Archive for October, 2007
Middle-Aged Spread
Middle Aged Spread
I am feeling much better about myself today. Recently I have been a little perturbed about the onset of “middle aged spread”. Love handles. My wife tells me that I am doing very well for my age. But, we are soon to embark on a holiday to Thailand, which will require me to expose my pink and less-than-perfectly toned body to the scrutiny of fellow globe trotters. To be honest, I could do with losing a pound or two. Or three. Or four. But, thankfully, on the way into work yesterday morning, while I was sat frustrated in a queue of traffic for fifty minutes due to the failure of traffic lights at roadworks, I was listening to an illuminating report on the Radio 5 Today Programme. It was discussing the link between obesity and exercise. Or more accurately, the link between obesity and the lack of exercise. And, do you know what? There isn’t one!
That’s great news. It makes me feel far less guilty about my current lack of exercise. According to some recent scientific study the amount of exercise that children undertake is genetically set. It has nothing to do with access to sports facilities. The implication is that your body knows how much exercise you need. It is self-regulating. Yeah right….
It doesn’t seem to be the same today. Kids are delivered to and collected from the school gate by parents in Chelsea Tractors. F*ck the environment! Convenience rules. Me, me, me. Kids are not allowed to play out due to concerns about their personal security, or, to stop them getting access to drink, drugs or sex. School games are largely no longer competitive. Schools are paranoid about getting sued if a child is injured or as a result of the psychological trauma of being labelled a failure. Whatever happened to fun? Whatever happened to winning?
To be honest, I have let my fitness regime slip since school. I did play football at University. I rowed, and I played the occasional game of squash. But, to be honest, my recreation time at Oxford did become more sedentary – croquet, darts, and drinking! After Uni, I played an occasional game of squash and for a couple of years, I played five-a-side football and participated in an indoor cricket league. But, I also discovered, whisky, red wine, and my sofa.
There have been only sporadic attempts at a fitness regime in recent years. I frequently hide behind the fact that most of my sporting prowess of yester-years was in the field of team sports. Occasionally, however, I have been cajoled into the odd game of squash, the odd mile or two of running (I don’t jog! I used to do cross-country at school after all), and even Tai Chi. The Tai Chi lasted only the one week actually. It was something that C and I were trying out as a common interest but the timing was inconvenient, the venue less than salubrious and the rest of the group looked as if they had just come straight from A&E or the geriatrics ward. So now, my athletic life consists of one regular weekend of torture/hiking with the lads from Oxford and, more typically, a regular weekly forced march across Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam!
My best mates and C pooled together last year to buy me a bike for my 40th birthday. My mates all have young families which keep them fit. I think they were worried about me. I will dig it out of the garage after I get back from my hols. The annual Lads Walk is planned at the end of April, so I’ll have to get some miles in.
In the meantime, it’s lunchtime!
6 comments October 31, 2007
The History Boys
The History Boys
I watched the film “the History Boys” one weekend recently. It was a birthday present from J, a colleague who is a fellow Oxbridge history graduate, although 20 years my junior and a graduate of the “other place”. Cambridge. She got a first. But we all know that degrees are not what they used to be, and I reckon my twenty year old 2:1 is worth at least a First at the “other place”. The rivalry is alive and kicking.The film is set in a northern all-boys Grammar School in 1983. It follows a bunch of bright lads who are attempting to get into Oxbridge to study history. Sound familiar? This was the year that I won my place at Oxford. 1983! Twenty years ago. Most students today would consider that to count as history in itself.
I could see bits of some of my teachers in the actors, especially Mr Robins who taught me French, and Frau Walker who beat German into me. And, they got the look of the entrance exam papers right. A5 pamphlets, most unlike the A4 booklets of “O” and “A” Levels. Attention to detail.But, it was the differences between real life and the film that struck me most. All these boys were doing a crammer or seventh term. This means that they had already had their “A” Level results and had returned to their school for an extra term, aged 18, to prepare for their entrance exam. I didn’t do it that way. We didn’t have the option at my school. I took the entrance exam and had my interview the year before taking my “A” levels. I knew I had a place at Oxford before I took my “A” Levels. Well, as long as I achieved two grade “Es” that is. I did. Four “A stars” in fact. Swot!
Also, we learnt a few more complicated verb conjugations for the French paper. You had to do a translation in a modern language such as French, German, Spanish or Russian (for the wannabe spies / double agents). But, this was all done during the lunchtime break. We did go into our “A” level history course in significantly more detail though. And I learnt all of the history questions in Trivial Pursuit off by heart on my own time.
There was certainly no standing at the piano performing Noel Coward or Gilbert and Sullivan though. Nor were there any art history trips. We did go for a visit to Oxford, but this was more of a pub crawl than an educational experience. And, there was certainly no having your balls fondled by the homosexual history teacher!
In my recollection they were kept in the closet back in 1983 Birmingham. Homosexuals. Either that or I was totally naive. I suspect the latter. Or both. In the film two of the male teachers and two of the boys were gay or bi-sexual at least. I wasn’t aware of meeting an openly gay boy or man in person until I went to Oxford. Oh, except for the music teacher. But you never took any notice of him as everyone dropped music after the age of 12, and, your average 11 year old could have taken him in a fight.
I remember going up to Oxford for the entrance interview. This followed the written entrance exam. Incidentally, you (well “one” I suppose) go up to Oxford irrespective of which point of the compass you started from. It is one of those snobbish things – a reference to reaching, supposedly, the height of academic achievement.
I remember it was cold. December. And, it was dark. I was summoned into an ancient dusty, smoky, dark, oak-panelled room at the top of a cold, open stairway. I sat in a squeaky leather chair in front of a roaring log fire as my interviewing panel of three history dons sat snuggled on an antique sofa opposite. They offered me a glass of sweet sherry and interrogated me on my personal background, the Franco-Prussian War of 1871 and the empire building of Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden. Not my favourite way of passing the time.
It was a bit like the scene in Shallow Grave when they are interviewing for a new flatmate. Except there was no one beaten up in the gents afterwards. At least not as far as I know. And the fact that the dons were all caricatures: Mr B an effeminate Mr Bean look-alike and an expert in Anglo Saxon English history; Mr P, a specialist in the Second World War, who was the spit of the Cambridge don described in Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency by Douglas Adam, which is a book I would recommend.
1 comment October 22, 2007
Crash, Bang, Wallop!
Crash, Bang, Wallop!
I passed my driving test when I was seventeen years old. After just six driving lessons. And no, I didn’t have a man walking ahead of the car with a red flag. I’m not that old. Not quite. Admittedly, I didn’t get off to the best of starts in my driving career. On my first or second lesson, when I was attempting a hill start, the handbrake came off in my hand. I think it had less to do with the fact that I don’t know my own strength, and, more to do with the age of the instructor’s Mini Cooper. It was one of the older ones. Such as Michael Caine may have driven in the original Italian Job. The instructor got a new car shortly afterwards. It was a Corsa, or something similar.Anyhow, I passed my driving test at the age of seventeen, in December, and, on that very same day I found out I had won a scholarship to Oxford University. I had the morning off school to take my test. When I went in to school in the afternoon I was summoned to the Headmaster’s office to be told the news of my scholarship to the Queen’s College, Oxford. Apparently I was the first member of the school to win an Oxbridge scholarship since Sir Geoffrey Howe some twenty or so years earlier. Suffice to say that the school was chuffed. I was chuffed. I spent the afternoon in the pub with my two history teachers. Celebrating. That was a good day. I suspect, however, that Sir Geoffrey Howe will be better remembered as an alumni of Handsworth Grammar School for Boys than I shall.
The first accident I was involved in was before I had passed my test. I was on a provisional license, driving the family car, a Vauxhall Viva, under the supervision of my dad, with my mom and sister as passengers in the back. I was at traffic lights. The lights turned green and I moved off. I was hit just in front of my door by a motorbike. The biker, who had been overtaking two stopped buses at speed, must have been looking too far ahead, to the next set of traffic lights, and hadn’t noticed that he was on red. He sailed over the bonnet. He bounced. Twice. I think that he broke a leg but was otherwise unharmed. Unlike his bike. He was very lucky. Our car was written off. The force of the crash had shunted the frame out of alignment.
I was about 21 or 22 at the time of my second accident. Indeed the journey from Preston to London, via Birmingham, proved to be one of my most terrifying driving experiences to date. I had to be at a conference in the Midlands for work on a Friday. So, I borrowed a pool car. They gave me a Ford Capri. Two litres of sheer power and beauty with an automatic transmission and bucket seats. It was a bit of a babe magnet. Cool. I took it to Preston to visit my then girlfriend at her parents’ home. Her mom loved the Capri and insisted I took her for a spin. It reminded her of her own “courting” days.
On the way back down to London I was stopping off at my parents in Birmingham for Sunday lunch. This was when things began to go wrong. As I was passing junction 10 of the M6 heading south I was in the outside lane (it is un-pc to refer to it as the “fast lane”). I was doing about 70mph ;) in a stream of traffic. All of a sudden the car two in front of me span out of control. Fortunately for me, he span into the inner two lanes and I was able to proceed in my lane without hitting anything. As I looked up though I saw one of his wheels bouncing towards me. It bounced in front of me and bounced over me. There was quite a pile up but I drove through, unscathed. I was just like Tom Cruise in Days of Thunder. Except of course that I am taller and not a religious nutter.
After lunch with mom and dad, I continued my journey south. As I left Birmingham it was pouring down. Persistently. Cats and dogs. As I was accelerating along the slip road to join the motorway I hit a puddle. I span out of control and stopped when I hit a sapling. The slip road must have been monitored by CCTV because a police car soon appeared on the scene. The front wing of the car had been ripped off but the nice policeman looked it over and said that I was OK to continue my journey but not to go over 50mph.
I was in the inside lane of the motorway doing a steady 50mph in the rain. I was following a timber truck. A big lorry with huge tree trunks on a flat bed trailer. I was following the timber truck at 50mph when the trailer suddenly became detached from the truck. When it became detached from the truck and headed straight for me. I had to swerve into the hard shoulder to avoid being hit. I survived. It missed me and I was able to drive on, watching the chaos in my rear view mirror.
Three near misses in the one journey. I was pale as a sheet when I got home to London. A whiskey was called for.
The pool car people were none too happy when I returned with the car on Monday morning. But, they changed their tune when they checked the tyres. They were illegal. The tread had worn. Once they realised that they had sent me out with illegal tyres they soon shut up.
The last time I had a bump was Christmas Day a couple of years back. I was driving C’s work car, a top of the range Peugeot 306. We were heading to my mom and dad’s for Christmas lunch. It was snowing very heavily and there was a good inch or so covering the roads. It was awful. If it hadn’t been Christmas Day we would have turned round. In fact we nearly turned round at Butt Hill near Kidsgrove. There is quite a steep hill through the village there. As we began to climb it the Bedford Van we were following lost traction and slid slowly back down the hill towards us, hitting parked cars on the way. We missed it. Just.
I was extra-specially careful after that. Consequently, as I was dropping down the hill to the first series of traffic islands on the A34 into Newcastle Under Lyme, I was doing maybe 5mph at the most as we entered the roundabout. I tried to take as straight a line as possible. We took a very straight line. Indeed, we went straight through the roundabout. The car didn’t turn when I wanted it to. We slid “gracefully” into the high curb at about a 45 degree angle.
There was no visible damage. We continued onto Birmingham. The steering seemed a little heavy but it was difficult to tell because of the snow. We had a very nice Christmas lunch and returned home to Cheshire. The snow had gone by now and we returned on the motorway. C took the car to the garage at the first opportunity. The front axle had cracked. It was a very lucky escape.
Add comment October 18, 2007
Grumpy Old Man Part 5
A Grumpy Old Man On Holiday
It is 07.40 in the morning. A Tuesday morning. The day after Spring Bank Holiday and, I am on holiday. Everyone else is at work. But, I am not. So, what the hell am I doing up at twenty minutes to eight in the morning? Waiting for a bloody tradesman. ‘Scuse my French, but I am not good in the morning.
Actually, the tradesman that I am waiting for is the exception that proves the rule. To start with, he is not Polish. Secondly, he is punctual. And, he is trustworthy. He is competent. And, yes, he is very expensive. But, you can’t have everything. And, today, he is doing me a favour. This morning, before he goes to his paid job, he is helping me to refit the wooden worktop in my kitchen. For nothing. He’s a nice bloke.
The kitchen worktop was removed because the boiler broke down and needed repairing. And, because the worktop was fitted over the boiler it needed to be taken off. It needed to be removed just four months after our very expensive kitchen had been fitted, tiled, and decorated. Decorated by the very man who is coming to help me this morning.
He is helping me this morning because I have been let down by the kitchen fitter who should have come to refit the very expensive beach wood worktop that he fitted in our very expensive kitchen just four months ago. Can you sense my frustration? Now I know that the more handy, savvy, do-it-yourself-knowledgeable types out there are saying that you shouldn’t have fitted a solid wood worktop above a boiler. I know. We knew that at the time it was fitted. We didn’t want to. But, we had no choice.
Planning a new kitchen is worse then any global system implementation project I have managed. Worse than planning the invasion of Iraq. Not that I did that. And not that there is much evidence that the invasion was actually planned at all. No, synchronising the arrival of the kitchen fitter, the units, the skip, the electrician, the plumber, at the prescribed “windows of opportunity” is a complicated nightmare.
People of Stoke, Staffordshire and South Cheshire beware of plumbers named Stuart. It was Stuart that let us down. He let us down badly. We had agreed with Stuart to hand over large amounts of dosh in return for which he would move the boiler. He was going to move the boiler literally next to itself. Half a day’s work. Half a day’s work for five hundred quid. This was going to enable us to cut the worktop in a place that wouldn’t be aesthetically unpleasing. So that a small piece of worktop could be easily removed to get at the top of the boiler.
Stuart, the plumber from Stoke, had one whole day in which to move the boiler. He knew this. He knew that if he missed this window then the whole fitting would be delayed by at least two months. Now don’t get me wrong, we knew Stuart. Stuart has been servicing our boiler for about five years. Stuart had fitted at least four radiators in our house. We had recommended him to at least two of our neighbours. You would have thought that we were considered to be good customers. That he may have wanted to keep us sweet. And, if not, you would have at least thought that he would have relished £500 for half a day’s work…….
Stuart turned up late. Two hours late. Stuart was grumpy when he arrived. In retrospect, Stuart was always grumpy. Stuart declared that it was “stupid” to move the boiler. Stuart walked off the job. Never to return. Over my dead body. And he can whistle for the money that I still owe him.
The boiler is still where it was. As a result, we could not cut the worktop. So, our very capable kitchen fitter designed it that, in the “very rare event” that something went wrong with the very modern, ultra-reliable boiler that we had had serviced every year and had absolutely no problem with ever, then the whole top could be removed to give access to the boiler. The boiler broke about six weeks ago. True enough, the worktop was removed as designed. The brand new sealant was cut and removed. Three bolts, a dozen or so screws. All were removed, and, amazingly, I managed to do it without breaking any of the very expensive, brand new, Fired Earth tiles.
The boiler was fixed. But, I couldn’t get the worktop back. Not so it fitted in such a way that it would not warp. Not in an aesthetically pleasing way. And, the tap had developed a very irritating wobble. But not to worry. The kitchen fitter promised to “pop back” to help us in the event of us ever having to remove the worktop. Yeah right. I have been awaiting the “popping back” for six weeks now. Fortunately (?!?), Mike the decorator popped in yesterday to measure up for some decorating that we need doing. The study, the landing, the hallway, the skirting boards in the lounge, a picture rail, a new heated towel rail in the one-year-old bathroom to replace the one which fell off the wall at the bloody weekend! An arm and a leg. A small fortune no doubt. I sometimes wish that I had forsaken an Oxford education in favour of a plumbing or plastering course. But, Mike is a top bloke. Totally professional. Perfectly punctual and reliable. Trustworthy. And Mike offered to come around this morning before going to a job elsewhere to help me out. So here I am. On my day off……….
Add comment October 16, 2007
Grumpy Old Man Part 4
The Power Of Recovery
Having rowed, I would jog back to college in time for breakfast only to spend the afternoon captaining the Animals football team, being a team made up of blokes, well, lacking the finesse of Christiano Ronaldo, before returning to College in time for a quick shower and back to the Beer Cellar for another heavy bout of watered down Marstons.
These days it takes a little longer to recover. It has taken me the best part of a week to recover from last weekend’s walking weekend with the lads. Admittedly, I was cheered a little bit when super fit P (he of the 300k cycling event in the Alps) phoned to check how I was and admitted that he was suffering big time too. Myself, I have been limping and wincing all week and avoiding stairs whenever possible. I had no idea how much you used the muscles at the front of the shin. Ouch.
Nevertheless, I am proud of myself today. As promised, I went out on my bike. It was forty five minutes of sheer agony. The Cheshire plains felt like the Massive Central today. And, I am saddle saw! Is it my imagination or have saddles got much, much narrower over the years? And not for the better if the state of my bum is anything to go by. Now where did I leave that jar of Vaseline. It helps with the chafing……
Indeed, bike technology has moved on alarmingly too. When I was in my teens and early twenties I used to do a lot of cycling and would do all of my own maintenance and repairs, although I was not so big on cleaning. I have to admit, reluctantly, that when my mates and C clubbed together to buy my new cycle, I had to resort to reading the instruction manual before I could operate the gears. An instruction manual for heaven’s sake. I thought they existed just for the benefit of women and the incredibly stupid.
So it would seem that I am descending into middle age. I am becoming a grumpy old man. This has been hammered home none too subtlely of late – being made redundant, with conversations with my mates focusing far too much on how to combat nasal and ear hair, gardening and growing your own vegetables (apparently purple sprouting broccoli is to be recommended). And, only this week I joined in a conversation with a colleague, J, which was essentially a tirade about the arrogance of the Germans. All of them. Every last one of them. Clarkson for President.
Add comment October 15, 2007
Grumpy Old Man Part 3
Five Grumpy Old Men
I am in pain. I ache all over. I particularly ache in my shins, my knees, and my groin. Why? This weekend was the annual reunion of my best mates from university, plus another masochist who joins us on our annual pilgrimage to pain. The Lads’ walking weekend.Morecambe and Wise used to do, but this time at least they had twin rooms. There were no sunken mattresses resulting in a shock coming together in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, the morning conversations often referenced competitive farting (especially after the Friday night curry) and snoring. Even Oxford-educated forty-something males regress quite easily! If they weren’t discussing bodily excretions they were complaining about the other’s untidiness or similar misdemeanour.
This year we were in the Malverns. We all arrived on Friday night and checked into the Abbey Hotel in Great Malvern. I would recommend the hotel. It is ideally located and the rooms are modern, clean and comfortable. Despite the fact that the hotel was full on both the nights that we stayed there it was quiet, but the total exhaustion and the last couple of brandies may well have contributed to that. The hotel has quite a heritage. The Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia (and the black Christ of Rastafarianism) stayed there during his exile, which followed Mussolini’s invasion. My neighbour, J, is also a regular but for somewhat different reasons.
There were five of us. There were three rooms. As much as I love these guys, I love my privacy more. So, I had opted for a room on my own, at great expense, while the other four shared. In the past there have been times when they have been forced to share a double bed, much like
We started our Saturday walk at about 09.30 having bought provisions of fresh fruit and water in the local shops. We finished the walk around 18.30 having taken in such places as St Anne’s Well, the Worcestershire Beacon, the British Camp (Herefordshire Beacon), the obelisk on the Eastnor Estate, the Wyche Cutting and Midsummer Hill. In reality, M and I finished about 18.30. The three others finished somewhat earlier.
It is quite a hard lesson to learn that I am not as fit as I once was. Indeed, I was never a great fan of training, keep fit, or the gym. I liked to consider myself a kind of natural athlete, with a sort of genetic tendency to a level of fitness that meant I could cope with most physical challenges that came my way. Well no longer. Today I feel my age. Indeed, this morning I feel considerably older than my forty one years. I now accept that a couple of quick spins around the flats of Cheshire on my bike is inadequate training for a fifteen to eighteen mile ridge walk.
It was the steep climb and sharp descent over Midsummer Hill that did for me. My left groin began to feel the strain, and my left knee. And both shins. Midsummer Hill was, of course, the furthest point from the sanctuary of the hotel bar. The return trip was somewhat agonising. Especially the down bits. And the up bits. To be honest, there weren’t many flat bits. Just down bits and up bits. Up bits and down bits. It hurt. At points, I felt quite nauseous with the pain.
I was very grateful of M’s company. He was suffering a little with his knees too and the fact that his thousand mile socks (google them) kept falling down and his boots squeaked. Our hardier, fitter, uncaring adventurers abandoned us around the lower part of the British Camp to go in search of higher peaks and ice cream, while we limped back. Despite the pain I kept going. I kept going because there was no option but to. I focused on the prospect of the first cool pint and of killing my mate, P.
P is somewhat fitter than the rest of us. He is in training for a 300k cycling event in the Pyrenees this summer, having completed something similar in the Italian Alps last year. He is also somewhat unsympathetic towards those of us with more sedentary lifestyles. It was P who decided that climbing Midsummer Hill would be a good idea. P would never make a good member of the SAS though. He is not exactly a team player and he has a Darwinian view of most things, which also includes leaving stragglers to their own devices. I only jest. He is a top bloke and I am only jealous of his fitness. And, it is my own fault. These were the mates that clubbed together (with my wife, C) to buy me a bike for my fortieth to encourage me to keep fit. Guys, I promise to do so from now on.
Despite the pain, the tears, and the gritted teeth I actually really enjoyed the walk. The weather was beautiful and sunny if a tad windy. The views from the ridge of Herefordshire to the west and Worcestershire to the East were stunning. The forested areas were carpeted with blue bells and wild garlic. Beautiful.
As we walked we talked. We put the world to rights. Boy, have we turned into Grumpy Old Men. Sports Utility Vehicles and Chelsea Tractors of all kinds came under attack. Or, more precisely their owners did. It was concluded that unless you were a farmer, you had to be inconsiderate to own such a vehicle. You see we are all very aware of our carbon footprint these days. They walk nowhere. They drive like morons. They take up two parking spaces. Their sexuality is questionable. My mate, E, can get quite a good rant on if you wind him up well enough. And, over the twenty three years that we have known each other, we have become expert at winding each other up. We know the buttons to push. So, E was encouraged to rant about owners Chelsea tractors and owners of small dogs and later, over dinner, P was hurling abuse at N (our resident champagne socialist) about Labour’s foreign policy and strategy towards Iraq and why we weren’t doing the same in Zimbabwe, North Korea, Iran, Israel, Somalia, Sudan, Darfur, Rwanda, etc. etc. etc. But we all kissed and made up (metaphorically speaking only of course) over a pint or two and a brandy.
As an interesting aside, we also discussed books which had had most impact upon us. The Lord of The Rings got two votes, including one of mine (Holy Blood and Holy Grail got my second vote). There were also votes for The Wind in the Willows, and, for A Dragon in a Wagon (M doesn’t read much, but he does have a young family).
Top weekend Lads. See you next year. Hopefully somewhere nice and flat like Norfolk. Now, where did I put those cycling shorts…….
Add comment October 11, 2007
Grumpy Old Man Part 2
Customer Service Not
Yet again I find myself at home, waiting for a BT engineer. BT. British Telecom. Waste of space. Is there somewhere that I can nominate BT as the worst example of customer service? Ever! The worst ever!The corporate vision, posted on BT’s website, proudly declares:
Our vision is to be dedicated to helping customers thrive in a changing world. The world we live in and the way we communicate are changing, and we believe in progress, growth and possibility.
We want to help all our customers make their lives and businesses better with products and services that are tailored to their needs and easy to use.
This means getting ever closer to customers, understanding their lifestyles and their businesses, and establishing long-term relationships with them.
We’re passionate about customers and are working to meet the needs they have today and innovating to meet the needs they will have tomorrow.
We hope that every time customers deal with us, their experience reflects our vision:
· we do what we say we will do – when we say we will do it – for the price we said
· we are pro-active and easy to do business with; we care
· if we don’t keep our promises, we make recovery our number one priority.
Bullsh*t! Well, I’m still awaiting a response to my complaint email of 23rd October 2006. That’s five months! I am not feeling a great infinity with the corporate vision at the moment. And, I am at home again because they failed to turn up on Monday, when I stayed at home a whole day waiting for an engineer. All, I want is a new extension for my broadband service. And, I’m paying them shed loads for the privilege. If they ever turn up that is.
My complaint of October followed an electrical storm which knocked out my home broadband service. My first call found me routed to an offshore customer service centre in Bangalore, India. Don’t get me started! Well, it was Friday 13th. I should have known better. They ran a diagnostic. They declared that they could find no fault. They declared that the fault must be with my router. My router that was safely in a box, in a cupboard, upstairs, and well away from my broadband socket at the time of the lightening storm. Now, I am not technically minded in the slightest, but……
Three days later I received a call to tell me that after further diagnosis, they had discovered that the fault was “underground” and that an “underground engineer” was to be dispatched in eight days time (c. 72 hours in the world of BT). Underground? We had been spun this yarn with past faults, only to find the fault was in the box thing up the telegraph pole in the lane outside of our garden. We live in the middle of nowhere. Darkest rural Cheshire. Our wires travel many, many miles to the property via overhead cable. If we have an underground problem then it must be in a neighbouring county! Hence my email of complaint. My complaint of five months ago. To which I have had no response.
In the meantime, should you wish to waste your time complaining to this customer-focused money-generating machine, the email address is complaints@btbroadbandoffice.com. But, chances are your broadband will be down so you won’t be able to. Don’t even bother to try and phone them. You will be lost in the endless circle of IVRs – “press 99 for…..” before they eventually hang up on you after having you on hold for fifty minutes. As they did on Monday……
It’s now fifty minutes to go………sigh. Oh, and if anyone wants a perfectly working router, let me know. I have one spare!
1 comment October 4, 2007
