Via Mike Rouse, who nicked it from an internet forum:
Dear Minister,
I’m in the process of renewing my passport, and still cannot believe this.
How is it that Dick Smith of T.V. Rentals Glasgow has my address and telephone number and knows that I bought a TV cable from them back in 1997, and yet, the Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date?
How come the T.V. detector van can tell if my T.V. is on and on what channel and whether I have paid my licence or not and yet if I win the government run lottery they have no idea I have won or where I am and will keep the bloody money to themselves if I fail to claim in good time.
For fucks sakes, do you guys do this by hand?
You have my birth date on my social security record, and it is on all the income tax forms I’ve filed for the past 30 years. It’s on my health insurance card, my driver’s licence, on the last eight bloody passports I’ve had, on all those stupid customs declaration forms I’ve had to fill out before being allowed off the planes over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable census forms that are done at election times.
Would somebody please take note, once and for all, that my mother’s name is Mary, my father’s name is Robert, and I’d be absolutely astounded if that ever changed between now and when I die!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
SHIT!
I apologize, Mr. Minister. I’m really pissed off this morning. Between you an’ me, I’ve had enough of this bullshit! You mail the application to my house, then you ask me for my friggin’ address. What is going on? You have a gang of Neanderthal arseholes workin’ there? Look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin Laden? I don’t want to dig up Yasser Arafat, for shit sakes. I just want to go and park my arse on a sandy beach.
Well, I have to go now, ’cause I have to go to back to Glasgow and get another friggin’ copy of my birth certificate, to the tune of 60 quid! Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot to assist in the issuance of a new passport the same day? But nooooo, that’d be too damn easy and maybe make sense. You’d rather have us running all over the friggin’ place like chickens with our heads cut off, then find some Arsehole to confirm that it’s really me on the goddamn picture — you know, the one where we’re not allowed to smile in?! Friggin’ morons!
Hey, you know why we can’t smile? ‘Cause we’re totally pissed off!
Signed - An Irate Fucking’ British Citizen.
P.S. Remember what I said above about the picture and getting someone to confirm that it’s me? Well, my family has been in this country since 1730 and obviously did not do a good enough job during the ‘45′ uprisings.
I have served in the armed forces for something over 30 years and have had security clearances up the yingyang. I was an aide to the Minister of Defence in London for ten years, and I have been doing volunteer work for the British Red Cross for about five years. However, I have to get someone “important” to verify who I am — you know, someone like my doctor WHO WAS BORN AND RAISED IN FUCKING PAKISTAN
I’m in the process of renewing my passport, and still cannot believe this.
How is it that Dick Smith of T.V. Rentals Glasgow has my address and telephone number and knows that I bought a TV cable from them back in 1997, and yet, the Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date?
How come the T.V. detector van can tell if my T.V. is on and on what channel and whether I have paid my licence or not and yet if I win the government run lottery they have no idea I have won or where I am and will keep the bloody money to themselves if I fail to claim in good time.
For fucks sakes, do you guys do this by hand?
You have my birth date on my social security record, and it is on all the income tax forms I’ve filed for the past 30 years. It’s on my health insurance card, my driver’s licence, on the last eight bloody passports I’ve had, on all those stupid customs declaration forms I’ve had to fill out before being allowed off the planes over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable census forms that are done at election times.
Would somebody please take note, once and for all, that my mother’s name is Mary, my father’s name is Robert, and I’d be absolutely astounded if that ever changed between now and when I die!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
SHIT!
I apologize, Mr. Minister. I’m really pissed off this morning. Between you an’ me, I’ve had enough of this bullshit! You mail the application to my house, then you ask me for my friggin’ address. What is going on? You have a gang of Neanderthal arseholes workin’ there? Look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin Laden? I don’t want to dig up Yasser Arafat, for shit sakes. I just want to go and park my arse on a sandy beach.
Well, I have to go now, ’cause I have to go to back to Glasgow and get another friggin’ copy of my birth certificate, to the tune of 60 quid! Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot to assist in the issuance of a new passport the same day? But nooooo, that’d be too damn easy and maybe make sense. You’d rather have us running all over the friggin’ place like chickens with our heads cut off, then find some Arsehole to confirm that it’s really me on the goddamn picture — you know, the one where we’re not allowed to smile in?! Friggin’ morons!
Hey, you know why we can’t smile? ‘Cause we’re totally pissed off!
Signed - An Irate Fucking’ British Citizen.
P.S. Remember what I said above about the picture and getting someone to confirm that it’s me? Well, my family has been in this country since 1730 and obviously did not do a good enough job during the ‘45′ uprisings.
I have served in the armed forces for something over 30 years and have had security clearances up the yingyang. I was an aide to the Minister of Defence in London for ten years, and I have been doing volunteer work for the British Red Cross for about five years. However, I have to get someone “important” to verify who I am — you know, someone like my doctor WHO WAS BORN AND RAISED IN FUCKING PAKISTAN
