I have just been informed that UK Inland Revenue wants my ass. I got an SMS from my housemate in London who says they are charging me GBP 100 for not completing my tax returns. For crying in a bowl of cornflakes!
Perhaps I asked for it … but I am just so naive when it comes to matters of a financial, or even numerical nature. I want to tell them to make like a polisiekar and VOKAF.
It is simply ANOTHER reason why Mud Island STINKS. I have LEFT that building, just let me be. Stop hounding me. Fair enough, I will do the return and I will pay the 100 smacker penalty. Yet that, apparently, is not enough.
I also have to fill in a ‘leaving’ form and dispatch it via the postal system to stop them from continuing to send me future demands of my 2029/2030 tax returns, even though I have not worked a day since December 2006. Let alone not having even set foot on a miserable tube full of ponging, pasty, newspaper-reading, form-loving, Royal Mail-worshipping, flapjack-eating POMS.
Imagine I didn’t fill in the leaving form. I can picture some revenue clerk named Winterbottom (with a form fettish), wearing the same brown suit since the day he bought it at a Debenhams January sale in 1983, with Earl Grey-stained teeth and Tesco cream cake wrappers cluttering his desk, deriving great joy as he robotically types out annual letters addressed to me until reaching his retirement age. DESPITE getting no response, as time drags on, the penny still won’t drop.
Perhaps he’ll hum as he licks and seals the envelopes year after year thinking some day, I’ll eventually cave in and send him a UK tax return although I will have been neither living nor working there for 23 years.
They crave mail, not email, but envelopes that they can open with a letter opener. This qualifies as the only viable proof of anything. The printed, physically transported word is gospel. The emailed word, and even the spoken word over the telephone to these people has about as much credibility as Busta Rhymes giving a seminar on flower arranging.
Anyway. In keeping with last week’s happy theme, I am actually not mortally wounded by this.
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7 comments:
Aaah, see, I have all my faith in my Comedic Finance Minister, that it is actually dear Trevor licking those stamps on this side. And how can one NOT oblige dear Trevor.
But a man in a crusty old brown suit. I feel your pain. And also...should you admit you have left, will it not be depriving this poor sad man of a life mission. You OWE it to him to run from him for 23 more years!
Champs, you are so magnanimous. Yes, sod the leaving form - I will at least brighten some other soul's life.
:)
Ah man. It's sad when the mail we get these days is either from the Reader's Digest (they found my address - how lucky am I?) or bills, tax returns and the likes.
Good luck doll. Also - are you bovvered? (Loved the post below!)
Peas, hi skat. Ja no look, in Dubai you get a lot of Thai takeaway menus in the post.
Nah, can't say I'm too bovvid right now. It's the weekend and I have just blown a small fortune on a pair of black patent leather heels :)
Omigod, I hear you! For a first world country, they do struggle with the idea of a paper/wireless world.
Hi, newsflash: you are no longer a super-power and skew teeth are not quaint. Deal wiff it.
Oh Koekie, will we ever recover from our days living in a chav paradise?
At least it makes us appreciate neighbours who can actually pronounce a 'th' sound.
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