Friday, 24 July 2009

Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a twat

14st 11lb, 5.0 units. This truly was the Day from Hell. It started off rather slowly, since I did not get up until after 7, but more than made up for that as it wore on.

First I attempted to resolve our internet connectivity problem by driving to PC World and buying some new micro-filters and a wireless router. The shop was far from busy, and a member of staff came across to see if I needed help (apparent OAP wearing grey anorak-like garment and blue flat cap; I must have practically had “HELP!!!” emblazoned across my back). He appeared to share my lack of confidence in BT India’s diagnosis, but pointed out that there were actually some micro-filters included in the router pack I had already picked up. So I could just try those first and bring the router back for a refund in the unlikely event that they solved my problem, and then buy some cheap new micro-filters separately. However, I noted they only had one such cheap pack of micro-filters on their shelves in the whole store, and I felt that I could safely predict how my day would go if I bought the router back with a view to buying them, so I muttered “belt and braces” to myself and took both. After a certain amount of buggering about back in Scratterville, where the new router initially refused to work at all, I finally got the thing working and both my and Mrs H’s computers connecting to it wirelessly, though after several increasingly frustrating attempts I concluded that it was completely impossible to set up the security that everyone else in the street seems to have managed to add to their system.

I then made yet another nostalgic last drive into the office in my convertible, and rang the garage to confirm that it would be possible to pick up Mrs H’s new car this afternoon. Only the man who was supposed to be back from his course today was not there. So I asked to speak to someone else. After some time listening to music I was told that the man I needed to talk to was “with a customer” but would call me back. I then made a couple of reasonably urgent phone calls, one of which was actually work-related, and was starting to draft a press release when I received what appeared to be one of those nuisance silent calls. After I had repeated my name tersely for perhaps the third time, someone with an irritating Welsh lilt finally said “Oh, is that Mr Hann?” This always irritates the hell out of me, tempting me to ask why the f*** the caller thinks I have just stated that very fact. “It’s ALAN [no, make that ALUN because the f***ing Welsh cannot spell even the shortest and simplest word properly] HUGHES from CHESHIRE OAKS AUDI here. I wasn’t expecting you to answer the phone because it’s been constantly engaged. [So why ring?] I’ve just e-mailed you to say that your cheque won’t clear until at least Monday …”

I interrupted him at this point to say that my cheque had come out of my bank account on Tuesday and should have cleared by Wednesday at the very latest, and that I was very far from happy.

“Well it’s not our fault, Mr Hann. You were told that cheques take ten working days to clear …”

Actually, no I f***ing wasn’t. And if I had been, I would have pointed out that it is total bollocks because they take three days to clear, as they did when I worked in a bank for six months in 1972, doubtless did for decades before that and certainly have done ever since. I was so furious that I said something about not being sure that I wanted the f***ing car any more but would speak to Mrs H and get back to him, then slammed the phone down.

Deep breaths. Take deep breaths.

I have not been so annoyed in a very long time. Which is why I am abandoning my normal circumspection about saying what I really think about individuals and traders in this blog. If you happen to live in the North West of England and are thinking of buying a car, do not do so from CHESHIRE OAKS AUDI. They make even the likes of BT and John Lewis look like paragons of excellent customer service.

I duly spoke to Mrs H, who was rather keen to have a car that would accommodate a baby buggy and could not immediately see how cancelling the one we had on order was going to expedite this. Then I rang my bank to see whether I could stop my cheque, either with a view to cancelling the transaction altogether (if I had my way) or paying by debit card instead (if Mrs H had hers). But I was told that I could not, for the simple reason that it had cleared and gone into the garage’s account on Tuesday. A fact which the c***s at the garage seem incapable of grasping. My bank manager did say that he would be as angry as I was in the circumstances, which made me feel somewhat better, and suggested that I give the garage his name and number so that they could speak to him for any reassurance that they might require. I duly set this out in an e-mail but the rude, ignorant Welsh TWAT at the receiving end evidently could not be bothered to put his ample arse into gear to do anything about it, as sod all happened.

Just to put the tin hat on my day, I slowly grasped from a series of conversations in the late afternoon that I am probably not going to be able to rent the house that has become our dream home because I am going to fail the sodding credit checks. I should have seen this one coming. Even when I was earning a City salary and bonuses, I was turned down almost every time I applied for a credit card. Now I have no mortgage, no recent history of renting property, an income from self-employment that I have allowed to decline for several years, and an excellent accountant who regularly gets me letters of sympathy from HM Revenue and Customs in lieu of tax demands. It is absolutely true, as I stated on the application form, that I have recently increased my income and could comfortably afford to rent the house. But can I prove this, when all I have to offer are 18-month-old accounts? Can I bollocks.

When I got back home the sodding internet connection was down again, too. I sincerely wished that I did not like The Dog so much. It would have been greatly consoling to have had something I could kick.

1 comment:

Lyn the Blogger said...

We Welksh can spel beter tan ewe - we are not fucking stupid boyo - and in my annoying Welsh lilt I need to tell you that , like every English twat, twit or wanker I've every met you seem to think that 1) There is only one language in the world i.e. English
2) That there is only one way to spell words in the Western Hemisphere - that is in English.

Quick Welsh lesson -Welsh is the oldest living language in Europe. Welsh has not, unlike the English mutant language, only aeiou as vowels. It also has w and y as vowel sounds too (think about it.. what do they sound like?) U is prounounced in Welsh as an ee sound. Therefore Aleen is the correct pronounciation of Alun in Welsh. Well done. By the way I am a REAL journalist, not a pretend one so perhaps you could really write a blog of worth and not slag off Wales. We are so very happy to be Welsh, all 3,000,000 of us, and living in the most beautiful part of the country. So glad we are slowly shaking off the English shackles...