Paris Portingale

The death of Australia Post: The postman rings for thee

We tasked Paris Portingale to find a solution to save the expiring Australia Post and he has (in typical Paris fashion)…

 

Australia Post is going down like a person with terminal cancer and the thing about terminal cancer is there’s no cure, it’s like a death warrant. For Australia Post, it’s already in the mail, if you’ll excuse the pun.

Letters were the mainstay of the service, but people no longer write, instead they text on their portable telephones and iPods. Even emails are losing their popularity. You can no longer write “UXP FOT AMAR FU TTFN OTYREPJLFGGQS” in an email because nobody would know what you were talking about.

You text it.

And that’s what’s killing our postal service.

That, and the fact that an ordinary stamp costs 70 cents. “Will I text Dave the address of the party or will I send him a letter?” Anyone, even a complete idiot, can solve that total no-brainer.

Australia Post started in America in the time of the wild west. One of their first priorities was to draw up a list of the weather they thought they’d encounter. The list included rain, sleet, hurricanes and drought. Others were impenetrable fog, volcanoes, and crossing the Alps.

Another thing they did was invent the phrase “The mail must get through,” which is why everyone carried guns – a tradition that has been carried forward to this present day. If you want to blame our postal service for the carnage this has caused, well, that’s entirely up to you.

I was talking to my local postman the other day and he was very depressed. He was worried about the decline and obvious eventual fall of Australia Post. He rides around on a little motorbike with a satchel on the front. He opened it and said, “Look at that. Fuck all.”

He was right.

All he had was about five letters and a postcard from someone on holidays in Buenos Aries who wished Amy Johnson was there. It had a photo of something on the front with an arrow saying, “This is me,” but I couldn’t work out what it was pointing to. I also couldn’t understand a lot of the words on the back because the writing was indecipherable and I said to the postie that the guy probably should have sent it as a text.

Oh, Australia Post will struggle along for a bit.

People are buying all sorts of things these days on the internet through a computer attached to the Amazon. All that stuff is going to have to be sent by post. This will keep them off death’s door for a while longer, but the way technology is progressing in a forwardly direction at a rate of knots, I can see it’s not going to be too far down the track before we’re sending all that stuff by email and as night follows day, it won’t be long before we can just text it. When that day arrives it’s going to be the final nail in the coffin of our postal service and there’s going to be no jimmying that baby open again to revive the body, even if you wanted to, which you probably wouldn’t as far as I can see.

What I’m saying here is, if you can find the time, show some sympathy and send someone a letter. It’d brighten the faces of postmen all over this fine land of ours, because, quite honestly, they’re looking rather unhappy and depressed at the moment.

Mine has lost the will or energy to put my mail in the letterbox. I don’t know what he’s doing with it. I found a letter up a tree once.

Look, all I’m saying is, do these guys a favour, shoot off a couple of letters every now and again. I mean, would it kill you?

Seriously, would it bloody kill you? Fucking hell.

 

Paris Portingale

Paris Portingale is a writer and dog owner. While having a somewhat indifferent attitude towards abstemious self-restraint, he does follow the safe guidelines of four standard drinks a day, although his standards are a great deal higher than most, certainly the medical profession’s. Paris is visited often in the night by God, and the meetings are anything but pleasant.

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