Stampie is our postman.

He’s a grand lad, always with a bright comment and he seems to know everyone by first name [I wonder how he knows our names?].  When a twat by the name or Gorndad moved into the valley and called his house Hood Rumbles Manor it didn’t knock a feather out of Stampie’s cap.  I only discovered the existence of this Gorndad bloke when Stampie was on holidays and I started getting the twat’s letters and vice versa.  Stampie always gets things right though.

The odd time I might have a parcel delivered.  Stampie will ring the door bell and will always have some smart crack ready [“I see Herself has been on eBay again” or somesuch].  If my car is there but I don’t answer the doorbell, he’ll leave the parcel on the window ledge.  If it’s raining, he’ll stick a note in the door to say he has left the parcel with the neighbours or down the local shop.  By any yardstick, Stampie is a decent bloke.

He is on holidays for the last couple of weeks.

Now if anyone deserves a holiday, Stampie does, but we all dread this time.

The replacement is a right lazy gobshite of a bollix.

Yesterday I was expecting a parcel.  I had ordered on line and had received an email saying the parcel had been dispatched so I knew it would arrive yesterday morning.

I went about my business as usual yesterday and forgot all about the parcel.  At sometime after five, I remembered it, and went through to the front door to check.  Presumably Stampie hadn’t wanted to disturb me and had left the parcel on the window ledge?

No.

Stampie is still on his holidays and the little fuck of a replacement had decided it was too much trouble to ring a door bell.  He had posted a note instead informing me that there had been no one here when he called and if I wanted my parcel it was in Skobieville.  Now if he had pressed the doorbell I would have heard it because it is fucking loud.  The lazy little cunt just decided it would be easier if he didn’t deliver it.

Now normally I’m a reasonable bloke and not prone to bad language but I called the little cunt every fucking name I could think of under the sun.

Now I have two options.  I can either drive all the way into Skobieville on Monday and run the risk of having the car robbed, or I can ask them to redeliver it.  The latter sounds like a better option until you realise that the fucking bastards will charge a premium for that, which I refuse to pay.

There is a third option of course.

I wrote an mail to the manager and left him in no doubt whatsoever what I thought of his lazy. good for nothing little cunt of a postman, and how I wanted the parcel redelivered immediately with no extra charge.

I sent it by Interweb.

I don’t trust the post.