Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Chips and cod and human hair in batter.

Today I had to get up to get the electricity turned on at my new flat.

That in itself isn’t a big deal. When I have been given the key and have the electricity bill in my name it’s doubly NOT newsworthy. However I still don’t officially live there because, although the agency that let the flat have approved my being in it, the absentee landlord in Lake Garda, Italy is a laid back type of chap who doesn’t have e-mail, no answer phone and has to be posted the details of prospective tenants. So…every day I ask the nice chap at the agency if he’s heard from Giovanni or Pier Paolo or Vito and every day he says not yet.

Yesterday I sat on my tod for 7 hours alternately sleeping, reading and sticking my head out the window waiting for the leccy man to turn up. Today we had arranged an appointment and I got a 25 year old guy who was a level 6 engineer (to put in perspective, level 7 deal with hubs and the kind of power that keep MI5 running) and he was quite slick, arranging an appointment with the hair salon I live above for Friday to turn off their power so he could rip my meter out and install a new one. This will make a total of FOUR visits by EON Electricity which will hopefully gain me some serious Brownie points with both the agency and our elusive owner once he finally opens his mail or returns his calls.

A filling I had from the dentist last week fell out. I was lovingly caressing the smooth enamel on my “right lower 6” when I found the gaping hole had come back. The filling wasn’t actually a filling, more of a coating but they still call it a filling (similar to Tesco sending you some spotty supervisor if you make the mistake of asking to speak to “the manager” as opposed to “the store manager”).

The dentist looked in my gob and after two minutes told me to book an appointment for an hour at the earliest date in her calendar which the plebs upstairs would sort out. Got to reception just as the power shorted out on the PCs meaning they were frantically ringing each other (from adjoining rooms) flapping now they were bereft of technology for ooh…five minutes. I apparently have to wear a “temporary cap” for  week which hopefully is discreet and won’t resemble the Reverse Bear Trap from Saws 1, 6 and 7.

Cycling home and Barclays bank rang me. The old dear in my local branch asked me if I remembered exchanging Mexican money 3 weeks previously and when I said I did she jovially announced that one of the 500 peso notes was “ripped” and the agency they send the money to had refused to accept it. She then asked if I was willing to let them deduct 23 quid from my account to make up for it.

She appeared genuinely surprised at my indignant response of “of course I mind!” and listened patiently as I elaborated that as they’d accepted the money they were therefore taking it as I gave it to them and furthermore the note could have been torn by either someone in the branch or at the agency or at any point between the two. She said she sympathised and “can see your point of view” but added that she hadn’t expected my reaction and confirmed that she was now going to pass the matter to the branch manager.

I got on the blower to Complaints as soon as I got in and the lovely lady on the phone said she was sorry and began going on about the terms and conditions. Fully expecting a row, I was rolling up my sleeves as she then offered 25 pounds in case they took the money out and said it was mine to keep if they didn’t. Apparently the dozy old cow in the branch who exchanged the money should have told me the rules and that it is on the terms and conditions (which I wasn’t shown). Still, either way I’ll be at least one pound fifty up.

British Airways responded to my claim for compensation over the botched flights and horrendous journey coming back from Mexico City. The letter practically dripped with apology and grovelling excuses, saying at least twice that they really hoped I would have “faith” in their poxy airline again…but then stated that they weren’t prepared to offer compensation, not even refunding of the expenses I had incurred through their fuckwittedness.

I phoned the customer service line and got some northern woman who objected profusely to me calling the spotty twat at Mexico City airport “acne ridden” and lamented me “insulting the physical appearance of one of my colleagues”. When we finally got on an even keel she said it was Iberian airlines’ fault that I had had my duty free taken off me as their dopey stewardess had told me the tequila would get through. She really wound me up though by stating that it was my responsibility to check if a visa was necessary to visit a country and not the bloke who had put me on a flight to Texas.

I pointed out that the original flight had been to London direct, so flying to the USA hadn’t been part of my holiday plans and in a situation where we were all booted off one flight and told to queue to be awarded another, it could hardly be my fault for not knowing that I needed a cunting ESTA to do a changeover flight via Texas. She insisted that it was my responsibility and not the mongoloid retard who had offered me the flight. I countered that if I had booked the flight from my office or bedroom on a computer then I would agree but while stood in a queue at 11.30pm after having had my flight cancelled while sweaty, dirty and tired and having waited for 3 hours it was up to BA to make me aware of rules that affected a situation that I had no control over.

She eventually agreed to give me 10,000 air miles (sounds a lot but this is just enough to get to Italy from London) and refund the 32 quid I’d paid for a train ticket. She also advised me to use the online EU compensation scheme to get back 600 Euros via a legal requirement that they compensate passengers who are royally fucked over by their cretinous fuckwits in customer relations.

I hope her womb prolapses.

My step father splashed out for fish and chips tonight. There’s a chippy down the road where the smell wafts down the street and as much as I usually hate English fish and chips unless it’s Harry Ramsden or equivalent, this was something special. I was hungrily tucking in to cod and chips with blotches of ketchup and splashes of vinegar when I found a battered, long, black human hair in my chips.

Made me giggle anyway.

Thursday I give blood. Hopefully they won’t tap an artery by mistake.


  1. Crickey Lance, I thought those things only happened to me.

  2. Crickey Lance, I thought those things only happened to me.


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