I had to jet off to England on Wednesday, to do a thing. Sadly, when I got there, I couldn't do the thing because my Internet Service Provider, British Telecom (BT), had cancelled my broadband connection in my absence, without letting me know.

In an unrelated story, the TV Licensing Agency had put a warrant out for my death, although I've done nothing wrong. The Agency chooses not to believe the truth, because it would interfere with the fun of splintering my front door and breaking all my bones.

Having spent all day dealing with these trials and tribulations, I have nothing else to report to you, and so will attempt to amuse you with a dark tale of what happens when bureaucracy runs amok. The fact is that paying one's bills on time is no longer enough to save a person from grave punishments by organisations so badly managed that you want to cry, even before they start whacking you with lampposts. As with any badly-run organisation, the process has become more important than the goal.

Two years ago, BT offered to provide me with a phone line and a broadband connection. I accepted. When my bills fell due - although it's one company, phone and broadband are billed separately - I paid them in full. BT wrongly processed both the most recent payments into the phone account, leaving the broadband "unpaid". Sadly, BT telephone people can't even talk to BT broadband people. They use different accounting systems, I was told. Both continually break down. The wrong processing of the payment meant that the broadband service was terminated in July.

No problem there. I wasn't in the UK in July. I just got there today (Thursday), after not being there for four months. BT's error saved me three month's costs of connection that I wouldn't have used anyway, so their mistake has cost them money, which seems fair.

Unfortunately, the termination of the service was accompanied by my being referred to a debt collection agency. As the weeks went by, they sent a couple of letters saying "Pay up!" and then referred me to a law firm, who in several different letters, said "Pay up or else!" I called everyone this morning, as soon as I'd opened the mail, paid the "missing" $100 that I'd already paid, plus $25 for the debt collection agency's fees, and that fire was put out.

I paid, even though the error wasn't my fault, because all six of the people I had to speak to in order to end the nightmare said that, even if BT was in the wrong, there was no way to restore my broadband unless I took all the blame.

I ordered a new service. "A week," the man said. I asked if there were any way to speed it up, it not being my fault and all that, plus I have all the equipment. "No," he said, in some lunatic accent that indicated he was from a far corner of the United Kingdom, or perhaps just an escaped nutjob. He added, brightly: "We have to post you the something-or-other. And with the postal strike next week, it is possible you won't be reactivated for four weeks."

Sample from the conversation:

Operator: Payment by direct debit is mandatory.

Me: I don't do direct debit. I live 4,000 miles away. Are you saying, after 90 minutes, that you won't provide me with broadband?

Operator: (After a pause) My superior says that's OK. No direct debit."

Me: So it's not mandatory.

Operator: I wouldn't say that.

I still had to try to do the thing. First, though, on opening the other accumulated mail, I found that Her Majesty's Government had authorised the use of lethal force on me for not having a television licence.

It's a charming set of letters, that proceed from the slightly friendly "You seem not to have a TV licence", to a letter with a big black box containing these words: 'YOU ARE UNLICENSED', which is never a good thing to be, or not to be.

Finally, there was one saying that the Gestapo would come and smash the door down at some point that suited them and then tenderise me like veal until I bought a licence.

The thing is: I don't have a TV, and so don't need a licence. It's a legal technicality, I accept that. All I have going for me is my complete innocence, but that's just not enough in Britain today. I had told them this before, by letter.

When I phoned the emergency number (1-800-PAY OR DIE), to try to head off the beating, a very nice man said that there was nothing anyone could do, because it had gone so far that the thug crew could not be stopped.

"They're like animals in the wild," he said. "They like the element of surprise." The goon squad will, in essence, visit the flat unannounced and smash me with baseball clubs. If any of them takes the time to look for, and can't find a television, they might stop hitting, or maybe not; we'll find out.

So, equally pressingly, no Internet and therefore couldn't do the thing. A pal called. He said I could buy a prepaid dongle at Carphone Warehouse, and my Internet woes would be a thing of the past. I bought a dongle for $70. (It's called a dongle, no snickering in the back there). My dongle didn't work, which unmanned me. I took it back.

The man laughed disgustedly. "You've haven't put the SIM card in," he said, as if I were a four-year-old wearing his shoes on the wrong feet. "You do it," I said. "I don't know a SIM card from a library card." He didn't get it, but he installed the SIM anyway. I went back to the flat.

It didn't work. It's a wireless dongle, but - I so utterly love this part - it needs a dial-up connection. It's wireless in the sense that the Minister of Finance is from Pluto, i.e. it's not wireless. I paid for this. I am a SIMpleton.

I did the only sensible thing. I went to a hotel at once, checked in and used their broadband to do the thing I had to do. I saved the day, thousands were not thrown out of work and tomorrow, I'm going back to the Carphone Warehouse with a baseball bat. I have the number of a doctor for when the TV Licensing Death Squad comes by. I'll give it to the man at the Carphone Warehouse.

Finally, in a related story, my favourite of the week, the Telegraph reported that a farmer had been fined $375 for failing to meet "the psychological needs" of a cow he owns, because the barn in which the animal was kept was too dark. I kid you not.

The farmer does not have electricity in his own house and so had foolishly not thought to have it installed for the psychological benefit of the cow.

The moral of all this? Kafka was an incurable optimist.