Beaurocracy - Updated

Fuck oath.
I am learning one thing about living in London.
Terry Gilliams film Brazil, should have been called England.
What a fucking palarva!
Every time I need to get something official done, it takes about 63 phone calls and 19 attempts to get it done.
What a fucking disaster.
I spent 3 hours on the phone in the last 12 hours simply trying to transfer money from Australia to the UK.
I am sitting at home awaiting my ATM card to turn up, because they have to hand it right to me (Barklays - listen - there's no money in the account!!! Who does it matter who you hand it to???)
But the fact that I have a funny street address means that they have to call me before they arrive and the lazy cunts wont do that.
Which means I have to call back and get them to send it again...
What a pain in the fucking arse.
However, I feel very clever after drawing this picture.

Update:
Well I hate to think of myself as the cleverest man in the world but I predicted every single thing that would happen and it did.
Here is the main problem with where I am living.
I am sure it happens all over London so it don't imagine it's that unusual.
My street address is actually a business.
The block of flats is in an alleyway out the back.
Anyone coming to officially deliver something will not find a resident at the place we are required to give as our address.
So if something is being delivered that has to be handed to an actual person (such as my ATM card that has to be given to me) the driver needs to call and say "Oi, I'm here".
Lo and behold - despite 3 reassurances that I'd get a phone call from the driver I receieved none, and spent another day waiting all day long for a package that didn't arrive.
I called my bank to have it delivered there directly for me to pick up, but guess what!???
They can't just do that for me.
I have to GO TO THE FUCKING BANK!!!
What the fuck is that about???!!!!!
I then did something that I used to do a lot, but don't much anymore.
I lost my temper and ranted and raged.
I called the useless little tick from the delivery company and emptied a string of Australian abuse down the line.
He was very polite about it.
Then I bellowed filthy words out of the window for a few minutes.
Then I took myself to our dangerously close local and drank 3 scotches.
This is the dangerously close local.
And Australians - the jokes we make about the warm beer is true.