Tag Archives: rubbish

City Link are worse than super-cancer-AIDS

I’d written a fun little blog earlier today about the trials and tribulations of sitting in all day, waiting for a package to arrive. It was whimsical, humorous and finished with said package arriving. If I’d have remembered while writing that it was City Link delivering the package, I would not have bothered writing that pre-emptive blog.

No, City Link is a stain on humanity; a company that fails to do the one thing they actually set out to do. And when they fail to do that thing – “that thing” being delivering things – they make it as hard as possible to get them to re-do it, and re-do it right.

Amazon unexpectedly sent the new TV I ordered out early, as well as via next day delivery. What this meant was it was going to arrive when I wasn’t in, and would then be taken back to a depot I couldn’t get to very easily to wait for me to collect it. Did I mention it’s a TV? A fucking big one?

As such, I begged a little to be allowed to stay at home and wait for the package, and was allowed. Unfortunately this is still unauthorised absence and it doesn’t exactly reflect well on me. Taking a day off at short notice because your house has exploded/dad has set on fire: fine. Doing the same because you’re getting a telly delivered: not so fine.

The City Link delivery status was updated at 10:23pm last night saying the package had been collected and was on its way to my local depot. It was an eight hour drive from the collection to delivery depots, and they had all night to do it in. They then had ten whole cocking hours – from 7:30am to 5:30pm – to get the telly from the Bournemouth depot to my house. My house is a 15 minute drive from the depot, apparently.

Obviously by 5pm it hadn’t turned up and the status still hadn’t been updated from 10:23pm last night. So I gave them a ring (via No To 0870, of course).

“No, you’re not going to get that today.”

“For fu… why wasn’t I told?”

“It hasn’t been scanned here yet. We’ll deliver it tomorrow.”

“I’m not in tomorrow. Can I have it delivered Friday afternoon?”

“We don’t do afternoon deliveries.”

“I’m not in in the morning, you don’t guarantee delivery times, I need it in the afternoon. Sigh. Can you deliver it on Saturday then?”

“Umm… that’s an extra charge.”

“I’ve taken a day off work to sit refreshing a web page it turns out was lying to me all day. You’ve not provided a service you’re supposed to provide. AND I’ve been on hold for about half an hour.”

“I… umm…”

“I would like it delivered on Saturday. If you could, that would be GREAT.”

“I’ll put a note on your account to arrange Saturday delivery.”

“There we go.”

“If anything goes wrong, I’ll ring you. Bye.”

Why does that last line fill me with dread? He agreed to my demands a little too easily, then gave himself the easy get-out clause of ‘if anything goes wrong’. I don’t expect the TV to be delivered on Saturday.

City Link have messed up, as far as I remember, every single time I’ve had something delivered from them*. No other delivery company springs to mind when I think of inept, pointless companies that need to be burned. And Amazon needs to stop using them.

*Oddly, apart from the dozen or so times I’ve ordered from thedrinkshop.com. They never failed to get it right then. COLOUR ME CONFUSED. Maybe they only get booze orders right.

(NOTE: Searching ‘city link’ on Google image search is quite funny, as it returns lots of images of big-name footballers. Obviously ones linked to Man City. END NOTE.)

4 Comments

Filed under Prattle

Alliance & Leicester is fucking shit

I don’t know what the fuck the problem is with banks, but I really need to have a word with their mother because it’s really starting to annoy me how shit they are.

I don’t understand why in this modern, 24-hour culture, we are not privy to banks opening every day. I do not understand why transactions which are done via computers, electronic transfers and little planets in wires cannot be carried out over weekends. I do not understand why a cheque needs “up to” five days to go through. This kind of shit should be instant.

I do not understand why a £100 transfer I made from one account to the other on Sunday seems to have fallen off the radar and been forgotten about. From HSBC to Alliance & Leicester? Instant. Other way? Magical disappearing money.

I recently made the huge mistake of opening an account with Alliance & Leicester (which was changed to a Santander account within weeks, without prior warning, seeing my sort code and account number change completely) as I was drawn in my better rates on overdraft and a £100 bribe to switch to them. I now know why they have to pay people to join them.

I could run a bank better than this bunch of fucking muppets, and I’m only capable of maths at an intermediate level. I think I would succeed, mind, as I am aware of some other things. Namely that your internet banking shouldn’t look like it was invented in 1838 and hasn’t been upgraded since. I would point out that – as you’re operating with an online presence – you might want to let your customers contact you via email or online help forms.

I would also suggest you hire more than the seemingly one member of staff you have in your call centres, seeing as even at 9.30pm I’ve been on hold for about 20 minutes already. And it’s costing me money, you absolute scumbags. If I could email you, I would do so, that would be it. Your one solitary member of staff, Clive, would be able to email me back in good time, and I wouldn’t have to “please carry on holding” for the better part of fuck knows how long.

Of course, these are probably just stupid decisions. I mean, what do I know? I’ve never been bought out by a bunch of Spaniards before.

UPDATE: 35 minutes. 35 fucking minutes, to be told “oh, it must not have worked”. Well done, Alliance & Leicester: you operate a broken system that’s supposed to be looking after people’s finances. I’m going to request all my direct debits etc return to HSBC in the near future. I’d email you and tell you this, but… well, y’know.

1 Comment

Filed under Prattle

RULE BRITANNIA!

We’ve entered the run up to a new World Cup, meaning we get the inevitable bunch of stupendously bad adverts that go along with it. Chief among them are the likes of Carlsberg’s ‘best teamtalk in the world’ ad, which makes me want to immediately abandon this country for less jingoistic – and wanky – climes, as well as the Walkers ad for their collection of crisps that taste like stereotypical foods from countries. Or feet, I’m not sure which.

But both these ads at least have some air of what could possibly be referred to as ‘dignity’ about them. They don’t actually have dignity, don’t get me wrong, but at least they’re not adverts for The Sun or News Of The World. These ads, for those who haven’t seen them, involve in one case Tim “eh?” Westwood saying… words… about some George Cross flags on a car, or something. It will make you sad to be alive. The other is Terry “Dodgy” Venables singing a song while Ian Wright and some other idiots (and Harry Redknapp) look on, smiling. It’s pretty much insane. For those who have seen them – I share your pain, and if you want me to help you burn your own eyes out I will. Happily. Anything to relieve the suffering of my fellow humans.

It’s testament to the absolute insanity of the Murdoch empire that they opted for ads involving Tim Westwood – vying for the title of ‘Worst Person’ every year for the last however many he’s been alive – and Terry Venables singing. No media goliath would want to inflict this kind of shit on the people of the world if it weren’t for one of two reasons: they legitimately don’t know what they’re doing, or, they actually want everyone in England to kill themselves immediately. The latter, of course, wouldn’t make sense though – it would mean there’d be no one left in the country to not buy their papers.

Oh yeah – that’s some fucking hardcore satire right there.

Still, as a show of good faith to a giant of the publishing industry that brings nothing but hateful, misinformed bile to the world at large (no, not this blog – ha ha HAHAHA), I will suggest a substitute ad to be used in place of these two obscenities. Take into account this took me a long time to come up with – at least four minutes – so I’d appreciate you taking into account the magnificent effort I’ve put in.

The scene opens in a familiar fashion, with Terry Venables walking towards the camera – it soon becomes apparent however that he’s actually in the midst of selling a used car. The viewer then becomes aware that Venables is actually selling a clapped-out motor to a cowardly Italian for a grossly inflated price. When the sale is complete and the frightened European has been royally ripped off we hear a crowd of fans cheering, probably shouting “VINDALOOOOO!” or something. We then cut to some hilarious footage of Ian Wright dancing when he thinks the cameras aren’t switched on while Gary Lineker – hidden somewhat in the background – can just about be made out bathing in a tub of contract-breaching Monster Munch. Alan Shearer then scores a goal with Hitler’s head, after the Fuhrer has been decapitated by Britannia and some creative use of her trident. Three lions then shit on a baguette. The scene slowly fades to black as a chorus of “Two World Wars and one World Cup!” rings out, the vocal charge lead by Baddiel and Skinner, who also do shits on the already-lion-shitty baguette. The Sun’s masthead appears with the caption reading “Today: the World Cup. Tomorrow: the Falklands.”

Mad Men is the inspiration for my new-found skill when it comes to advertising, in case you were wondering.

3 Comments

Filed under Prattle

Seven reasons Star Wars is actually rubbish

Did you think Star Wars was great? Sorry to break it to you, but it’s actually a big pile of pump. Not the prequel trilogy, not the original films, not the Holiday Special, the Clone Wars series, the dozens of video games or even the toys. All of it. Every single last bit of anything to do with Star Wars is a load of dump-o, and it all comes down to these seven simple to understand reasons. Read and be enlightened, chaps and chapettes.

One massive story/scripting lie: Watch Return of the Jedi. See the part where the A-Wing crashes into the bridge of the Executor, causing it to crash into the Death Star II (killing, presumably, thousands)? That was a bizarre accident, as a result of the A-Wing being damaged and the pilot unable to control it, right? Wrong. According to the real, actual, genuine story, the pilot – Arvel Crynyd – crashed his space boat into the bigger space boat on purpose. It was a suicide dive. I don’t find that hard to believe, I just think it’s bullshit revisionist history concocted to give a crap pilot a grander story to take away from the fact that he was incompetent and got shot down. I don’t give two plops what’s in the script.

AT-ATs are modelled on dogs: Or camels, or horses, or cows – whatever it is they’re modelled on, it’s stupid. Model them on a massive fucking tank that can fuck shit up. Not after your favourite pet. How those designs were approved by the Emperor – which I’d assume all such huge decisions are – I do not know. Maybe Palpatine had a Labrador he loved dearly as a kid and used the design to remember his pooch in the only way he thought viable.

C3PO: This isn’t the fault of three-pee-oh himself – it’s how he was programmed. It’s just the fact that he was programmed by the most evil man in the universe and he still ended up being a hilarious pastiche of all gay men ever. An absolute coward, a pedant, a Negative Nancy, an eternal pessimist and an arrogant sonofabitch, how he does anything bar bring the whole Star Wars mythology down I do not know.

Han Solo is a racist: this one popped up as a suggestion from Anna, actually. Han speaks a variety of alien languages – we regularly see him chatting with Chewbacca, he has a natter with Greedo (before not shooting first) and his exchanges with Jabba The Hutt are always captivating. Especially when the former treads on the latter’s tail. But in all of these conversations, Han refuses to speak in the alien’s native tongue, instead sticking resolutely to Galactic Standard (“English”). This is clearly rude, and the only explanation can be that Han Solo is a massive racist. He does keep Chewie as a slave, after all.

Super Empire Strikes Back is too hard: Seriously. I just tried playing it after a break of about ten years. I remember now why I never got past about the third level. Fuck you, hard SNES games.

Lightsabers don’t exist: It honestly makes me sad.

General Rieekan’s uniform: He wears Strepsils. The man is clearly a lunatic, and not a General as he claims. If this had been noticed earlier, as it should have been, the man would not have been allowed to have any authority over the hundreds (or thousands) of rebels located in Echo Base. An evacuation order from someone you believe to be in charge is one thing, but when a man who chooses to wear a brand of throat lozenges tells you to abandon your snowy bunker it carries less gravitas.

And this is without even going into the myriad things that come up on things like the Family Star Wars’s’s’ (which is shit, but for very different (real) reasons) and Kevin Smith films, like how Lando steals Han’s clothes, or how thousands of independent contractors died on the second Death Star.

Safe to say: Star Wars is shit. You have been told.

4 Comments

Filed under Prattle

Battlestar Galactica: the late appraisal

This is about Battlestar Galactica so if you have no interest in the show, stop reading. If you have interest in the show but haven’t watched it all the way through, stop reading. If I don’t like you, stop reading. If you have no interest in the show and don’t care if I ruin it, but also strangely want to read my opinions on something I should have finished watching last year, you may carry on reading. If you have interest in and have watched all of the show, you may carry on reading. This probably means about one of the usual 30 will continue to read this. I’m going to avoid spoilers as much as possible solely because I know Anna will read this and she’s a lunatic who wants to know how things end before she’s even started them (and I will make you watch Battlestar one day, woman).

Right. I finished the final season of Battlestar Galactica today. I’ve got the familiar feeling that comes when you reach the end of a series you really did like quite a lot, and this is exacerbated by the fact that thinking ‘when did I watch that series?’ is usually answered with a different year, when I lived in a different city. I’ve been watching this show for about half a decade. It’s ridiculous.

On one hand, I love it. On the other: the ending. Jesus. Almost literally. What were they thinking? Or not, for that matter. It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever seen, it was just such a ridiculous jump to accept that after all that – the mini-series, four real series, the Razor special – it finished with some bona-fide deus ex machina. Dozens of hours of my life, some wonderful characters and some of the best, most entertaining television I’ve seen is sent off with a half-baked catch-all explanation. Is that the best they could do? Come on. A programme that examined what drives someone to carry out suicide bombings – to the point that you not only sympathised with, but supported these means – can’t even finish on something better than some contrived nonsense?

I don’t hate the ending – I never could, as Battlestar is such a good series overall. But they were really pushing their luck with that sudden splatter of daftness all over my screen. Poor show, kids.

Right, got to find a new series to watch now.

(next week I’ll be coming up with more blog-based internet-opinions on other things that nobody has been talking about for a year. Well contemporary, me.)

(also, I seem to have put my head on Colonel Tigh without thinking about it. Read into that what you will)

Leave a comment

Filed under Prattle

Shared housing? More like SHIT housing. HAHAHAHA

Shared housing is a big bag of sweaty balls (sometimes literally, depending on how many men you live with), and I don’t like it. I still have to do it, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to afford the beans I like so very much, nor the fake Pot Noodles. It’s an unfortunate situation, but as soon as I’m not crippled by debt I may be able to get my ass out of there and away to somewhere where I can actually live how I want to without some pathetic, petty nonsense causing someone to complain at me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about living with friends here – I don’t really class that as shared housing per se. Though it does come with its own problems, it’s nowhere near as bad as the minefield of fury that is living with, as they say, “randoms”. The main reason for this is quite obvious – I could go into details of individual examples, but that would be boring and irritating. For me. The main reason is this: random people are exactly the same as strangers, strangers are members of the public and – as we all know – members of the public are contemptible shrews of humanity. Boring, devoid of positive elements of their so-called personality, petty, ugly and stupid. Very stupid. Basically, it all boils down to this.

Oh wait, I live in shared housing. Damn.

Sorry this entry’s a bit phoned-in today. Lacking any drive to rant/joke about anything and I only have one hand to type with. First person to make a wanking joke wins the prize.

P.S. I feel a bit daft about yesterday’s entry, as it turns out this weekend has been one solely comprising of ITV coverage. Curse you, FA Cup. You mean my praise of Sky was less relevant than it should have been, and that I had to put up with Tyldesley saying clubs should have some kind of long throw training, and that he was surprised clubs didn’t have players capable of long throws, aside from Stoke. The man is a fucking dillweed.

3 Comments

Filed under Prattle

Why I hate blogs, including this one

Stupid crap full of self-centred nonsense that no one in their right mind would ever give a dusty old turd about. But enough about *insert contemporary reference here*! The witty, Brandt-esque cartoon above hits the nail on the head in a hilarious and satirical, Rory Bremner-esque fasion. It must be a laugh-esque riot hanging around Gregory, whoever the fuck-esque that is. Anyway let’s talk about why blogs are a big steaming pile of monkey crap.

1. We don’t give two dollops of sloppy poo about your life, your opinions or what you do, ever. Unless you inherited Superman’s powers and mixed them with the ability to produce diamond-encrusted gold bars from your bellybutton every time you say “IT’S A TRAP!” like Admiral Ackbar then you probably aren’t interesting enough to read about.

2. You can’t spell, or you don’t bother checking your spelinks. You have some internets all around you – why not use them? (This does not apply to me right now, as I’m far too tired to move the mouse pointer to the top right, click the Google search bar then type whichever word it is I want to check the spelink on)

3. You say things like ‘blogosphere’ or ‘collective’ and don’t immediately vomit blood from your eyeballs at the merest suggestion of such transgressions.

4. Blogs allow people to think they’re spending time constructively, when actually all they’re doing is writing a nonsensical list of a few things they’ve just thought of that second, while at the same time trying to make themselves laugh.

5. When you agree to do a blog a day for a year then get asked to go to Stockholm for a bit you suddenly realise it’ll be reasonably hard to get anything posted tomorrow or Wednesday unless Sweden has internet. I hear it doesn’t. They have Swede though.

That’s your lot for the day. Hope you feel fulfilled.

P.S. There is absolutely no irony whatsoever in me blogging about why blogs are shit. If you think there is, you’re an idiot and I hope your tits get gnawed off by AIDS-ridden cats. With little bitey ants all over them. Who then go on to poo on you. The cats, that is – not the ants. Ant poo would be insignificant at best.

3 Comments

Filed under Prattle