Going Postal

Yes, I know, "Going Postal" is the title of an extremely funny Disc World novel by the incomparable Terry Pratchett (if you haven't read it, do so without delay), and I am a little reluctant to blaspheme the great man's work by using it as the title for a rant.

But I'm going to, because, after this afternoon's hassle, I can quite see how less temperately inclined folks might harbour slightly uncivilised thoughts towards the Post Office. This tale begins several days ago, when they attempted to deliver a package to an elderly gentleman.

Sadly, the old chap was out, and a note was pushed through his door advising him that his package would be kept at the sorting office, and that he could request delivery by telephone. This he did, and was assured that his eagerly awaited parcel would arrive the next day.

Needless to say, it did not. Nor, despite further telephonic assurances, did it arrive the next day. Being the nice guy that I am, I offered to visit the sorting office and collect it for him today. Fully appreciating that postmen have occasionally been overtaken by speeding snails, I waited until midday, lest it was still in transit from yesterday's absent delivery. This, I judged, would give postie ample chance to deliver today, and leave me an hour to get up to the sorting office, which closes its doors to the public at 13:00, lest he did not.

Unsurprisingly, the parcel failed to materialise, and I set off on what I thought would be a very short trip to the sorting office. Having threaded my way through the labyrinthine industrial estate in which the office is cunningly concealed, I presented the delivery card to the guy behind the counter, only to be told, "Ahhh, no mate. That's not 'ere. It's at the Post Office. Third one on the trot, this - got a new lad on, 'es used the wrong cards. Sorry."

Well, these things happen, so I accepted his apology with good grace and toddled off to the Post Office, which is a couple of miles away from the sorting office. Have you been in a busy main post office at lunch time recently? It's packed out - a long queue winds its way to the door, populated with plodding pensioners, young mothers gossiping while their screaming kids run amok unheeded, people trying to buy their road tax or figure out exactly how much it is to send a large letter to Sheffield and, at the back of the line, me.

With relief I eventually reached the counter and handed over the delivery card to the woman behind it, only to be told, "No, luv, that's not 'ere. It's at the sorting office. See, it sez so 'ere on the card." She helpfully held the card up and pointed at the offending address as, with rapidly evaporating patience, I told her that I knew that, I'd been there, and they'd sent me here. "New lad," I said confidently, "used the wrong card. It's here."

Apparently satisfied, the lady pottered off into the back, only to return empty handed some minutes later. "It's not 'ere luv. I've bin on the phone. It's at the sorting office, like I said." It was now 12:55, and I pointed out that the sorting office closed at 13:00. "It's OK luv," the ever obliging lady behind the counter said. "'Ee said 'ee'd wait for you if you're going now." Aha! Customer service! Thanking her, I rushed out, hopped back in the car, and, feeling like a yoyo, trundled back to the sorting office.

Despite unexpected roadworks, I arrived there by 13:03, and was dismayed to see the guy who I'd spoken to earlier yomping rapidly away up the road, obviously in a hurry to get home. Gritting my teeth, I refused to give up and tried the office door. Locked, of course. But, there, in the loading bay, I spied another guy.

I could see he was busy having a quiet smoke, and while I fully appreciate that these things need to happen in any civilised society, my patience was at an end. I approached, thrust the delivery card under his cigg, and asked to speak to someone about it. "We're shut. Close at one, mate."

AGGGGHHHHH. I explained to this gentleman that I already knew that, had been here once already, had been sent to the Post Office, sent back, and that the now-vanished counter attendant had promised to wait for me. The guy sighed, tossed his smoke aside and took the card from me. "Ahhh, it's the new lad. He's using the wrong cards. Only found out today. He's on another walk - bet he's doing the same there. Sorry."

Off he went with my card, and seconds later I was clutching the errant parcel. I was so relieved to have finally caught up with it that I didn't bother to question how it came to be there at all if, as I had been told, the new lad was indeed using the wrong cards. In fairness, though, despite my irritation and needless bouncing up and down along various major roads, through industrial estates and around diversions, everyone I dealt with was polite and, insofar as was possible, helpful - except, perhaps, the escaped counter guy.

But this chaos just should not happen - a system as vast, sophisticated and damned expensive as the Post Office should not, in this day and age, be thrust into chaos by a new guy apparently using the wrong cards. Of course, trainees in all jobs make mistakes. It's expected, and the system should be able to cope with it.

Plainly it can't, and I dread to think how many more lost souls are trundling to and fro between sorting office and Post Office, frantically chasing phantom parcels. What about those who don't have their own transport, or are unable to get to the sorting office for other reasons? Ringing them obviously doesn't help, and I foresee a number of items being returned to sender purely because the intended recipient can't find out where they are.

It just isn't good enough, and, coming on the eve of a national postal strike, is a perfect demonstration of why these guys should not be allowed another penny. Organise (or privatise) the system, turn it back into the proud and efficient organisation that the Post Office once was, and folks may be willing to pay - until then, pay cuts all round sounds like a good idea to me.

Billy Seggars

Diplomatic Immunity

A few days ago, I mentioned the rumpus caused by the use of patio heaters to sidestep the impending smoking ban, and pointed out that people will go to great lengths to get around unpopular legislation.

My congratulations, and full marks for ingenuity, have to go to Mr Bob Beech, landlord of the Wellington Arms pub in Freemantle, Southampton. Mr Beech wants to turn his pub into the official British embassy of a far-flung Caribbean island that I, for one, have never heard of. In doing so, his establishment would be exempt from the ludicrous ban to be imposed on July 1.

Of course, it's unlikely that he will be allowed to succeed in his valiant attempt, but that should not discourage other enterprising souls from finding ways to thwart this unwelcome interference in the public's freedom of choice.

Any and all legal means of sticking two fingers up to those Health Fascists who think they can impose their obsessively draconian views upon the rest of us should be enthusiastically welcomed and supported. Uncivilised expressions of displeasure aside, however, I strongly suspect that the powers that be may have seriously underestimated the strength of public opinion on this point. It will be interesting to see just how far the beleaguered smokers will go in defence of their rights - watch this space!

Billy Seggars

Last Post

So, a national postal workers' strike, planned for Friday, is now "inevitable", eh? Well, I'm glad the Guardian has made that public, or I may never have noticed.

Not too long ago, the Royal Mail was a fine British institution, run with military precision, upon which you could absolutely rely. I have fond memories of passing the local sorting office (now, sadly, abandoned) at 7:00AM each day, and being impressed - and, I admit, slightly amused - as a small army of heavily laden postmen burst forth.

Shiny red paintwork gleaming on their official bicycles, their pristine uniform trousers held in check by cycle clips (no tucking of legs in socks here!) the mounted vanguard would proceed across the car park in tight formation, before dispersing to their individual rounds at the gate. In their wake came the foot soldiers, marching on to their walks with pride and vigour.

This ritual happened at least twice a day, Monday to Friday, regular as clockwork - you could pretty much set your watch by the time the post arrived. Postie was a valued part of the local community, knowing most of their customers by name, correctly delivering even poorly addressed mail to its eager recipient. They were a welcome, friendly face who often kept a helpful eye on the elderly and infirm.

What the hell happened? These days, there is just one domestic delivery per day, and that could be at just about any time - my post arrives at seemingly random times from early morning to late afternoon, if it arrives at all. What use is that in the modern age, where more and more people are being encouraged to work from home?

As for the individuals employed to actually shove letters through doors - are these people trained, at all? Are they even trainable? What part of a damn great "DO NOT BEND" sign, printed on a stiffened cardboard envelope, do they not understand? Apparently all of it, for, despite the practical difficulty of actually bending this resistant piece of post, and then of forcing it through my fairly narrow letterbox in its deformed state, this happens to me with depressing regularity.

And then there's the issue of house numbers, road names and post codes. As I understand it, the purpose of these fairly simplistic devices is to enable postie to actually deliver mail to the correct address. Why, then, do I regularly get mail intended for destinations in which all elements of the address - recipient's name, house number, road and postcode - bear no resemblance to my own? I might be a little more forgiving if these items arrived in splendid isolation, but they are usually accompanied by a raft of correctly addressed bills. Is it beyond the wit of modern postpeople to notice this?

Uniforms. Well, I say uniforms, but, by definition, the concept of uniforms means that all posties should be dressed alike, and, one would hope, with a degree of care. The randomly various individuals who inexpertly thrust random pieces of mail in the general direction of my letterbox tend to more closely resemble the losers in an Oxfam trolley dash.

Add to this the ever-increasing cost of stamps - 34p for a first class stamp, which doesn't even guarantee next-day delivery!! - and the byzantine new system for deciding how much it actually costs to post a letter, and I'm not at all surprised that the Royal Mail is in terminal decline. Who actually needs it? All they do is deliver bills, junk mail and letters for people I've never heard of, several days after the sender could reasonably have expected them to arrive.

Most of my communication is done by email and fax, purely because the Royal Mail is so unfailingly inept - if I need to send a package, I use a courier, which is often cheaper than the postal service anyway. So postie is going on strike. Foolish people. Do they not realise that the service they provide is so dire that most people are more than happy to seek alternatives, and absence of that service is just one more reason to look elsewhere?

No, of course not. If they can't find the right address, they're unlikely to correctly recognise their own foot as they shoot themselves in it, are they? Privatise the lot em, I say - maybe then we'll get back to a service that actually works.

Billy Seggars

Net Benefit

Yesterday, the Sunday Telegraph ran a story under the headline Internet spreads terror to Britain, which did a fair job of spreading a different kind of terror all of its own.

I have no doubt that dozens of rabidly anti-western Muslim terrorists are, indeed, using the net to plan and implement their malignant schemes, as the Telegraph suggests. It would be foolish of them not to use technology in this way, and even more foolish of those whose job it is to catch them to ignore the trend.

So far, so humdrum, and I take no issue with the story being reported, even though it shouldn't come as any great surprise to anyone. I am, however, rather concerned by the way the Internet is depicted in the article. The first paragraph reads, "It is 11pm on Tuesday and Omar Bakri Mohammed's loyal band of followers hunch over computers and laptops at secret locations across Britain to listen to his defiant message to the west."

It goes on to mention a "secretive internet chat room", and adds "Bakri and his followers had their discussion on a webcast. The webcasts can run several times a week, and up to 70 people a night log in, each with an individual password."

A little later, after proudly mentioning a week-long (only a week - they didn't have to look very hard, did they?) "investigation" into the spread of Islamic militancy on the Internet, the article says, "We discovered extremists posting messages and images on a recently established, password-protected pro-Islamist site. It is on sites like this that Bakri's broadcasts are referred to openly, with advice on what time they begin and even requests not to "arrive" in the chatroom late. There are also dozens of photographs celebrating, among others, Osama bin Laden, and a tasteless message expressing "amusement" at photographs of American soldiers killed by terrorists."

And so it continues. What's wrong with that, I hear you cry. Well, in itself, noting very much - I'm sure the article is factually spot on. But, as I have found from my day job, the vast majority of people know approximately nothing about the Internet. Oh sure, many (though by no means all) of them can read a web site and send an email, but that's about the extent of their ability.

They are vaguely aware of things like MSN Messenger, but have no clue about IRC, Usenet and the raft of other services available online. Worse, thanks to articles like that in the Telegraph, they dimly perceive their own ignorance, and they are uneasy.

In the past few days, I've noticed a small flurry of articles along similar lines. Last week it was the repulsive case of Timothy Cox, who ran a global child abuse network through a UK based website. What parent - or, indeed, any reasonable person - could avoid being sickened by his actions, or pleased by headlines like, "Paedophile ring smashed by police," and quite rightly, too! But the story, and its references to the Internet, cannot have done anything to dispel the negative impressions that are gathering around the most effective communication medium ever invented.

Today, it's a story about how up to 80 schoolchildren, some as young as 11, used the Internet to plan a fight, intending to turn up wielding chains, iron bars and various other implements. Again, this in itself is nothing new - kids from rival schools / groups have always done this sort of damn stupid thing. It's the use of the Internet that makes the story newsworthy, and adds a further tweak to the clockwork of unease for those who are easily led by media innuendo.

Such smouldering unease, fanned by articles portraying the net as some shadowy, ethereal underworld filled with terrorists and every other kind of unsavoury character, can quickly erupt into the blazing inferno of fear - fear of the worst kind, fear of the unknown.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what happens when people are afraid. They demand, often quite vociferously, using a loudhailer and placards, that "something MUST be done!". And guess what? Something WILL be done. Politicians don't like the Internet, for obvious reasons; it's far too easy for Joe Public to set up a website or blog and say exactly what he (or, in this politically correct era, She) thinks.

Of course, only a few days ago, in his scathing attack on the media, Tony Blair dismissed the Internet as being filled with conspiracy theorists, and, to some degree, he might have a point. But it is also alive with ordinary, everyday people who are sick to the teeth with being ignored, fobbed off and dismissed when they try to raise concerns.

Take Holt School, in Wokingham, Berkshire, for example. Fed up with waiting for the local council to do something about the dilapidated, rotting buildings in which its pupils are expected to study, the school has made pictures of its disintegrating infrastructure freely available on the Internet. Conspiracy theorists? I think not.

Naturally, faced with this unprecedented upsurge in people using (rather than just having) their right to free speech, a politician's response is entirely predictable; it must be regulated, controlled and, ultimately, prevented. But how to do it? How do you go about putting paid to something that people in their droves are already using to shine an unwelcome spotlight on your schemes?

Perhaps by creating an environment in which people actively want, and even demand, regulation? By subtly suggesting, perhaps, that some things are afoot that folks should be afraid of? Like terrorism? Or child abuse? Massage enough stories like that into the media, drip-fed into the minds of genuinely concerned people who think that they don't have enough knowledge of their own to protect themselves and their children, and you will create a clamour for regulation.

The more easily led members of society will form pressure groups, they will campaign, they will set up websites, they will agitate and harass and demand until the government bows down to "public opinion" and takes away their right to do so.

Paranoia, you think? Guess again. Coming full circle, yesterday's Sunday Telegraph also ran an article under the headline "Censors want 18 ratings on internet." Again, in theory, I have no problem with keeping kids away from porn. As a practical matter, it's going to be a bit more difficult that slapping an 18 rating on a website, though. Besides, what about websites from overseas that don't have to follow our legislation? And what else, other than porn, might be considered for such regulation, either now or in the future?

As anyone with any clue about how the Internet works will know, this crackpot scheme hasn't a hope in hell of doing what it's intended to do, nor could it ever have such a hope. It is, however, another step along the slippery slope to Internet regulation. The terminally inept Mr Blair may be packing his bags and leaving Downing St., but his successor, eager to move in from next door, is far from inept, allegedly ruthless and doesn't take at all kindly to criticism. How long will it be before he tries to prevent blogs like this one from pointing out his flaws? I give it 18 months at most.

Billy Seggars.

MTAS Madness

The bandwagon of self-pity surrounding the MTAS fiasco rumbles ever onwards, with news today that one in five junior doctors questioned in a survey has experienced suicidal thoughts in connection with the shambolic recruitment scheme.

Now don't get me wrong here, I think the whole MTAS cock-up is as appalling as the next man, and should be a resigning matter for Patricia Hewitt, at least. But the findings of this survey from the Royal College of Psychiatrists, authored, in part, by Professor Dinesh Bhugra, Dean of the College, are at least as disturbing as their alleged cause.

If these findings are to be believed, of the 600 junior docs questioned so far, one in five has considered suicide, 94% are more stressed than normal, one third say they have made more mistakes at work than normal, two fifths say they care less about patient care, a third admitted to drinking more than normal and a quarter have taken more sick leave than normal.

Let's summarise that: we have a whole bunch of pissed up, pissed off junior doctors, who are making mistakes, pulling sickies, don't care about the impact on patients and wouldn't mind topping themselves. And the majority of these apathetic whingers attribute the cause to the hassles of the recruitment process.

Well, I've got news for you, boys and girls - welcome to the real world. Life is a stressful business, doctoring even more so. Nobody forced you into your so-called caring profession, you chose it yourselves. And while I agree that those in charge of the health service, by and large, couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery (you'd know all about that, eh?), this is hardly breaking news.

Far from it, in fact. The distressing state of the health service, and the unfortunate working conditions imposed on junior doctors, has been making headlines for at least the last decade - long before any of you were even taking your A' Levels, let alone getting into medical school. Did you do any research into your prospective careers, at all? Did you wonder whether the working conditions might be a bit crap? Or were you so smitten with the idea of being a doctor that you leapt in with both feet, only to find the water was a bit deeper, and a lot murkier than you'd bargained for?

Face it, guys, doctoring is a bloody stressful job, and not just for the immediately obvious reasons. If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen and let those juniors who can handle it fill the dismally meagre number of available posts.

As for those junior doctors who have produced the findings reported in the Royal College survey, I hope for your sakes that the survey was conducted anonymously, because that sort of behaviour sounds very much like the stuff referrals to the General Medical Council are made of.

The Council, as many people will know, is barely able to find its way out of a paper bag unaided, and, while being totally unable to handle concerns of a genuinely serious nature, is only too willing to make up for this incompetence by relentlessly pursuing the more easily understood complaints, regardless of their veracity. I should think drunken behaviour, failure to turn up for work and disregard for patient care would fall easily within their definitions of misconduct, and stress leading to suicidal thoughts might well interest their health assessors.

So, in the absence of any meaningful action from the Department of Health, here's my suggestion on how to alleviate the whole recruitment crisis:

Those of you who can't cut it, resign. Those who won't resign should be shipped off to the GMC and struck off for being a disgrace to the medical profession. The rest of you, with whom, believe it or not, I sympathise greatly, will then have a far better chance of finding one of those dodo-droppings-like jobs, and the public will have a fair chance of getting reasonable medical care from a junior doctor who isn't drunk, apathetic and suicidal.

Billy Seggars