You give someone a number and your name and address. They transfer that onto a standard letter and print it out. How much would you pay for that?
I reckon two hundred baht would be more than generous. Three hundred baht would be robbery, and three hundred and seventy five baht would be obscene.
So how to classify the 2,375 baht that the British government (all curses be upon them) charges for this service. “Fucking typical” would probably do it.
The letter is a statement of my pension, required to support my retirement visa application. The letter can be obtained from the British Consulate in Pattaya and they have obviously had many complaints. There are signs stuck on all walls saying, and I paraphrase: “Don’t blame us, the government sets these prices and yes they are bastards”. And indeed one should not blame the consulate. The new British Consul, Howard Miller, seems a very helpful chap. When I arrived he was calming an obnoxious twat in a Celtic shirt who seemed to think it was the consulate’s job to direct him to a Thai Ministry in Bangkok. Howard must spend his day dealing with twats and the occasional dead Brit; not the best of jobs.
Anyway, I paid the exorbitant fee and collected my letter (on the following day; you don’t get same day service for that money); the bank sent me a letter confirming my balance (which must have taken much more time to prepare and was free; take note Her Majesty’s Tosspots), and I was all set to apply for my visa.
The plan was to go early tomorrow morning; but the dry season was interrupted this morning by a massive storm which flooded Pattaya. An excellent time to go to immigration I decided. The road outside immigration was knee deep in water, so unless you had a place in the tiny car park you were screwed. Or alternatively you had a she who must be obeyed to drop you off and pick you up later; excellent service.
Even so, the place was rammed and I was expecting a long wait. But everyone must have been just sheltering from the rain because my number was called almost immediately. I was one photocopy short, but an obliging man rushed off to make one for me; presumably they did not want me coming back all wet. Five minutes with the checking clerk and then on to the supervisor who barely glanced at the paper before giving me a ticket to collect the passport tomorrow. Result! And another friendly and efficient experience with Pattaya immigration who also spend too much of their day dealing with twats (but no dead bodies).
So now I am legal for another year; at least I will be once I collect my passport. And I have made a small contribution to the British government which they can spend wisely on a wedding, or sending troops off to occupy other countries and kill the inhabitants protect freedom. I feel a warm glow of patriotism spreading across me; or maybe it’s just disgust.