Bloody Germans

The German Post Office

If I was ever to be asked to give a percentage of any part of Germany that really infuriated me the most -- then I would dump all 99.9 per cent of it onto the German Post Office, and even more, onto their parcel delivery service.

When I first came over to Germany, their post office appeared on the surface to be a very busy and efficient service; on initial gaze, I was quite impressed. Unlike UK, the postman does not operate from one large main town or city post office sorting complex; distributing to every town or district that surrounds it for miles. In Germany, or at least in Hamburg, each main post office in every area, contains a kind of mini-sorting office that employs its own individual crew of postmen and women.

First thing in the morning, all the German post deliverers shoot out from their main post office on their bright yellow, specially designed for mail-carrying purposes, bicycles -- and dash off in just about every direction one could imagine. Both the front and rear of their bicycles, are piled up high with letters, magazines, packages and parcels in all shapes and sizes -- including pear-shaped!

 

During the morning and early afternoon, no matter where you go -- you will often see a bright yellow flash whizzing past you. It would be a German post office delivery person, with no time to stop and chat because, like the once famous American Pony Express, they have nothing else on their mind, but to get all of their mail delivered in record time; despite the weather -- and then hurry back to the post office in order to clock out much earlier than ever before, so’s they can rush off home again and have afternoon coffee und kuchen, or extra umpteen biers and piles of over-mustarded sausages.

In UK, the postman is far different from his German counterpart. In fact, I’ve often viewed English postman as having the most relaxing job in the world. A school-kid paper round is an excellent opportunity and forerunner towards early training in a career as a British Postman.; same kind of job, except with more houses and flats to attend to.

In England, it is commonly known for the postman to whistle a merry tune whilst making their deliveries. Many times, whilst living in Germany, I have sweet memories of a fresh early morning Spring back in England.

Where the sun is just breaking through scattered powdery clouds, to help dry out the beads of dew that lay adorned over bright green leaves on garden bushes and trees; each bush is often decorated further, by the twinkling of an array of magnificently designed rainbow coloured cobwebs.

What more could fill this most memorable and picturesque vision, other than to hear the added creak of an old rusty garden gate, when in walks a cheery postmen whistling out his merry tune. It was as if he was coming onto a stage -- our stage, to perform his cheery piece to brighten up each start of our day.

He whistles a kind of quick up n’ down, joyfully rising pattern of a five or six bar tune. It’s not a proper melody, but a harmony that is never whistled by anyone else, other than a friendly English postmen. A delightful little intermezzo that will cause even the garden birds to pause from their own little chirping sounds, and distract them from their morning worm tugging duties; they will stop, turn around and also listen in to the postman’s whistle.

And then, moments later, come the enchanting oncoming sounds from the souls of the postman’s boots, as he treads his way, lightly stepping onto the delicate crisp and crunchy grey and white stone chippings that lay impressively on our garden pathway. He continues his journey majestically; en-route to pop glorious tidings, greetings cards and brown windowed red-letter-last-warning bills, into our stiff but shiny brass or silver letter boxes.

He has no need to knock at our door to inform us of his glorious arrival; were all heard him coming long ago, when he delivered to the happy folks, next door.

It is such a enchanting picture. And in Britain, everybody says, “Good Morning!” to a friendly and trusty Postie -- even if he is somebody else’s Postie. It doesn’t matter, because he is a friend to us all. And whatever the day, the postman will always be sure to give us a big smile and a long-range weather forecast; if its a bright and sunny day, he’ll say..,

“You’d better make the most of it, because they say we’re in for some heavy showers later -- ‘might even snow!”

But if its a wet, cold and miserable day, he’ll festively shout out from the other side of the street..,

“Well, I told you so, didn’t I?”

That is how I used to see and like to remember, a Postman.

But in Germany, that image just does not exist at all -- and I don’t believe it ever has..,

A German Postman has no time to be so casual, frivolous and happy-go-lucky -- he probably doesn’t know any merry little tunes, and even if he did, he wouldn’t have the time to whistle any of them. If you can visualise a German postman, for the same amount of time that you would endear to an English postman -- then he wouldn’t be doing his job right; he’d be lazy -- so you probably wouldn’t visualise him ever again; he would be sent to that place where all lazy German postmen are sent -- and a place, you don’t wanna go there!

The only sounds that you might hear coming from a German postman, are the clumping thumping noises, that thud out from their well-worn and scuffed heavy thick-soled boots, as they rush up flight upon flight of stairways, moaning about either the seventeen storey building has no lift, or if it has -- it’s broken.., and why don’t they have a main letter box unit outside the main building; one box for each and every dweller, to save him -- not only his time and energy rushing up and down the marbled staircase, but also, to save him from ever having to have to see, or waste any of his precious delivery time, speaking to anybody!

A German postman is more equivalent to the British SAS; they arrive, move in, place the goods -- then quickly vacate the area without being noticed or captured. I feel sure that the German Post Office must also give them the same basic training; they must for each day, over a six month period, deliver fifty parcels and five hundred letters, without being seen by any member of the public -- but  if they are unfortunately spotted, then they are immediately tied up, gagged, then brought back to head office to re-begin day-one of their training.

An employee of the Deutsche Post AG, does not appear to be a happy soul either; they have no time to be happy because they endure too much pressure. A German postman appears to have far more mail to deliver and other extra duties to perform, than his British parallel. When the German postman first arrives at his designated post office, prior to actually doing his round, he has to first sort out his own deliveries. And as an extra part of his duties, he will also have to pay out a certain amount of cash now and then, for money orders or pensions to various addresses. In UK, these kinds of payouts are only done from behind a post office counter.

A British postman doesn’t carry such cash as part of his duties. He doesn’t even need to carry any for himself, as he gets his morning tea-break free of charge at several friendly house stops -- and rumour has it.. (looks left and right).., that sometimes.., he gets a little more at some stop-off’s -- than just hot sweet tea and chocolate biscuits!

In Britain, some call it tea and crumpet!

Also in Germany, more people tend to live in high-rise block dwellings, rather than ordinary street housing, as they mostly do in UK. So one address alone, can be fifty or more letter boxes for the postman to contend with. In quite a few cases, that problem is easily resolved, because a main unit of letter boxes are installed on the ground floor of the building, meaning all the postman has to do is pop in his fifty letters or more; one after the other -- without having to climb one step of the dreaded stairway.

Some of these main letter boxes are situated on the outside of the building, where the postman can insert all the mail to the correct boxes. The recipient then collects them from another opening on the other side; on the inside the building. However, in secure buildings, which is almost every block, where the main mailbox is situated right inside the building, the postman can only gain entrance with a key that has been provided, as a part of his round. Again, more time is wasted at these locations, with him having to fumble around looking for the right key, from a large massive heavy bundle.

Should a postman have to collect a signature for a registered letter, pay out some allowance -- or worse still, deliver a package too large to fit into the ground floor letter box -- and on top of that, there is not an elevator installed, then he must climb up the feared stairway, muttering --

“I bet the b*****d lives on the top floor on purpose!”

But even if there was a lift, it still brings on added pressure to the German postman, because he has to divert more or too much time and attention to that one building address -- and that adds on even more extra delay to his delivery round. His time is always exceedingly precious, that even when he is forced to knock on the door -- how long that person takes to answer the door and to even complete the transaction -- adds yet even more time retardation and brings further despair to the German postman, who really just wants to be 'In-like-Flinn' -- and out again to the next block of flats!

However, if things weren’t bad enough, much more of the German Postman’s torment has arisen since around 1995/96, when the service went into privatisation. The first delivery that privatisation brought, was a large redundancy package; thousands and thousands of postal workers were systematically laid off. Those who remained, had to take on the extra work of all those who were pushed out. For the postmen alone, each round was increased by at least twenty percent -- which amounted to a hell of a lot more deliveries of both letters and parcels.

This meant they had to both cycle and deliver at an even faster pace, if they wanted to finish around the same time each day as they once enjoyed pre-privatisation. But alas, despite everything, the postman’s working day still became longer; remember, his working day lasts as long as his last delivery, and he is rarely allowed full overtime rates. And he still had to invariably work a lot harder and go much faster, to prevent his working day from being excessively long and delivering his last letter around midnight.

He also had to consider.., that they might consider -- he was just not up to it and so needed to be hastily replaced.

This now meant that the pressure was always on and steadily rising for the poor German Postie. Which in turn, engendered him to be an even rarer species than an average Dodo, to be able to pause and gaze upon; he just became an even swifter flash of passing yellow.

But that’s not all.., now we come to their Parcel Post Service, the one that has really got me seething..,

Parcel Post Service

The German Parcel Post Service, for the customer; which includes me -- has also been seemingly devalued. And it just appears to me that nobody cares two hoots about it either -- least of all those who mysteriously operate it.

I say mysteriously, because there seems to be no simple or even knowledgeable route to complain; should one ever have good cause too, other than to go directly to your own postman or parcel delivery man -- if you can either see him, let alone catch him. If you felt a need to complain to someone higher in authority, then you would have to go through a long procedure of working your way through the system; being given numerous telephone numbers, one after the other at each rising level or port of call.

In the end, you either give up, or are fobbed off by somebody specially trained to fob you off -- but whatever they say, it amounts to..,

“There is not much I can do -- it’s somebody else’s fault -- can you ring back tomorrow when I am somebody else -- or quite simply -- I couldn’t give two sausages!!!”

One begins to understand why some people are driven slowly and  insanely towards terrorism!

I once sent a large parcel to my brother in Australia. I clearly wrote out his address in large black indelible ink; I couldn’t have written it any larger -- and it included my own sender’s address on the underside of the package. Prior to this, the enclosed goods were first inserted into a strong cardboard box -- taped up with masking tape, then wrapped around with a firm sheet of thick brown paper -- and then finally, wound ‘round again with more of that strong wide adhesive masking tape.

It would have taken a expert safecracker to open up my parcel, let alone my poor ham-fisted, all fingers and thumbs, helpless brother with his dinky plastic first-aid scissors.

(He always complains to me about how intensely I over-wrap his parcels, so I just used that little moment back there to get back at him.)

Well, that parcel was sent to him from Germany, over one and a half years ago.., and it has still not arrived. And for that matter, neither has it been returned to me. I have complained several times, but what’s the use; the only action I have ever encountered so far from the post office, is a shrug of two shoulders -- and I get just the same when I telephone them.

You may ask, how can I tell that he is doing that, when I am using a telephone?

Believe me, one knows.., you can feel it -- you can just bloody feel it; nobody knows and nobody cares!

As far as I am concerned, my parcel has either completely disintegrated into thin air, gone off with the fairies -- or some thievin’ git up the post office has ‘arf inched it!

(London rhyming slang; ‘arf inched; pinched -- knicked, thieved, had away on their toes --stolen)

My brother, living in the semi-populated island of Australia, and my mother back in dear old Blighty, have both sent me other parcels -- but a good number of them were simply returned back to them!

And not just once either, but on several occasions.

Attached to those returned parcels were little sticky-on notes in German, that translated into saying --

“Achtung!  The address is false and so ve cannot make the delivery -- so ve are Returning to Das Sender!”

In all cases, only the spelling of the address they had written was a little incorrect -- a letter like an R or an S, was left out, in either our name or address -- but never both at the same time.

In Germany, everybody is recorded and registered to where they reside; it is a requirement by law. That means, every name and accompanying address is on computer for many authorities, including the post office, to view as a kind of residential database. So if an address was in anyway unrecognisable; meaning a darn sight more than just one letter omitted -- then all other details, including -- either the name, or as much of the address as humanly possible, or even the postal code area number, they all could be keyed in -- and then, Hey Presto! The full and correct details of that person would pop up like magic, and be highlighted on a screen for even the most stupidest brain-sausage’d person to view.

A perfect system one might think, and again -- like many other perfect and well organised systems in Germany -- one we should also quickly adopt in Great Britain. But in Germany, or at least with their Post Office Parcel Delivery Service -- they never seem use it anymore.

Why not? 

Because it now seems to me -- that with all of their heavy and excessive extra workload -- if the postal workers can find a good excuse to bin or kick a package into the large container marked Return To Sender, then they can offload some of that heavy pressure from their workload -- and they will happily do so. The more they can bin -- the merrier; the less stairs they have to climb and less time taken up by ringing on flat doors and having to stop and talk to people.

All day, they must be kicking as many parcels they can into touch -- either that, or they are just simply incompetent and I’m not fussy which hat they choose to wear!

In the case of my brother’s parcel that went missing -- even Return To Sender became too much of an effort for them, and their limp whining excuse was..,

“It must have got lost in Australia!”

Where can one go from there?

As far as the German Post Office is concerned, I should buy an plane ticket to Australia and go on Walkabout -- looking for my big bleedin’ parcel down the front pouch of some jumping about kangaroo!

Right now, I am waiting for a small parcel of English tea-bags to arrive from my dear old mother back in England; it was sent to me over two weeks ago.

Two weeks!!

It only takes half a blimmin’ hour to fly from England to Germany -- and only one day by U-boat.

I know it exists, because not only did my mother telephone me to relay the good news of its onward journey -- but it actually came to my front door.

I almost smelt it!

The trouble was, I was not quite dressed when the parcel delivery man rang on my door bell; I took far more than the expected three milliseconds to answer it. So instead of him leaving my parcel at my door for me to pick up..,  I live on the top floor of a flat so it would not be exposed to passer’s by.., or even, instead of him simply handing it to a neighbour to pass on to me later -- he just pissed off with it double-quick.

So quick, I could not even spot the yellow flash of his speeding van from my window.

Instead, on his way out -- he just found enough time to leave a Parcel Undelivered card in my downstairs main letter box. I quickly returned the card by post back to them saying..,

“Please post again!” And added.., “If I am not in, then please leave outside my front door!”

A simple request you might think, but now.., I am beginning to wonder if that card got lost in the post on its way back to them!

I mean the delivery man could have left my parcel outside my front door. After all -- it only contains a few lousy  tea-bags; gold to me, but seemingly not to your regular German Mafia Organisation, who might possibly consider forcing open the main downstairs security doors, incapacitate all the other residents, by first donning gas masks, then releasing knockout fumes into all the air ducts. Then travel up the six floors through those air vents in a style not too dissimilar from Mel Gibson.., grab my package of 240 bags of medium flavoured Sainsbury’s Red Label.

Then leap out of the top window and rope-scale down the wall to ground level.., a quick dash to an awaiting high-revving souped-up Mercedes -- armed with both a Kalashnikov's AK47 in one hand, and my packet of tea-bags gripped tight in t’other -- a  smart leap into the back seat, through an already prepared opened-door, followed by a speedy getaway, whilst at the same time, blasting his weapon out of the back of the now shot-out rear window, at the ensuing loud siren-hailing and tyre screeching Police Cars.

It’s not as if all that could have happened, had he simply left my tea-bags on top of my front door mat.., or could it?

But now, today as I write -- and it is really probably the main reason why I am writing this; to help alleviate all my deep inner frustrations -- my parcel of English tea-bags has simply gone missing in non-action. And the only source of complaint I have is back to my postman.

I thought of a good way to try and possibly get hold of him; I planned to hide in the bushes, close to our main entrance, and with a lot of patient waiting, I might have been eventually able to throw a large net over the top of him, as he whizzed by. But there was no need, as I fortunately bumped into him on my way to go shopping; to buy the net -- and I asked him about my missing tea-bags.

He said that he would look for my parcel and deliver it the very next day -- but he was quick to warn me, that if a parcel is not delivered within one week, it then automatically becomes, Return To Sender.

“One week!” I said, “What happens if I am on holiday -- do I have to take my front door with me?”

He replied in that by now well accepted and so often used manner to answer any post office dilemma -- by shrugging both of his shoulders in a quick up n’ down movement -- and then he was gone in a flash of yellow lightening.

And I still await my long-lost tea-bags as I write this today.

But the one thing I can say in praise of the German Post Office, is that it does offer its country a superior Internal Security. And, I might add -- one far more securer than any other country possesses today..,

In Germany, no terrorist would ever dare send out a parcel-bomb or a package containing Anthrax -- because.., just when they’d least expect it, it would come right back to them, marked..,

“Return To Sender!”

Update:-

The parcel of tea-bags was returned back to my mother in England -- they completely ignored the returned card instructions.

Nothing wrong with the package; neither the wrapping nor the addresses inscribed for the receiver or sender. All it requires now, is the price of yet another set of stamps attached on to it and a re-posting -- in a furthered attempt to..,

Get the mail through!

Even my father managed to get mail from England back in the forties, when he was a prisoner of war in Germany -- so what.., I ask, has happened to their Post Office since then?

‘Bloody Germans!’

Reviews

[Evil Duncan]

This made me smile! Did all of this actually happen to you?

I liked the style and found it easy to read, and didn't realise until I had finished it that I had just spent ten minutes reading about the German Post Office!

[Christine Peters]

Evil Duncan,

Thank you so much for your response. It is much appreciated.

read moreEvil Duncan,

Thank you so much for your response. It is much appreciated.

I wrote all this back in the nineties when I was living in Hamburg, Germany and comparing German culture with English – with lots of humour and satire.

If you like my style then you should read all of my 'Bloody Germans' articles here at this site. I had so much fun writing it. I never got it published (maybe a regret), but now it is well out of date. For instance, our British postie has gone the same way as the Germans: privatisation and all rushing around delivering tons of mail with no time to whistle up any garden path.

Even with Brexit, I do not think we will ever go back to the way it was.

Yes it all is true and happened to me but with a tad of comic licence to exaggerate now and again.