Archive for August, 2011

Tackling Slumdog

August 16th, 2011

Yesterday, I had to make One Of Those phone calls.

You know damn well what I mean by One Of Those.  We all have to make ‘em from time to time, and they are probably the single biggest cause of nervous breakdowns on the planet.  Yes, that type of phone call.

It started a few weeks ago when I remembered I hadn’t booked an hotel for one night in France.  We get chucked out of our accommodation on a Saturday, whereas the ferry doesn’t sail until Sunday, so this means we have to have somewhere to stay on the Saturday night.

Booking the hotel was no problem.  They have a nifty on-line booking system as it went very smoothly.  However my real troubles started last week.  I wanted to make a small amendment to my booking so I went into the site to see if I could change it there.  I couldn’t.  On the site they did give an email address, so I shot them off a mail with my changed requirements.  So far so good.

Late on Friday I got a reply.  It thanked me very nicely for my mail but they had a problem.  Apparently their computer system was fucked, or words to that effect so they knew I had sent a mail but couldn’t read it.  They gave me a number to phone.  FUCK!

Yesterday afternoon, I swallowed a fistful of Prozac and took the plunge.  My worst fears were confirmed – an automated system.  I got the usual shit about how they valued my call, so much so that they were going to record it for “training purposes”.  They then asked me to tap in my reservation number.  It’s a fucking long number but I did it anyway.  To my immense surprise, I was put straight through to “an agent”.

My first hurdle had been crossed and I was now talking to flesh and blood instead of a fucking machine.  Unfortunately I was back in Slumdog Millionaire territory so communication was a wee bit strained.  I explained my situation and my revised requirements in words of one syllable and he finally grasped what I wanted.  He said that he would have to phone the hotel directly to change my reservation, and could I please hold.  He proceeded to stick me on hold and I was treated to their muzak.

The muzak they fob you off with on phone systems is pretty dire at best.  At it’s worst it’s a cross between Jedward singing to the accompaniment of Greenslevees played on an ice-cream van.  Their Muzak was even worse than that.  It consisted of about twenty bars of a cheap and nasty jingle that grated on my nerves before the first fifteen seconds were up.  It had a very abrupt ending which kept raising my hopes that the “agent” was back, but no – it was just taking a breather before starting all over again.

After ten minutes of this, I was a nervous wreck.  I had finished my bottle of Prozac and was ready to confess to any crime you would care to mention.  Then the “agent” took me off hold…..

and hung up on me.

FUCK!

Half an hour later, my nerves were beginning to settle a little so I phoned back.  I went through the process of entering my booking number all over again.  I got through to another Slumdog.  He sounded identical to the first, but gave a different name.  Before I could tell him what I wanted he cut across me and said that their computer system was fucked.  Or words to that effect.  He asked me to ring back later.

I did.

Once more I waded through my booking number and got onto yet another Slumdog.  Again he sounded exactly like the first two but gave yet another name, so either they do all sound identical or maybe it’s just the one bloke with one hell of a fucking identity crisis.

I explained to Slumdog my predicament and he politely informed me that their computer system was fucked.  Or words to that effect.  However, he said he would phone the hotel.  I pleaded with him not to put me on hold, or at least to put be on silent hold.  He did the latter, bless his little cotton socks.

Five minutes later he was back, sounding all breathless.  For a fleeting moment I wondered if he had run all the way from India to France and back.  Leastwise the change has been made.

The whole experience left me quite shattered and demoralised.

I need a holiday.

The bunker mentality

August 15th, 2011

Herself showed me an article in the Sunday Times yesterday.

The title of the article kind of said it all – “Welcome to my bunker”, by Siobhan Maguire.

Now we all know that a scared society is a good thing.  A scared society is malleable.  A shitless society will obey all orders without question.  Scare the crap out of society and you can do what you like with it.  So this article sets out to remind us of the few things we should be growing ulcers about.  Banking riots.  Japan’s earthquake and nuclear meltdown.  Gangs of thugs running riot in the UK.   And in case you are cynical enough to think that those only happen to other people, she throws in flooding for good measure.  One way or another the article implies that you should be shitting in your britches.

So now that we are suitably convinced that today is our last day on earth, what are we supposed to do about it?

Build a bunker!

I remember back in the Sixties and Seventies when, at the height of the Cold War we were all advised to lean an old door lengthways against a wall and crawl into the resulting improvised tent for a couple of months.  This article was a little more forgiving but then we have become accustomed to a bit of luxury in the last forty to fifty years so apparently we can now have the run of the house.

So how do we turn our house into a bunker?  The article proceeds to tell us.

First of all, apparently we need a container load of tins of baked beans.  Hundreds of the fucking things.  Nay, thousands.  Those who don’t like baked beans are royally fucked.

Next we need to make sure that our bunker is adequately ventilated.  Hah!  I wonder why?  The article seems to overlook the fact that ventilation may not necessarily be a good thing if the outside air is saturated with nuclear fallout.  Mind you, living in close confines with Herself when she is in fine farting form probably is a greater evil than fallout.

We also apparently need a steel door.  I’m not sure where we are to put this.  If the marauding mobs come smashing their way in through the back door, do we politely ask them to knock on the front door as that is the steel one?

Of course we need to board up our windows, but we are advised to leave a little peephole to see what’s going on outside.  I have visions of some poor family living off baked beans behind their steel door and occasionally peeping out at the neighbours having a barbecue, because The Disaster hasn’t happened yet.

One piece of good news is that we can bring the dog into the bunker.  Of course, after a couple of months of living ankle deep in dog shit you may not think this is such a good idea, but then a slice of Alsatian may be a welcome break from baked beans?

Will I be taking any of this advice?

Nah!

If the mutant zombie hoards start marching in our direction, I’ll just send Herself out with the bill-hook.

Much more effective than a steel door.

Memories are made of this

August 14th, 2011

I read a great article yesterday.

Twenty ways to improve memory.

I was going to print it off today.

Can’t remember where I read the fucking thing.

Just the thought of it

August 12th, 2011

When I was a lad, running a temperature was a sure-fire method of getting a couple of days off school.

The Ma would toddle into the bedroom, stick a thermometer into my gob and wander off again, leaving me to my own devices.  My devices were simple – either a drop of friction on the bed-sheets or the bulb in the bedside lap.  Either method is guaranteed to work, though The Ma might get suspicious if I were running a temperature of 150 degrees.

Docs are the same.  They also love the temperature, but also have a few extras.  They check temperature, blood pressure, pulse and whether you have a cold wet nose or not [our Doc trained originally as a vet].  This always struck me as being akin to kicking a car’s tyres and checking the radiator levels to see if a car runs or not.  Very strange.

I have my own method, and it is incredibly accurate.  Basically it is a checklist of what makes me nauseous.

The concept is very simple.  I have a list of foods and beverages, and I just imagine myself sitting down to a large portion of each item. 

First off is tripe.  I think of myself tucking into a large plateful of tripe and then check to see if I feel nauseous.  I fucking hate tripe, so nausea at this level means that I am in the whole of my health.  If I didn’t feel nauseous then there is something wrong.

Then I step up the ladder and think of boiled bacon and cabbage.  Nausea at this level probably means a minor head cold or a mild flu.  Nothing whatsoever to worry about.

I continue on up the list covering such items as poached salmon [that means I need a couple of aspirin] through minute steak [this is getting serious at this point] up to Confit de Canard and Vindaloo.

Nausea at the thought of Confit de Canard is serious stuff.  At this stage I would need a heavy prescription of something or other, and as for Vindaloo – that is the point where I lash down to the nearest fever hospital and book myself in.

There is one further level.  Guinness.  Feeling nausea at the thought of a couple of pints is exceptionally serious.  It has never happened.

I reckon it would mean I’m dead.

Bullshit

August 11th, 2011

I presume by now everyone has heard the Al Gore speech?

In case you haven’t, here he is ranting on about Global Warming.

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I have listened to it a couple of times, and each time I become more mystified as to how anyone could believe the idiot.

Al Gore has a very dangerous combination – a theory, a lot of money and a craving for self publicity.  He produced that film “An Inconvenient Truth” which by dint of fancy graphics, scare tactics and outright lies, managed to con a lot of people thereby landing us in the crazy situation we are in now with all our carbon taxes and the other “green” measures.

In his speech he comes across as a petulant child who can’t understand that he is wrong.  His answer to any criticism is to shout “bullshit” and that is it.  He seems incapable of rational argument, and even worse seems incapable of understanding that his theories may come under scrutiny and that people will come up with opposing theories.

For a short while, Gore was hailed as the saviour of mankind and the Nobel Institute were even daft enough to give him a prize.  Now that his theories are being disproved left right and centre his response is to whinge that no one believes him any more.

With regard to his claims of “bullshit” science, someone over at the Climate Depot site has neatly provided rebuttals to all of Gore’s points.

In the meantime, here is another piece of bullshit for him to add to his collection.

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