I want my life back

My trusty night-riding light has countered three winters of abuse with an attempt to exact painful retribution. Not so much “Hope Vision 4” more “Hope I still have all my own teeth“.

The maker is Hope Technology – a UK firm  based on the wrong side of Yorkshire* – housed in an industrial unit full of proper machinery. Their ability to CNC, Mill and Bevel metal results in an extensive range of MTB products. Some of them are very good, some of them are a bit special, and occasionally one of them is a dud.

Their showpiece 4-LED light that pushes the night away for 9 months of my riding year is somewhere between “special” and “terrifyingly unreliable“. Bit like kids, when they are good they are very good indeed**, but when they are bad “bloody awful” isn’t the half of it.

Wednesday night put Dr Jekyll in charge of illumination. Or not, when the light flicked to black as the bike was dropping smoothly over a rock-step. That smoothness absented itself with the light, and only the backup torch lashed to my helmet prevented a high speed gravelly facial.

This isn’t the first time unscheduled benightment has been visited on my innocent person. Nor the second. Or even the third. I now have a fairly matey relationship with the Warranty fellas up at Hope as the feckless light boomerangs between us. They’ve been fantastic at repairing way outside of any warranty period, and I’ve rewarded such customer service by campaigning the thing through years of rain, snow, frozen temperatures and occasional unscheduled trail percussion.

And while they are happy to give it another electrical brush up and polish, there really are only so many times that a fearful man can be plunged into darkness before demanding a replacement not marketed with a skull and crossbones. Laziness lulled me into accepted the “wisdom of the crowd” presented by Internet warriors who at least talked a good game. A quick scan of the ever escalating arms race between manufacturers’ added nothing but acronym confusion, so it was back to my night-riding roots with Lumicycle.

Whereas Hope are all grown up and serious nowadays, there’s still a whiff of shedness with Lumicycle. My first set of lights,  bought nearly ten years ago,  had clearly been designed and manufactured in a small wooden outbuilding. Yellow halogens powered by cut down car batteries dimly lit the trail for almost minutes, before fading to candle power.  But this still proved to be a huge step up from catastrophic experiments with head torches and crappy clip on lights.

A decade later, development has been driven by technology, the 24 hour race scene and – somewhat predictably – huge steps in LED power from the Far East. The results are frankly staggering. Even compared to my Hope, the small form factor and huge light beam are really something else. It’s not quite the night-sun which appears to be gaining ground especially in homebrew solutions, but that’s not what night riding is about.

What it is very much about is sufficient light to go fast, go for a decent length ride, and go for a beer afterwards without having to rebuild complex electronics on the trail. The Lumi’s are definitely an upgrade on all fronts,  but cheap they were not. But since six months of my weekly riding is undertaken entirely in darkness, and another three start that way it’s an investment worth making. That’s what I’ve told Carol anyway

No excuse not to get out next week then. Well apart from the mud, rain, cold and a dose of pre-spring apathy. But that’s not stopped me yet, and we’re well past being half way out of the dark.

* Or Lancashire as the locals call it.

** We call this state “at someone else’s house”

A topic oft returned to on the Hedgehog, although even I must admit to being surprised at the litany of frustration aired in the last four years. And not only that, but tail-gating that thought was the even more scary mental scribble that this blog has somehow limped into its’ fifth year. The only thing that sustains me is the knowledge that – collectively – you’ve wasted more time reading it, then I’ve spent violently plunging forehead to keyboard while writing it.  But, really, five years – come on that’s not a bad lifespan for a pet, you’d get four hamsters, a couple of Gerbils and a neurotic rabbit out of that. But enough of my domestic ménage a lot fantasies, and let’s press on.

So we shall – predictably – begin with a complaint. A banker post for those wankers who have heard the phrase mentioned around their job description, yet it continues to pass them blissfully by.  I’ve bought and paid for a collection of bike parts to finally complete the new ST4 project. For this week anyway, and a goodly number of them actually serve a purpose other than the pursuit of cosmic blingery. Yes another Internet transaction easily completed some time ago except for the tiny matter of delivery. ParcelForce’s tracking system appears to have been designed sometime during the first flushes of computer software, so spews out unrecognisable codes and truncated messages instead of actual information.

Reading between the runes, it became apparent that the delivery driver had three times loaded up my parcel, only to decide he really couldn’t be bothered with a 300 yard stretch of road that’s been successfully navigated by fleets of tractors, 4x4s, family cars, small hatchbacks, bicycles, a loon on a motorbike and even an octogenarian white knuckling a beige mini metro*. Being the kind of person who always first thinks of others (assuming there’s something in it for me of course), I spent ten minutes I’ll never get back trapped in the ACD** offering me all sorts of spurious services while not-very-gently redirecting me back to the informationally embarrassed  web site.

Then it caught me out by a human cheerily announcing “Hello this is Susan, how can I help you?”. Two things sat behind a bitten lip; firstly “is it in your power to eat the person responsible for programming the IVR?” and hard on the heels of that was “Why if my local depot is 10 miles away in Hereford am I talking to someone with a fine cut Geordie accent?”. But no, remember I’m here to help, save them a trip, don’t put yourself out, let me collect the package, that kind of thing, so I opened with a pleasant “You can, I’d like to collect a package please”

I think Susan – lovely as she was – may have been a frustrated secret agent as she pumped me for information*** specifically around “the contents of my package” (Frankie Howerd had nothing on me at that juncture I can assure you), any secret tracking codes I may have fought some Germans for, and the exact nature of the request urgency. I lied – obviously – and told her I was a heart surgeon and budget cuts meant NHS patients didn’t get a bike courier any more. But since it’d only been there three days, it’d probably be fine. And then the conversation stopped being odd, and started being annoying.

“I’ll call the Gloucester Branch for you and see if that’s okay Dr. Leigh”

“Er, okay but my package/heart/bunch of lies is in Hereford”

“Oh I know, but” (Showing her inner workings of Royal Mail) “they never answer the phone there, so we’ll try Gloucester”

I may have gone on a bit here pointing out that the alternate approach of setting fire to the staff at the Hereford Depot until one felt compelled to answer the phone would be my preference. After a minute of this, I paused for breath only to realise I was on hold.

“Dr Leigh? Hello, yes I’ve spoken to the depot and there is some good news and some bad news”

“Right, well I’m looking at the patient, and frankly I wouldn’t want what’s going to happen on YOUR conscience if we can’t sort this out”

PAUSE: “Well, you could get it from Hereford normally no problem, but I’m afraid it is too icy for collections”

“I shall be the judge of that as I am in possession of the might X-Trail that laughs in the face of sheet ice”

“Oh no Sir, you don’t understand, it was too icy for THE DEPOT TO BE OPEN. There is no one there, Health and Safety you see  They were afraid there would be falls and bruises”

And I thought “What a bunch of workshy slackers. Scared of falls? Really? They seem to spend 99% of their time on their arses anyway, so already pretty bloody well practised I’d have thought. Can hardly tell the Post Office is still bloody nationalised can you? Because while normal commerce has happily carried on outside our door for a week, the postman’s been sat in the depot drinking tea and wondering whose turn it is to fetch more biscuits. Jesus, how bloody hard is it? When the bloke does turn up, it’ll be sodding hard suffering as he will from the lashing of my tongue followed up with the sledgehammer of unhappiness”

But I didn’t say it even when provoked with a “And they don’t expect to be in tomorrow, or Wednesday. Some hope for Thursday or Friday apparently if the weather improves”

Because really it’s not that important. I’ve other bikes to ride and I already have. It’s not Susan’s fault the Hereford Depot doesn’t think we’re worth breaking a leg for, and really there are a load of shit things going on in the world and this isn’t one of them. That’s a train of thought that has me cognisantly derailed though, because I  don’t do reasonable nor do periods of the serene and the sanguine ever visit my much ruffled person.

I thought on and further realised I’d gone a whole week without a drink, and not for some pointless resolution but because my preference was for a nice cup of tea most evenings. Put this together and I find it troubling. Which is what I’ll be doing to the real Medical profession if it continues, specifically the Mental Health department.

It’s all new for 2010. I’m clearly going mad.

* Okay he ended up in the ditch, but that’s hardly statistically significant.

** Automated Call Director in case you were interested. Oh you were? Well actually, that’s a bit of a generalisation as ACD Is primarily for out-dial. What I was dealing with here was nothing more than a bog standard IVR on a closed loop. I know about this stuff, and you could too. No really, it’s terribly interesting, especially to girls.

*** At my age, that’s as good as it gets at 10am on a Monday morning.

I have been reading extensively on the history of politics, and the emergence of new nation states in preparation for my coronation as World Dictator. Today is a great day as my campaign funds have been significantly swelled by a lucky win on the Nigerian Lottery. So in addition to 50p, an IOU from the children and a collection of slightly used cycling assets, a further 13.9 million euros was added to the fund this morning. I merely need to affect some tedious administration around bank accounts and the money is all mine!

And since I understand the inner workings of democratic governments, I shall merely bribe, cajole, bully and blackmail my way into power. It’s worked since 1945, so I’ve no reason to doubt I’m a shoe in for President Of The World before the year is out.

First order of business is “The List”. Rather than muck about with all this airy-fair manifesto nonsense, I’m going to create macro policy based on a to do list. It’s served me well in the world of work, so it’ll be seamlessly transplanted into World Affairs without wasting any (of my) money on policy think tanks, strategy groups or finance committees.

Let’s face it, I can hardly do worse than this bunch of muppets, and I’m going to be the cheap alternative. A few cronies, a head of cheese, a man to provision the scorpion pits and a fridge full of beer. So to the list, let’s start with things that will be outlawed, shot or destroyed in a cruel and sadistic manner:

1) Wood Pidgins
2) The 3 year warranty
3) The 0553 from Ledbury to London
4) Singlespeed bicycles
5) Heathrow
6) The M25
7) A man called “Tony Jones” from Nissan UK Customer Service.
8) Calories in beer
9) Reality TV shows
10) Fat people

I accept this list looks a little personal and biased towards some of my recent experiences, but the thing is it’s all doable. So rather than focus on the negatives, let’s look at what we could replace these blights on society with:

1) Bird than don’t make a sound at 5am like they’re being bum raped
2) Unlimited Warranty (to be first introduced by Nissan) for all components, especially French ones
3) 0930 with beds, complimentary breakfasts and no delays. Ever. Punishable by being run over by the late train.
4) Gears. Wow that’s one done already. Superb start for the new team.
5) Helicopters for all worthy individuals in the new state
6) Death Race 2000 for real. Build some grandstands, a burger bar and let free all the frustrated reps in a last man standing battle
7) A soothing and sympathetic voice explaining “Yes Mr Leigh, you are so right, let us supply you with a brand new car”
8) Beer as a compulsory condiment to every meal. Wine can be substituted
9) Round the clock re-runs of “What a top bloke Alex is” in the full glory of the original 47 episodes
10) Thinner people who don’t complain about glands.

I don’t want go mad and bite off more than the scorpions can handle, but feel free to get involved in the policy debate.  But be clear the Tony Jones principle is non negotiable. I’m personally selecting the spiders for that individual.

A few years ago, the pony tail and red braces tribe spent time I’ll never get back “strategising“* that all companies would only be successful if they exposed their IT systems, process and – if my notes are correct – arses to their customers.

Their smugness that Clicks’n'Morter** organisations would founder as their traditional qualities of customer service, owning stock and not wearing clothes heading for the new emperor smashed against the cyber-rock bullshit hidden by hideous flash web sites.

And what actually happened? 1999 internet stock crash, crappy outsourced customer service, multi tiered non delivery systems and the ability to track your deliveries on line. Thanks fellas, it’s been emotional.

But let’s not demean all their efforts – surely being able to divine the exact location of some web purchase is a mile marker in the glorious marathon of forgetting what shops are for. Because it is important to understand exactly at what time the desperately important package you’ve spent two hours saving twenty pence surfing for will finally arrive.

One small issue. They are really quite shit. Our Freesat receiver is made by a company that sounds like an advertisement for some extreme porn. HUMMAX are sold by Dixons, dispatched from a warehouse owned by someone else, and not really delivered by DHL. Really, what could possibly go wrong with that supply chain?

Well someone’s pulling mine. DHL dispensed with hard facts and instead offered a couple of quite creative fantasies. Firstly the response to my tracking code was “fatal error, database has exploded, fat IT contractor on the shitter, try again later” before the fabrication increased a notch to “Delivery not possible. Recipient business on holiday”

Couple of points here, we’re neither a business nor on holiday. Since the non delivery didn’t even include a scrawled card tossed in the general area of the front door, a more accurate message would be “Lazy Driver has feet up in cab, reading sports pages and mooning at cows“. Twice I emailed them (because ringing them would undoubtedly unleash a call centre in which, after ten minutes, two people would feel the urge to eat the phone) and twice they ignored me.

So I emailed Dixons who, in a pact with their delivery agents, ignored me as well. I became mildly irritated and resorted to BLOCK CAPS. This generated some activity at the far end assuring me that my package would be delivered as soon as we had finished our holiday. I made the bold claim we were not on holiday and – only a couple of days later – was offered up the worthless promise that delivery was scheduled for today.

If we weren’t on holiday. So I cannot tell you how surprised we were when the driver – fresh from 4 days of sleeping in his cab – bowled up and nearly bowled over the total innocent represented by the aerial fella. We fell upon  him as a man dying from thirst would on encountering an oasis, and wrenched from his sweaty hand the magic box that would deliver Channel 5.

Fortified by a strong cup of tea, Sam the aerial man laddered back up onto the roof, waved the Satellite Dish around, performed complex stuff with expensive electronics, and finally delivered a televisual solution that runs to two TVs, four freeview receivers, six SCART cables, one HDMI thingymagic, six remote controls, and about a hundred channels. 93 of which appear to be selling me crap products via the Internet, which is about where we came in.

Of course you could consider the alternative of buying stuff from a shop that has both stock and people. It may cost you an extra tenner, but it’s unlikely to invoke a phone bill running into millions as you wait for someone, anyone to prove “your call is important to them“.

And the real reason I am writing this junk? There is bugger all on the TV.

* that alone is a sufficient crime against the semantic truth to sentence each and every one of them to suffer death by extreme haircutting.

** On second thoughts, death is probably too good for them.

An oxymoron that occupies a position of shame with Civil Servant, Help Line and Honest Politician. It’s the kind of marketing couplet that pisses you off for almost ever, and then just carries on giving.

I was forced to email London Midland* with a simple question regarding bike storage at one of their stations. This after failing to be connected to anyway who really understood what a train station might be via a life bleeding call centre, and being sort of amused by the website which states:

Cycle Storage: Yes
Cycle Facilities: No

The auto reply went something like “We will try and get back to you within 10 days but our PASSENGERS CHARTER gives us 20 days to do so”

20 fucking days. To answer 1 bloody question? Either sort out your useless web site or – and I know it’s a bit of a stretch – try providing some customer service. The customer is king eh? More like the customer is a cash cow that is forced to slum it on our shitty service so why the fuck should we invest in any kind of service that would make their life easier?

Not quite as punchy I agree, but far more sodding accurate.

Oh and while I am at it, I bloody hate “do not reply to this email” auto responses. It’s like being kicked in the wedding veg and then told “nah, nah you can’t hit me back”

CLIC-24 tomorrow. Donations still welcome. I am in that bowel loosening nervous state between ‘Blither’** and ‘Wibble’. The forecast looks considerably better but with my inability to separate “Sunshine” and “Cold beer, my already random lines choices may tend to even greater perambulation out on the course. Assuming I ever get that far.

* confused geographical branding in the same box of numptiness containing “London Luton”

** The Team Metrosexual persuasively argues that if one can be labelled a blithering idiot, then surely the root verb must be “to blither”.

Lordy, I am pissed off. In days gone by, I would have been well within my rights as an angry Englishman to go and shoot some Welsh*, follow that up with a ten course banquet – big on identifiable dead animal and small on cutlery – before launching into an all night carousing session with a dozen floozies of my choice.

Assuming I was Henry the VIII anyway. Instead my vocational bucket is overflowing with a million things all of which have the twin characteristics of a deadline sometime in the past and being – in my considered opinion – somebody else’s fucking problem. I used to love the sound of deadlines as they whooshed by whilst I merely ducked under the desk and refused to acknowledge their existence.

Still next years’ budget is taking shape but what fucking shape I do not know. Joining the dots of our financial planning process would very likely bring the duck billed platypus into being. Or the dodo. I can say no more, so amuse yourself for a moment while I attempt to beat the All-Bucks-Swearing record (muttering darkly category)

Somewhere between a million phone calls (if God had wanted us to have 10 simultaneous conversations, he would have specified decagon heads with an ear on each plane. Not voicemail. People should remember that. And be reminded with frequent beatings if necessary) and the ongoing non sale of the house, a Customer Service Representative** took a jolly tone with me. Apparently it was my lucky day because the mighty Honda would have failed its’ first MOT had they not had a tyre in stock. But not just a pneumatic tube with a few grooves in; on no, I now am the proud owner of a jewel encrusted rotating splendor.

Because one tyre CANNOT possibly cost that much. And, of course, it doesn’t if you’re not being held hostage by the robbing bastards hiding behind a neon sign and shiny showroom. I expect the chippy dog lobber was straight down to “Ron’s Remoulds” cashing in a few extra quid on MY tyre which’d miraculously sprouted an extra inch of tread. Their invoicing system was about ready to explode as reams of paper piled up to about waist height as the bill was printed out. The final total was displayed on an extra long strip to get all the zeros in.

It’s out of warranty now which is good as I’m out of cash. That’s the last time I’ll be darkening their towels again unless it’s under the cover of darkness and I’m acting suspiciously in the vicinity of the safe. With all this and trying to complete some airily promised camp site booking for NZ, it seemed the perfect time to engage on a spot of bike rationalisation.

What this has proven – quite unequivocally – is that I am a bloody idiot. Having adopted a slash and burn approach to my inbox, the remainder of the evening has been a difficult composite of spanners, swearing and sweat as I serially dismantled, packaged, lost bits, un-packaged, banged head on wall, had stern talk about use of hammer, repackaged, tidy and wept quietly in a corner.

I am getting pretty good at buying and selling bike bits. In volume anyway, if not in any measurable commercial terms. For example, the Wanga is standing me at about £50 a ride and it was a shit ride at that. The true worry out of all of this is not the dangerous H&S situation awaiting anyone viewing the barn with bike parts strewn, hung and abandoned in every corner, but the immutable fact that my bike total has been reduced by one.

Sunday night, downstream of half a bottle of wine this seemed a really good idea. This evening, with the barn pictorially describing the phrase “Blast Radius” and my level of irritation reaching danger level, I wonder if it was. I think it is way past the time to try and find the answer in the second half of that bottle.

* My choice of victim for some less than friendly arrowing is, in now way, based on the travesty of justice that was last weekend’s Rugby result. Oh no.

** Ian, suggest you start recruiting, there’s going to be a BIG increase in “Pitters” this month.

… I qualify the word best by substituting “most read”. Not for one single moment would I ever presume that the shit I write exists in some kind of well written hierarchy. No it’s nonsense from day one, self promoting, vicarious, shot through with fibs and inaccuracies and punctuated by random shotgunning of commas and the occasional full stop.

Lately however, I’ve been inundated with at least one email demanding the choicest cuts for the poor newcomer washed upon the prickly shores of Planet Hedgehog. In a cowardly populist move, the selections below are based entirely on number of hits. The few I was most proud of, nobody read. That’s the way it goes with vanity publishing.

So, if you really have absolutely nothing better to do, take a deep breath, ensure many and varied large drinks are in reach around range and prepare yourself for the ramblings of an idiot.

Testing 1-2
Whoosh
You bought me a car
Just a walk in the park
Channelling my inner Clarkson
New is the new used
Head over wheels
In a ditch called dignity
A proper day out
Does anyone have a flamethrower?
The Landrover List
Finally worked it out
IVR
Rock, Paper, Scissors
The hardest Month
Good times
Fridge Magnet
Politeness Costs Nothing

Nov 2010

Quote, Unquote
No Crash Zone
I blame the singlespeeder
Mayhem 2010
Oi you clever trousers!
Mountain Men
Are we there yet?
Fod
Sections
That was the weekend that was
Common Sense
Customer Service
Beyond Thawderdome
This is Why
There’s a problem with your bike

Only a bit of a year later, I’ve found some more. Reading your own stuff again just makes you realise quite how important it is that you get out more.

Connect 5
Walking the dog
Time Machines
Dog days
Revolving Doors
Lights out
The Wrong Stuff
The dog ate my footwear
Riding Buddies
Targets
Waiting for the bus
Compassion Fatigue
My first smartphone
Burn’n'Crash
It’s not Glandular
Rush Hour
Dav 478Y”
Silent Running
MOT
Winning
Not My World
Second Life
Embrace The Mudness

Updates to this page are likely to be randomly generated. Much like most of the posts

A man walks into a pub
Move it
They think it’s all over
24 hours of ow
Cat in a flap
You get what you pay for
Going Ariel
Hit this, broke that
Puppy Explosion

Springing into action, a further three month update. Quality remains distinctly average:

Hangover Cures
Talent Compensator
The Wizard of Ug!
On The Grout
One Speed, Many problems
Return of the Rant
Of Lice and Van
Fashion Crime
Breaking the Rules

…. update December 2007. Same standard. Still rubbish.
Chasing Cars
Double Seat
Are you an Idiot?
Inner Nutter
Maximum
Marketing
Yorkshire nonsense
Short Haul Hell
Flaws to Manual
Proper Nutter
Home is where the bike is
Hope clings me spurnal

God, have I been doing it this long?
Chicksands
Chip’n'Ping
When Bromptons attack
Street Riding
24
Washing machine crisis
A brush with the floor
Bristol Bikefest
Riding when drunk
Hangovers
Hospital Diaries: 1,2,3 and 4
Darts
Lifts
Degrees
Bingo Night
Being Five
Toilet Humour
Five things about commuting
Russ Appeal write up
Crashes
Yoga
Marooned
Recycle
Hobbies
How many bikes?
Altitude Training

Not all of you obviously. Because while I am totally up for a letterbox widening, ego boosting encounter with an incredulous but insanely jealous postman, it’d just be wrong. And mostly because you’re either blokes or surfing from the safety of a mental ward. Or possibly both.

Still I’m on holiday and that’s good. So are the kids which you could possibly label as a slight downside. And so are everyone else’s kids which is a definite goolie masher when you’re all cramming into the same ball pits, swimming pools, parks, A&E departments, etc.

A&E was almost a certainty when the kids demanded roller blading once I’d vetoed the ball pit on the non unreasonable grounds it represented a fire risk. And 300 baying children violently assaulting each other and being noisily sick is not my idea of a tenner well spent.

The choice of knee pads was a good one. Something for me to learn from the kids.

Anyway Carol and I have turned our noses up – quite rightly – at all that Valentine’s nonsense and just settled for a quiet card each. Congratulating ourselves on shunning the rampant commercialism of twelve roses for fifty quid, a short but expensive trip to the picture shop rampantly commercialised me out of £250 on “pictures for each others Valentine’s present”

I fully expect these to rest peacefully in our old pictures home where huge expanses of what was previously money collect dust in a upstairs corner. And because I’m married to a klepto, there’s a pictorial history spanning twenty years of changing tastes. Starting with classy black ash framed Athena prints through an expensive original pencil drawing phase and spiralling out of any sort of control once the kids were born. Well the first kid anyway, poor old Random has only the mugshots from school, and the occasional digital recording of her falling face forward into her food.

It does make me hanker somewhat for my poster of Kim Wilde in her ‘Kids in America’ heyday. That poster brought me many hours of enjoyment during long nights in my student days. It’s a double shame that she’s turned into a bit of an old boiler, and that the poster remained in our dingy digs once it became apparent it was stuck to the wall. I’ll leave it at that should I? Right-O.

Two delivery vans waited until we’d left the house before gleefully depositing a “why can’t you stay in all day�” note under the door. Randoms’ bike was one of them and now the only time the courier can deliver it is sometime in 2009. And then only to Cornwell or Mars.

I’ll admit to this being a bit of a guess on my part since they’ve clearly heard about customer service by issuing a number with the card. Sadly they’ve failed to understand what it means since there is no one to answer the phone. Somehow I remained calm while an automated attendant reminded me “your call is important to us as we’re creaming 50% off the cost of this 0845 number“.

Too early for a beer? No, thought not.

I’m with Bob on this one but if I may be allowed to live his 80s lyrics in the moment, it’d be more “I bloody hate everyone on Monday’s’. Agreed it doesn’t scan quite so well, but factually it’s a hit.

Last week the electronic ticket machine greedily gobbled down credit cards without coughing up anything other than an electronic parp. The human equivalent performed lamentably in terms of queue management, instead choosing to restore the machine to a working state through a violently escalating troubleshooting technique ending in him kicking the shit out of the door.

This week they’ve gone one better and neither the machine or the ticket inspector/computer repair man was working. The repercussion was an obvious hundred grumpy and ticketless travellers arriving at the Marylebone terminus. Well obvious to anyone with the thinnest slice of intelligence, which instantly disqualifies Chiltern Railways, who instead blindly worship at the altar of revenue.

Rather than admitting their enterprise class fully resilient IT systems were in fact undone by a ‘hygiene operative’ inadvertently plugging in the vacuum cleaner and sending us on our way with an open turnstile and a forthright apology, instead they queued us like cattle facing the abattoir. The tailback was queued so far up the platform, geographically it was in the postcode of South Harrow. A single Butlin’d uniformed employee of the bank of railway wickedly traded his poisoned chalice for a heavily thumbed notebook and a blunt pencil.

Yes, customer service soon became customer irritation as this one poor lad licked, frowned and consulted several notebooks everytime a frustrated passenger asked for a single from Stoke Mandeville. Still help was at hand as the arthritic ‘B’ team parachuted in from their extended tea break with electronic copies of his desperate notebook. Sadly they’d received neither the requisite braincells nor training to operate them and entire epochs passed as they failed to navigate the complex menu system dreamt up by a descendant of Columbus’s navigator. That’ll be a single from the East Indies and to hell with the specifics.

Read more…

.. that’s me. Not Chiltern Railways; a company to whom the words “Customer Service” are just a bunch of letters waiting to be outsourced to India. You can’t ring them and speak to a real person. That’d be too easy and they’d probably need counselling if every I got through. You can FAX them (high tech solution that), try an e-mail or when both of those fail, bring forth the mighty power of the electronic pen.

They never respond but in the same way that shouting at my kids “Tidy up your bedroom and let next doors three year old out of the cellar RIGHT NOW” doesn’t actually achieve anything, I, at least, feel better.

We have an unwritten (obviously) agreement. I write them letters and they ignore them. It’s a lose-lose situation that in this world of nobody’s responsible for anything, which seems to have insidiously spread to ever more far reaching corners of customer interaction.

Bugger, I’m turning into my dad. Next thing it’ll be halcyon days viewed through the untreated myopia of rose tinted glasses, lamenting the youth of today and the lack of respect they offer to their elders. Oh no, it appears it’s already too late.

Here’s a couple of examples: Do the trains every run on time and Hello, anyone there, I have a question.

It’s all this rain you see. I’ve twice rearranged my collection of uncomprehendable pension statements and broken the sander already. Short of cracking open the Chardonnay at 2pm on a drizzly Sunday afternoon or unleashing yet more DIY destruction on an innocent door, this is all that remains