I dialed the number —
Official, clean — they say it’s DVLA.
But what beams back?
Japanese Auto Solutions.
Oh, perfect.
Is this Tokyo or Swansea?
Am I licensing a dream or paying for the privilege of confusion?
The music plays —
A hold line bad muzak tango,
"You’ll be answered in 10 minutes,"
but it’s now 30
and I’m still pirouetting in limbo,
running in circles, around and around,
to the tune of government bad jazz
— off-key, off-track,
a symphony for the sleepless and fed up.
Meanwhile,
they siphon from the people,
disconect your DD, extracting quiet desperation, through taxes dressed as duties, wrapped in policy,
spoken with a smile,
while war machines keep rolling, in the Gaza background.
Stop.
That's the word —
Stop your taxing.
Stop your scams.
Stop your names that lie on screens
like masks in a haunted call centre.
Honestly, the UK?
It’s cracked on the cracklin.
It’s crooked like old paint on a fake ceiling.
And beneath it —
just Ai, non-human, dust, wires and more delays.
It’s Monday —
a shocker of a morning,
every corridor lined with failure
like broken clocks ticking out
"Next time. Next time. Next time."
Still, I’m dancing.
Loose-limbed and laughing,
because for me,
it’s water off a duck.
But others —
they are breaking.
This system is breaking them.
The hold music plays —
a little offbeat now —
and I wonder,
how long can we spin
in this endless, bureaucratic backbeat?
I’m dancing, yes —
but the game
needs
to end.
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