselves.

Neither are telephone men invariably co-operative. For instance, in October 1980 (again!), an elderly and frail couple in Southbourne, Mr and Mrs Thompson, asked for the faulty cable to their bedside telephone to be repaired. In mending the fault, the Post Office engineer shortened the cable, so that the telephone came to rest on the far side of the room, and Mr and Mrs Thompson had to climb out of bed to answer it. When they complained, the inevitable spokesman said that the house was registered for one telephone only, so nothing could be done. Under the circumstances, it was rather odd that the Thompsons had been paying rental for two telephones for several years …

There is, of course, an Ombudsman, whose duties are to protect the public from unfair dealing by Twitmarshes and other officials. It is fair to say that the Ombudsman has as much real power as a raspberry blancmange, and even when he comes down in favour of the victim (as he often does), nothing ever happens.

Let me repeat that the Twitmarshes hold all the aces, as well as the kings, and most of the queens as well. The general public has no conventional redress. Which means that other methods must be adopted, and must remain strictly within the law.

The method I propose, therefore, is quite simple.

MAKE THE BRUTES WORK.

The present slim volume is a preliminary study only. But, as I have said in the Dedication, if it makes the lives of Twitmarshes even the tiniest bit more difficult, it will have more than served its purpose.