By Mark Steel

Amongst the boom industries of recent years, involving mobile phones, alcopops and search engines are bailiffs. There are thousands of the bastards, sending out letters packed with language that once would have only been used in The Sweeney. But you'll get letters saying "Dear dear dear - the last instalment of council tax was due on the ninth, and by my reckoning it's now the tenth. Tell you what, that hamster of your daughter's would fetch a couple of bob at the shampoo-testing plant. So you'd better pay up - and remember, you're a big man but you're out of shape. Alright. I said ALRIGHT!" And that's from your local Parish Council.

So last week I received a letter from the good people of Iqor, a bailiffs employed by British Gas, in connection with a bill at my old address, and is the fourth letter I've had SINCE THE BILL WAS PAID. I rang the number, as I did after all the other letters came, and went through that procedure where you have to administer your own chilling abuse, waiting for fifteen minutes and then navigating their instructions.