So I wrote to British Gas today...

From: Mat Lemmings
To: uselesstwats@britishgas / dynorod / whatevertheirnameis.com
Date: Mon, 14 Mar 2011 13:09:05 +0000
Subject: Homecare Agreement 20114423 J401112

FAO The Customer Relations Director
British Gas Services / Dynorod

Good afternoon.

Ever seen Fawlty Towers? Specifically episode 2 of the 1st series (originally transmitted on 26 September 1975, if you were wondering), where Basil gets the feckless O'Reilly in to do some work which goes horribly wrong? Well, you are O'Reilly and I am Fawlty, which makes me "the poor sod you do jobs for."

As I've no doubt your computer system can tell you, we've been in a relationship for a couple of years now, during which time I've been pretty happy with your service - of course you never write (other than sending me junk mail) and you never call so I do feel a little bit like an out-of-sight mother at times, but it's been a fairly standard marriage and you have hitherto satisfactorily met my demands as and when such have arisen and I'm not aware of any serious wrongdoing on my part, other than my brief 3 day dalliance with an alternative provider of plumbing services for a boiler swap-out which your representative brushed off as an already forgotten irrelevance.

But oh dear. It's all gone rather wrong. Who would have thought that a tetchy hot water tap and a tiny leak would present such a major problem to a multinational plumbing conglomerate such as your good self and drive this iron wedge between us? You've broken my heart and need to make amends.

The sorry tale started around 11.30am last Friday, the 11th March 2011, when I telephoned your "emergency" helpline number (0800 365 100) to report my problem. I'm not sure that the term "emergency" is necessarily correct under the trades descriptions act (I wonder if the fire service, for instance, has ever considered introducing a computer-based answering system where the caller has to press multiple buttons before then being told his call is being diverted to a sister company where the call queue waiting time is 5 minutes - can you imagine "Press 1 if an airplane has flown into a tower block, 2 for a house fire, 3 for a kitten stuck up a tree, 4 for a head stuck in railings (sorry about that btw - it was a one off kinky sex adventure) or 5 for any other enquiry" only for the frenetic pressing of number 3 to result in "We are now transferring your call to The Canine Tree Climbing Company" - the blood spatter would be awful! But we'll forgive your terminology on this occasion and move on.

Your cheerful representative listened to my heart wrenching story of the non-turn-off-able hot tap (fully flowing and I'm on a water meter - eek) and the modest-but-nevertheless-annoying leak in the airing cupboard, raised a couple of job numbers (JB01093 for the leak and JB01086 for the tap) and told me in no uncertain terms that an engineer would be with us in the next few hours, certainly before close of business that day, and that he would telephone prior to his arrival. He did neither.

I awoke Saturday to clear skies above, the warm sun on my face (Mat's eighth law - always have a South facing bedroom) and our small kitten giving me that knowing look which means "I've dismembered a rabbit and hidden it for you to find", indeed we seemed set for a lovely day, save for our continuing escaping water issues.

So I rang you. After retelling my tale of woe and expressing my considerable dismay at the non-appearance of the engineer the day before I was given an explanation-lacking apology but reassured that the said technical representative would be with us by noon at the latest.

He wasn't.

Now then, we're in North Devon which is not exactly the centre of the universe (though of course if you know your astrophysics, actually *everywhere* is the centre of the universe) and the roads do get clogged from time to time so I left it until about 14.30 before phoning again (tap... running... meter... I'll only mention that again once or twice I promise). A charming young lady again apologised, tapped some buttons and informed me that whilst the job had indeed been "despatched to Engineering" (bit like the donut delivery up to Scotty from the Enterprise bakery I suppose) it was scheduled in for, wait for it, the 15TH! Disaster!

I confess to getting a bit cross at this stage and might have suggested she did something her husband would not have been proud of. For this I apologise.

Nevertheless, she tolerated me long enough to issue an "Emergency Job Number" and I was told that I would get a call from an engineer within an hour and that he'd come that day without fail. He phoned to say he couldn't but he'd try and get in touch with a more local engineer and see if I they could come Saturday afternoon or Sunday.

They couldn't, but somebody would come absolutely first thing, first job, engineer won't waste time having a shave or breakfast before leaving the house etc. etc. on Monday morning. That's today, by the way.

Sigh.

Tap.

Running.

Anyway, this morning it got to 10.20 and still no sign (Well there was one sign - I saw some smoke coming from a farm up the road, but assumed they were simply announcing the appointment of a new Cow Pope and it had nothing to do with you) so I phoned again (I even knew to press '3' without listening to the message, so I'll knock a few seconds off my wasted time for that) and spoke with a delightful lady most sympathetic to my cause who then got in touch with the local office and re-booked yet another 'priority' visit (I've still got a fully flowing tape and I'm still on a meter...) before putting me in touch with my new best friend Harry in your "Dyno Relations Team" (it sounds like a cool place to work) who explained that my case would be looked into and somebody would call me back and there was no need for me to write in (you think I fell for that? And shame on you for trying to spoil my fun) but there may be a delay of a week or so as you currently have over 2000 outstanding complaints to deal with. Oops. I hope Harry's getting a good overtime rate.

Finally, at 12.25 your man Zeke (what an Uber Cool name that is - I'm seriously thinking about changing mine to that now) arrived and took precisely three minutes to fix both problems. Charming young man, you should promote him - he can talk and everything. Oh, and then Rebecca rang from the Exeter office to tell me he was coming. Bit late for the proactive call but appreciated none the less.

In summary, I've taken 15 working hours off (6 hours on Friday, 4 on Saturday (I'm self-employed, weekends don't exist) and 5 today). Fortunately for you I'm working for a lower-paying-than-usual client at the moment (desperate times and all that jazz; I blame Bill Clinton - if he'd not put that cigar somewhere quite so newsworthy the world could have been an entirely different place do you not agree?) so you're only in to me for £35 per hour (£525 total) which I'd like you to reimburse me within 28 days. Actually, I'd like you to pay within 24 hours as I'm a bit skint and need to pay my dealer, but I'll give Harry the 28 days - I know he's busy - just don't dawdle when he puts my cheque in front of you for signature otherwise I'll have to fill out yet another civil suit to reclaim the money. I'm getting quite good at those now. Tell you what, in the spirit of our new found friendship, call it a round £500 - you've probably got a system in place whereby senior people don't get dragged off the golf course for payments of a monkey or under. Don't say I'm not accommodating.

But wait! What about all that water that I've lost I hear you ask (you'd thought I'd forgotten about that, didn't you)? Well it's a good job for you that I'm clever enough to know I can isolate the hot water flow at the boiler (you remember - that new one that your competition fitted without any fuss or nonsense) so you don't owe me anything for that - how lucky are you?! Have you *seen* the price of water these days? It'd be cheaper to wash in petrol - not that I'd advise that if you were a smoker, of course. Perhaps yoghurt or ass's milk would be more appropriate.

Oh, by the way, I'm really not taking this in the good natured vein you might think based upon my diatribe above. In fact, were it not for the fact that my throwing aim is rather less good than that demonstrated by Steve Harmison for the first ball of the 2006/7 Ashes series (a wide straight to Flintoff at 2nd slip, if you recall), you'd also owe me for a new telephone - good job it smacked into the sofa cushion and not the wall as was my intended target.

I appreciate that most organisations hit operational management issues from time-to-time, especially following such a period of acquisitive growth - the really good news is that this is my field and I can help you out. I'd be happy to work with you to help re-engineer your incident management and customer services functions, my standard daily rate is £750 plus expenses. Oh, and I'll need a car - mine's covered in dents from where I was on hold with you the third time. I've never had a Saab, so perhaps a 9-5 in metallic black with a cream interior? Automatic, obviously, and I don't really like leather seats - cloth will be fine. Perhaps spend the saving on a kick ass stereo?

Get your boss to give me a call - meantime I look forward to hearing from you with respect to the other matters raised herein. Don't bother too much with a long winded explanation, I'm really only interested in the cash. Or at least a night in a bloody good central London hotel with plenty of champagne. And don't forget the chocolate on my pillow; in fact leave a couple in case I get lucky.

Sláinte!

Mat Lemmings

Can you help?

I'm on the cadge today.

A year ago a close friend's brother, Leslie, was diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease of the most virulent form – Progressive Bulbar Pulsay. At the slender age of 40 it is extremely rare to have this disease so young and sadly there is no known cure. Within a year he has gone from full movement to only being able to communicate through moving an eyelid.

There is a circa 7 mile sponsored walk taking place on Good Friday, 2nd April to raise money for MD research. The area for the walk will be ‘The Cornish Way’, more specifically Carclaze to Pentewan with the start of the trail covering Drummond’s Hill – the stretch that Leslie constructed.

I'd be really grateful for any sponsorship you may be willing to offer. Every little helps and if you're ouside of the UK I can take Paypal donations at mail@matlemmings.com - we'll be covering the charges to make sure that every $ sent gets to where it should.

If you're able to help and could let me have your pledge amount before Tuesday I'd really appreciate it.

And if you'd like any further information, or - gasp - would like to take part yourself, just ask!

Thanks

Mat

Of a certain age

Several years ago, I had a client who's administration PC had an astounding knack of rebooting itself whenever its operator came near. The operator didn't have to be sat facing the workstation, nor touch either keyboard or mouse. Indeed, this machine was such a recalcitrant bugger that it would restart itself at the slightest feminine touch of the reset button as we discovered when observing, several times, said female's high heels crashing into the computer's front panel as she swung about the place in her chair.

Not being quite as silly as the aforementioned double-X chromosome, it therefore came as somewhat of a surprise last week when Ali failed to find an address where she was due to attend an interview. Nothing too unusual in that, or at least there wouldn't be were it not for the fact that she'd been unable to find it twice. And for the fact that she'd been there just a few days earlier.

Having had an initial interview, Ali had already attempted to make her second interview once before, getting hopelessly lost in the middle of nowhere having gone a totally different way (as suggested by Google Maps) and encountered several flooded roads at the time. Arrangements were made for her to attend again on Thursday and all seemed well with the world.

Thus to the penultimate day of the working week and my sudden awakening at howfuckingearlyo'clock by Ali's subtle bedroom doorway proclamation of "I'm screwed." It became apparent that North Devon had been on the receiving end of a rather large quantity of snow, 4 inches of which had iced over and was now forming an unwelcome second skin on her car that she had been unable to shift.

Hauling myself out of my pit pausing only to collect tracksuit trousers and a fleece top I duly marched downstairs with every intention of getting the girl to where she needed to be without further ado. Having pulled on my mismatched garments and finished my clothing ensemble-extraordinaire with the addition of sockless Reeboks, I strode majestically outside to take control of the situation. Two broken scrapers and plenty of expletives later, we finally set off in search of the elusive enclave.

The main drag from Bideford to Barnstaple was passable but only on a snow-restricted single lane with everybody proceeding in an understandably gingerly fashion. The six miles of main road showed no major casualties other than a couple of abandoned motorcycles and a broken down Alfa Romeo (like there's any other type). Sadly, it appeared that nobody suffering from a pathological desire to proactively screw traffic flow (a.k.a "Caravanners") had the balls to step out on the icy asphalt that day so we didn't even get to chuckle at an upside down Lunar Clubman (or whatever other bloody silly name they go by these days) en route.

Notwithstanding all that had gone before, we found ourselves not 5 minutes away from our destination with a good 15 minutes to spare. "Result! We'll make it for sure!" was the celebratory cheer inside the snowplough. At which point we turned into the final lane and found ourselves staring at a tree. "No problemo, little lady." Said I. "Take the wheel and I shall perform a manly hoist of that pesky tree right up over the top of the car so our safe passage can continue." Duly done, Ali edged the car under the tree (alright, small overhanging branch), returned to the comfort of the passenger seat whilst I plonked myself back in the first officer's seat to continue the journey. Which continued for another 150 yards until we came upon 6 trees (yes, actual *trees* this time) lying in the middle of the road. "Bollocks."

Wary of the depleted condition of Ali's phone battery (matched only in its near-empty glory by the state of the fuel tank, which had predicated a future lifespan of 13 miles some 15 miles previously) we made a vain attempt to locate the destination by another route and met with resounding failure. Resorting to the last few milliamps of power left in the Nokia, Ali made a call to the destination asking for alternative directions from our current location, which we followed to the letter and still never found the place. By this time, a tactical surrender to fossil fuel was our only available option and we slowly skulked our way back home bringing the first adventure of the day to an unsatisfactory close.

Arriving home a little after 10.00, I telephoned the local surgery to see if I could bag an appoint with my doctor. I'd seen him a few days earlier as I'd been suffering with a small problem in the plumbing department - namely an overpowering desire to pee all the time but having no actual need to do so - and it was quite obvious to me that the prescribed tablets were having no effect. Having been down this road before and as fellow men of a certain age will confirm, I was fairly certain that any return visit would involve a prostate check, but nevertheless it had to be done. Anal proddage duly arranged, I jumped in the shower, got some proper clothes on and headed up to town.

The visit to the doctor's office went as expected and I left clutching both my cheeks and a box of new drugs.

Upon returning to the motor, I noticed an old VW Polo having problems reversing from a space at the end of the car park. Wandering over, it became apparent that another gentleman of a certain age (his certain age being in my estimation about 30 years older than my certain age) had actually managed to bugger up the manoeuvre on two counts. Firstly, he'd parked on slick mud now covered in snow that offered no traction whatsoever. Secondly, he'd parked so far on to the grass that his back wheel had crossed the kerb and sunk into the mud. Much pulling, prodding and waggling backwards-and-forwards later (it was like being back in the surgery again...) we finally got the old duffer out. I got covered in mud and snow and can't decide whether I expect him or his car's clutch to survive the longest.

Still, at least one good deed for the day had a positive outcome and in conclusion I can report that the men and women of Lemmings towers are equally crap at navigation and should you ever have the need to find yourself in a desperate hurry to find somewhere in the middle of nowhere with snow on the ground and road-closing trees en route, all the time feeling like you need to piss for England whilst anticipating an upcoming bottom-poke, I can but only suggest you leave home with a full mobile battery, a full tank of fuel, money, old clothes, a tow rope, SatNav and a bloody good sense of humour.

By way of a postscript, you may like to know that Ali has a third appointment at the unfindable place in the morning which will be a lot easier for her as we went there earlier today and added it into the SatNav. You may also like to know that the price for a replacement Polo clutch is about £130, it costs £75 to fill a BMW 530i up from empty and I don't, at the moment, need to pee.

Praise before a kicking

So I see that the wonderful English media are hyping-up the soccer team's success to date in the World Cup qualifiers, commenting they appear much more professional under the new manager, how well the players are working as a team and how this is the best start ever to a cup qualifying campaign.

WTF are they talking about? We've beaten Andorra, Croatia and Belarus for Christ's sake. I'll start to agree with 'em when it's been Germany, Brazil, Argentina, France and Spain in the finals.

Of course, that's unlikely to happen, at which point Capello will be chalked up as another failure; doubtless citing his 'professional' and 'mature' approach as having been too hard on the poor little buggers on the pitch and extolling the virtues of appointing a manager who'll let them 'have fun' and play 'passionate' football.

Ruud Gullit in 2011 then?

RIP Santa

This in from Richard, original source unknown:

There are approximately two billion children (persons under 10) in the world. However, since Santa does not visit children of Muslim, Hindu, Jewish or Buddhist (except maybe in Japan) religions, this reduces the workload for Christmas night to 15% of the total, or 378 million (according to the population reference bureau). At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per household, that comes to 108 million homes, presuming there is at least one good child in each. Santa has about 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming east to west (which seems logical). This works out to 967.7 visits per second. This is to say that for each Christian household with a good child, Santa has around 1/1000 th of a second to park the sleigh, hop out, jump down the chimney, fill the stocking, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left for him, get back up the chimney, jump into the sleigh and get onto the next house.

Assuming that each of these 108 million stops is evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course, we know to be false, but will accept for the purposes of our calculations), we are now talking about 0.78 miles per household; a total trip of 75.5 million miles, not counting bathroom stops or breaks. This means Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second -- 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man made vehicle, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second, and a conventional reindeer can run (at best) 15 miles per hour.

The payload of the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium sized LEGO set (two pounds), the sleigh is carrying over 500 thousands tons, not counting Santa himself. On land, a conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that the "flying" reindeer can pull 10 times he normal amount, the job can't be done with eight or even nine of them---Santa would need 360,000 of them. This increases the payload, not counting the weight of the sleigh, another 54,000 tons, or roughly seven times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth (the ship, not the monarch).

600,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second creates enormous air resistance - this would heat up the reindeer in the same fashion as a spacecraft reentering the earth's atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer would absorb 14.3 quintillion joules of energy per second each. In short, they would burst into flames almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer behind them and creating deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire reindeer team would be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second, or right about the time Santa reached the fifth house on his trip.

Not that it matters, however, since Santa, as a result of accelerating from a dead stop to 650 m.p.s. in .001 seconds, would be subjected to acceleration forces of 17,000 g's. A 250 pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of the sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force, instantly crushing his bones and organs and reducing him to a quivering blob of pink goo. Therefore, if Santa did exist, he's dead now.

Hero my arse

So the back page of yesterday's Daily Mail carried the headline "Fallen Hero" referencing Ricky Hatton's loss to Floyd Mayweather in Sunday's world championship boxing match.

Let's be clear about something. He's no hero. Heroes are soldiers who run out into enemy gunfire to rescue wounded colleagues. Heroes are firefighters who return to burning buildings time after time to rescue people. Heroes can even be everyday run-of-the-mill people like you and me who put themselves at extraordinary risk for the welfare of others.

Boxers are not heroes. Boxers are sportsmen - the top echelon of whom are paid millions of pounds, win or lose, to step inside the ring.

What's heroic about that?

It's time

The Gillian Gibbons debacle is proof, were it really needed, that the time has come to put an end to all forms of organised religion on the planet. Personally I would start with Islam and Christianity as that rids us of the most troublesome fuckwits first, but all must be suppressed and outlawed within a year. If you have an address for mail-in donations to that cause, please let me know.

In the meantime, I suggest you go out this morning, buy the ugliest looking teddy bear you can, call it Muhammad and beat it senseless, Basil Fawlty style, until its insides are all over the place.

And then burn the bastard.

Come to think of it, there is one religion that should be allowed to live. Scientology may be left untouched, as anyone following that particular doctrine is obviously far too stupid to pose any threat to the rest of us anyway.