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Royal Mail Redeliveries

or, Why I'd Rather be Fucked up the Arse by a Syphilitic Wombat

Was the Royal Mail’s redelivery system yet another breathtakingly stupid invention of Crapita, or is it an in-house effort to make getting parcels and recorded mail about as fun as drinking a pint of Domestos?

Fundamentally, I don’t care. But I’d rather chug the pint of bog-bleach at this point. You may gather that I am somewhat aggrieved. Strap in, kids.

I’ll note that this is unrelated to privatisation. It was a fucking terrible service before the government sold Royal Mail off at a massive loss, it’s a fucking terrible service now. Only now their moral duty begins and ends at maximising shareholder revenue, rather than providing a public service. Just like the railways. Infrastructure privatisation: if you think it’s a good thing, you’re a fucking idiot with no job speaking about politics.

Here’s how things would work in a sane system:

Parcel isn’t delivered at day d0. Card comes through door. You then have three options.

  1. Go to the delivery office at or after the evening of d0. Collect parcel.
  2. Go online. Get told that you can book a redelivery to another address within the local area for any time on d1 – processing happens on d0, redelivery is flagged up before parcel goes out on d1.
  3. Go online. Book a redelivery to the local post office on d2 – processing happens on d0, delivery to post office happens at some point on d1, pickup on d2.

If it were only that simple.

Instead, 1 is only an option 24 hours after delivery. Even if you know that your postman returns all parcels by $FOO, you can’t collect them. It’s also contingent on being able to reach your local delivery office.

DO1 is located about four miles from my flat, and indeed from my entire top-level postcode. It’s a 45 minute bus ride. It also involves walking through a dodgy industrial estate that doesn’t have pavements in many areas, and where a rusty knife to the kidneys is a very real possibility in broad daylight, let alone after dark.

DO2 is about a mile from my flat. It’s a pleasant walk through a nice part of town, with places to stop and get a coffee literally 30 seconds from the door. If it’s pishing it down, it’s a 10 minute bus ride to the door. It’s as far from my flat as my workplace.

DO1 serves my flat despite being four times further away than DO2. DO2 serves my workplace. Because Royal Mail’s delivery office network doesn’t understand basic fucking geography I can’t get something that’s attempted delivery to my flat to my office.

Instead, I book online for a delivery to my local post office. This costs £1.50 because fuck you for not owning a car, that’s why. It arrives on d2 – I assumed processing on d1 even though the parcel’s in the goddamn DO on d0, delivery on d2, pick up any time.

Nope. Pick up any time after four fucking p.m. on d2. And pay for the privilege of having to wait a bastard age because fuck you for not owning a car.

This is as much fun to deal with as taking an unwrapped pack of Mentos as a suppository then applying a Diet Coke enema.

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