Dear Minister,
I'm in the process of renewing my passport but I am at a total loss to understand or believe the hoops I am being asked to jump through.

How is it that Bert Smith of T.V. Rentals, Basingstoke, has my address and telephone number and knows that I bought a satellite dish from them back in 1994, and yet, the Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date?

How come that nice West African immigrant chappy who comes round every Thurs [...]

Dear Minister,
I'm in the process of renewing my passport but I am at a total loss to understand or believe the hoops I am being asked to jump through.

How is it that Bert Smith of T.V. Rentals, Basingstoke, has my address and telephone number and knows that I bought a satellite dish from them back in 1994, and yet, the Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date?

How come that nice West African immigrant chappy who comes round every Thursday night with his DVD rentals van can tell me every film or video I have had out since he started his business up eleven years ago, yet you still want me to remind you of my last three jobs, two of which were with contractors working for the government?

How come the T.V. detector van can tell if my T.V. is on, what channel I am watching 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.
Do you people do this by hand?

You have my birth date on numerous files you hold on me, including the one with all the income tax forms I've filed for the past 30-odd years. It's on my health insurance card, my driver's licence, on the last four passports I've had, on all those stupid customs declaration forms I've had to fill out before being allowed off the planes and boats over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable census forms that are done every ten years and the electoral registration forms I have to complete, by law, every time our lords and masters are up for re-election.

Would somebody please take note, once and for all, I was born in Maidenhead on the 4th of March 1957, my mother's name is Mary, her maiden name was Reynolds, my father's name is Robert, and I'd be absolutely astounded if that ever changed between now and the day I die!

I apologise Minister. I'm obviously not myself this morning. But between you and me, I have simply had enough! You mail the application to my house, then you ask me for my address. What is going on? Do you have a gang of Neanderthals working there? Look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin Laden? I don't want to activate the Fifth Reich for God's sake! I just want to go and park my weary backside on a sunny, sandy beach for a couple of week's well-earned rest away from all this crap.

Well, I have to go now, because I have to go to back to Salisbury and get another copy of my birth certificate because you lost the last one. AND to the tune of 60 quid! What a racket THAT is!! 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 place like chickens with our heads cut off, then find some tosser to confirm that it's really me on the damn picture - you know... the one where we're not allowed to smile in in case we look as if we are enjoying the process!
Hey, you know why we can't smile? 'Cause we're totally jacked off!

I served in the armed forces for more than 25 years including over ten years at the Ministry of Defence in London. I have had security clearances which allowed me to sit in the Cabinet Office, five seats away from the Prime Minister while he was being briefed on the first Gulf War and I have been doing volunteer work for the British Red Cross ever since I left the Services. However, I have to get someone 'important' to verify who I am -- you know, someone like my doctor...
who, before he got his medical degree 6 months ago WAS LIVING IN PAKISTAN...

Yours sincerely,
An Irate British Citizen.

Prince Charles decided to take up jogging.

Every day, he'd jog past a hooker standing on the same street corner.
He learned to brace himself as he approached her for what was almost certain to follow.

"One hundred and fifty pounds!" she'd shout from the curb.
"No! Five pounds!" He would fire back, just to shut her up.

This ritual between him and the hooker became a daily occurrence.
He'd run by and she'd [...]

Prince Charles decided to take up jogging.

Every day, he'd jog past a hooker standing on the same street corner.
He learned to brace himself as he approached her for what was almost certain to follow.

"One hundred and fifty pounds!" she'd shout from the curb.
"No! Five pounds!" He would fire back, just to shut her up.

This ritual between him and the hooker became a daily occurrence.
He'd run by and she'd yell, "One hundred and fifty pounds!"
He'd yell back, "Five pounds!"

One day, Camilla decided that she wanted to accompany her husband on his jog.

As the jogging couple neared the working woman's street corner, Prince Charles realised she'd bark her 150 pound offer and Camilla would wonder what he'd really been doing on all his past outings.
He figured he'd better have a good explanation for his wife.

As they jogged into the turn that would take them past the corner, he became even more apprehensive than usual.
Sure enough, there was the hooker.



He tried to avoid the prostitute's eyes as she watched the pair jog past.

Then, from her corner, the hooker yelled, "See what you get for five pounds, you tight bastard?!"