May God forgive me, but I paid the fine. I couldn’t fight them any more. Wearily, shamefully, I picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Good afternoon. Welcome to the London Borough of Lambeth. Your life may be ruined for quality and training purposes. Please press the star key on your keypad if you have any strength left in your fingers despite the onset of a small stroke at the thought of giving us yet another £60 for a non-existent parking offence.
‘Thank you. Please listen carefully to the following evils. If you cannot decide which is the lesser of the evils, please press zero at any time.
‘For extortion demands, press one. For street care and recycling fascism, press two. For left-wing propaganda about what will happen to you if you don’t put your wheelie bin in the right place at the right time, press three. For all other misery, please hold…
‘Thank you. You are now through to the extortions and blackmail department. Please press the star key on your keypad a further two times to let us know you are in a compliant mood and have given up all attempts to fight the system…
‘Now, please listen carefully to the following options, taking care not to swear because we are sitting here listening while eating Haribo and filing our nails and would be only too delighted to prosecute you for verbal abuse of a recorded voice.
‘To cave into an extortion demand, press one. To try to mount an entirely pointless attempt to appeal a trumped up motoring infringement, press two. To speak to a member of our parking and appeals adjudication team, please hold for ten minutes after which the line will either cut off or return you to the first set of options. That’s right, the ones at the beginning of your call. To listen to this nonsense again, please press nine. You weren’t expecting nine, were you? You were expecting three, because that would have been sequential and logical. Well, when it comes to what we jokingly call customer care, we like to keep it as illogical as possible. So, are you feeling lucky, punk? Well, are you?’
Plagued by a horrible feeling of betrayal, I pressed one. Have you no self-respect, Kite? I taunted myself. You told your readers two weeks ago you were going to fight this. And here you are pressing the little buttons and getting your debit card ready like a total and utter coward. I was ashamed. I really was.
‘Using the keypad on your telephone, please enter the long number on your debit or credit card, followed by a long howl of torment and shame…’
It’s not right. It’s just not right. I should be fighting. But I can’t fight. I must fight. I can’t fight.
‘Now, please enter the expiry date in four digits. For example, if you think the state’s relentless underhand demands for cash are going to drive you to suicide by June 2013, enter 0613…
‘Please enter the security code on the back of your card, followed by a last, ear-piercing wail of suffering…
‘Thank you. Unless the bank challenges this payment because it has discovered what a thoroughly illegal racket is going on, this extortion demand has now been cleared.
‘What would you like to do now? If you would like another going-over by left-wing maniacs, say, “I forgot to put my wheelie bin out.” If you would like to end it all, press five. Or simply hang up the receiver and take out that big, unopened bottle of sleeping pills you’ve had in your washbag since you went to the GP complaining you were nervous about your A-Levels.’
I chose to press five, just in case not ending the call formally by selecting an official option might lead to a fine. ‘You have chosen to end the call. Goodbye!’
Can I put the phone down now? How long should I wait? Maybe I should leave it a few seconds, so as not to seem rude. They might fine me if I hang up too abruptly. Then again, if I wait too long I might get fined for wasting their time. How many seconds has that been? Maybe it’s safe to hang up now. Or should I ask? Or maybe say something like, ‘Thank you for the fine. Very fair it was too. I’m hanging up now, but please don’t take that as an indication that I’m about to leave my car on a zigzag line for ten seconds. Goodness, no. I’m going straight out now to get on my organic bicycle. Yes. That’s after I put my black bin out, of course. Or not yet, because it’s a bit early. I’ll probably put it out at 8.01 p.m., in accordance with procedures…’
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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