Would you allow your business to be advised by a new consultancy whose most senior staff member allowed herself to be inpregnated by this utter cunt?

No, neither would I.

I bet Sir Alan is fucking delighted.

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I’m not going to swear, I promise.

At no point will I refer to those cunty fucking shysters in derogatory terms.

The reason for my extreme displeasure is that I am trying to rent out my other flat at the moment, as part of my strategy to become a property magnate (not magnet, which means something entirely different I now realise). My efforts are being thwarted by having a devious, deceitful, morally corrupt agency acting on my behalf.

In the past 12 months these utter cuntbags have placed two sets of problem tenants in my flat, both of whom I’ve had to ask to vacate the property, leaving numerous unpaid utility bills (have a guess where they come knocking when the tenant disappears), and now they can’t get anyone to move in. Despite me spending £1000 on redecorating the place.

Each conversation I have with them goes like this;

“Did they take the flat then?” I’ll ask hopefully.

“No, sorry, they found somewhere else unfortunately, but I showed someone round today who really wants it!”

“Excellent, what happens next?”

“I’ll speak to them tomorrow to finalise the paperwork, hopefully they’ll be in by the end of the week.”

“Good, I’ll speak to you tomorrow then.”

I then phone up the following day and have exactly the same conversation all over again. It is becoming my own personal Groundhog Day, except instead of trying to get into Andi McDowell’s knickers (she’s been rubbish since Hugh Grant knobbed her in Four Weddings anyway) I am thinking of ever more creative ways to castrate my Estate agent, and do the equivalent to his female assistant (booby feely?).

So, my question to the readership is this, do any of you want to rent a recently decorated two bedroom flat with views of a Castle?

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Just in case Tuesdays post hadn’t made it clear how shitty the hotel was, I wanted to share this little story on how they treat their prisoners paying guests.

At 1:45am on Friday morning, my colleague and I decided to call it a night. Birminghams Broad street had provided more than enough entertainment, and I was frankly as entertained as a newt. So I was reasonably confident of now being able to fall sleep in my sparse room.

“I’d like the key to room 423 please,” I requested politely whilst failing to enunciate properly.

“Certainly Sir”, responded the man who’s badge read ‘Night Shift Manager’, “I’ll just fetch it for you.”

My colleague wandered to bed in zig zag fashion as he’d taken his key out with him, and we agreed to reconvene in just over five hours for breakfast.

“Here you are Sir”, said the Night Shift Manager, “but first I need to take payment for the room.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need to take payment for the room.”

“You swiped my card when I checked in, and I’ll pay when I check out, just like at every other hotel on the planet.”

“You can’t reserve an amount using Maestro you see, it has to be a credit card, they should have swiped a credit card when you checked in, so I need to take payment from you now.”

“I don’t have a credit card on me, and I’m not paying you at 1:45 in the morning. I want to look at my bill when I can focus both of my eyes at the same time, and I’m not so completely and utterly entertained.”

“I really need you to pay for the room now Sir.”

“You want me to get in the lift, go to my room, get my wallet, get back in the lift, come back here and pay you, then get back in the lift and go back to my room?”

“Yes please Sir.”

“At 1:45 in the morning?”

“Yes Sir.”

“That is not, in any way shape or form, going to happen. Do you understand? Let me tell you what is going to happen. You are going to give me that key. I am going to get in the lift and go to my room. I am going to drink about four litres of water, and get into bed, probably still in my clothes. You will go back to doing whatever it was you were doing before I rang that bell. Then, in the morning, and after I’ve had my breakfast, I will come back here, checkout and pay my bill. You and I will then pretend like this little conversation never happened. Capiche?”

“Err, OK then Sir.”

Clearly my negotiation skills are improving.

OK, I didn’t say ‘Capiche’, but I’ve always wanted to end a conversation that way, and I am excellent at coming up with great lines after the event. I considered phoning down at 1:55am just to say ‘Capiche’, but it just wouldn’t be the same out of context, and my alcohol induced drawl would probably have lead to a room service order for a bowl of cabbage.

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Don’t get me wrong, a little deception can go a long way, particularly if it benefits me in some way. However, I find it infuriating when people are congratulated for ‘doing the right thing’ when it’s patently clear to anyone with half an ounce of common sense that in reality their actions were completely selfish.

Let us take the example of Welsh postman Roger Annies. He has kept his job after the Post Office found out he had advertised to his delivery route that there was a way of stopping unsolicited junk mail. The Post Office makes a lot of money from this so they were obviously peeved. Not so the people on good ‘ol Rogers delivery route though, oh no!

“We get loads of junk mail and we’re fed up with it!”

“The Post Office were unfair in reprimanding Roger!”

“He was doing us all a favour and unfortunately he’s gotten into trouble for it.”

“We love Roger and we all want to suck his balls.”

OK. One of those was made up. No-one is fed up with the amount of junk mail they get.

Roger’s note, which he put through peoples doors actually read, “You may be interested in reducing your unwanted advertising mail and reduce paper usage in order to help save the environment. If you complete the slip below and send it to the Royal Mail delivery office, you should not get any of the above mentioned unwanted advertising.”

Of course, what Roger’s first draft actually said was, “I am sick and tired of carrying loads of mail every day, even though that’s my job and it’s what I get paid for. I’d like to work less than the three hours a day I currently manage, so can I please have a note from you to the nasty Post Office managers so I only have to deliver absolutely essential mail from now on.”

Be honest about it Roger, you’re just being lazy and I’ll bet you wouldn’t know an environmental policy if it slapped you round the face with an oil-drenched seal.

I bet he’s also one of those Posties who ‘pretends’ to have tried to deliver your parcel when in reality it never left the depot.

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And this coveted award goes to, The Brittania Hotel on New Street in Birmingham.

It is a God-awful septic boil on the anus of Central England. That is what it should say on the website, not the completely fictitious bollocks that was clearly written by someone who has never been within 10 miles of the hotel, never mind stayed there.

The Britannia Hotel is a smart hotel with a superb location in the heart of Birmingham city centre. It nestles amongst the designer shops, major stores, shopping centres and jewellery markets and is the ideal base from which to explore one of the UK’s most popular cities.

It is hardly an ‘ideal base’ if you’re a homeless illegal immigrant, never mind a serious business person (like what I am). As for ’smart’, well, I guess it’s all comparative, so the website author must have spent his adult life living in ditches or they were raised by travelling pikeys.

The Britannia has over 195 traditionally decorated en suite bedrooms that provide its guests with comfort and value for money. Each room includes a direct dial telephone, trouser press, hairdryer, colour television, complimentary tray and much more besides. The rooms are spacious and comfortable and are suitable for both business and leisure guests.

Traditionally decorated? Hmm. In some parts of the world smearing yourself in the blood of a recently slaughtered animal is considered traditional, so I suppose the most sparsely furnished, worn out room I’ve ever stayed in should not be too surprising.

It was not comfortable. At all. In fact, I think I’d have had a better nights sleep had I spent it at her Majesty’s pleasure.

The television was one of the first ever flat-screen models. The ones that didn’t actually have a flat screen, just a glass screen in front of the normal screen to give the impression of a proper flat screen. Oh, and it was only 20 inches. Who in their right mind watches a 20 inch TV nowadays?

As with all Britannia hotels it goes without saying that the business service is professional and supported by years of experience with the well-equipped facilities and internet access.

Obviously, when they write “supported by years of experience” they are referring to the two hundred and eleven year old person in charge of the wireless Internet service. Which only worked if you sat within 15 feet of the bar, and was not available in any of the 195 cells bedrooms.

A crappy hotel, staffed by staggeringly inept morons from top to bottom.

Yes, I enjoyed my few days away from the office.

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Repondé s’il vous plaít – or whatever it means in French. This is basically a statement by which you must confirm by return post whether you will be attending a particular event, or not, as the case may be.

This is a complete and utter waste of my time.

If I’m not coming, I won’t be there. You will be able to tell I am not attending the function by my lack of presence.

If I am coming, then I’ll tell you. An RSVP rarely arrives without prior warning. Someone will mention they are getting married or having a party and they’ll say,

“Can you come Angry?”

“Yes, thanks, I’ll see you there”

“Excellent, if you could just send the RSVP to us to confirm that would be great”

“Confirm? Don’t you believe me?”

“No, it’s just we need to keep track.”

“Look, I’m coming, I’ll see you there. There’s no need to waste a stamp. People are dying in the world, so don’t be so wasteful of the Earth’s, and the Post Offices, precious resources.”

“But it’s tradition, you have to.”

“That is complete bollocks and you know it.”

And so it goes on. This is why so many people are surprised when I turn up at their parties. To be fair though, the caterers are generally quite good at squeezing me onto a table.

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(continued from yesterday)

Having parked outside, I had to queue for twenty minutes at the branch.

This is twenty minutes of my life that I can never get back. It was spent in a queue while three cashiers attempted, rather unsuccessfully, to deal with everybody, whilst two unmanned (or is it unwomaned?) cashier tills were gathering dust. I rued the fact I was missing Trisha.

After four score and ten I got to the front of the queue, where I explained that I wanted to open an account and presented the cashier with the completed forms and relevant identification. After a further twenty minutes (clearly the branch brain cell was on flexi-time that day) they had photocopied my passport and utility bills, opened the account and relieved me of a cheque for £200 to get it started.

All that had to happen now was for my God Daughter’s parents to present her birth certificate at their nearest branch, again for anti-money laundering purposes. I did not know that 3 month old children are at the forefront of organised crime and terrorism. It is reassuring to know that the banks are looking out for us.

I was now understandably incandescent with rage at the fact that it took forty minutes in a branch to open my God Daughter’s not-very-online on-line savings account. I fumed silently back to my car, where I noticed, sitting proudly on the windscreen, a parking ticket.

I was clearly delighted that my five-minute ‘pop into the bank to hand in some pre-filled in forms’, had taken forty minutes resulting in me incurring a parking ticket. The love for my God Daughter was beginning to wane.

I took some satisfaction that it was a job finally done, and the new not-very-online on-line savings account was opened…or so I thought.

A few days later I received a letter from the Halifax. Excellent, I thought, confirmation that the account is open and my regular monthly payment would be made.

“Dear Madam, following your visit you left us with a cheque for the sum of £200. In order for us to credit the account we are still waiting for name and address verification from yourself. These documents should include your Birth Certificate, Passport or Driving Licence and a utility bill. Please could you do this as soon as possible otherwise we will have to send the cheque back to you.”

They have written to me, at my home address, the home address they lent me the money to buy, asking me to verify my address. Despite the fact that I had already done this and they had photocopied said documents right there in front of me.

So I phoned the number on the letter and explained all.

“Please could you put me through to the branch.” I demanded calmly.

“I’m sorry but I’m not allowed to do that. What I can do is e-mail the branch and someone will call you in the next 2 hours”, another witless Halifax employee informed me.

Two hours later and, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’d heard nothing. So I called them again.

“I’ll put you through to the branch”. I was then put through before I could ask why it was not possible to do this the first time I called.

I explained my situation to the young man who was at the branch where I had wasted forty minutes of my life.

“Bear with me for 2 minutes”, he said.

Two minutes later, true to his word, and keeping the first promise from Halifax in nearly two weeks, he returned. “It’s fine, I have all the documents here and I have updated the computer system.”

“So you have all you need?”

“Yes.”

“So I don’t need to go into a branch?”

“No.”

“The computer system has been updated so that all this is reflected on the system?”

“Yes.”

“Great, thank you.”

I hung up. At last the ordeal of opening a not-very-online on-line savings account was finally over!

A few days later I received another letter from them which said:

“Dear Madam, enclosed is your cheque for £200 as we have not received confirmation of your name and address details in order to open the account and get it activated. If you could come into your local branch we will get this done for you.”

Trembling with anger I once again dialled the number on the letter. I explained clearly, concisely, and with only a few choice expletives, that I wished to make a formal complaint.

“I can either send you a form or put you through to my manager.”

“Put me through to your manager please, I genuinely doubt your organisations ability to handle a paper form of any description and I have some quite creative swearing to release because of your complete and utter incompetence.”

I spoke to the manager who was extremely apologetic, understandably. She said that this was unacceptable and would make the formal complaint on my behalf, she then asked if she could look into it and call me back in 10 minutes. I agreed. Sure enough, 10 minutes later she called me back.

“Once again I am so very sorry for this. What I have done is closed that account, opened you a new one and cross referenced it to your mortgage account. There is no need for you to go into a branch and verify yourself as this was done when you took out your mortgage”

“That is what I tried to tell the Call Centre a month ago when I first called…”

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Hello everyone!!!

My name is Amy, and I am a friend of Mr Angry. Well, more of an acquaintance I guess, but we’re close enough that he has let me borrow his copy of the Internet for a couple of days whilst he is away schmoozing with clients at some conference or another. Just so I can tell you my tale of woe and despair. He is nice like that.

My story begins with one of my best friends having a baby (legitimate), and my subsequent promotion to the rank of God Mother. I am not able to grant wishes like God Mothers of the Fairy variety, so I decided on the second best gift for my new God Daughter, that of cold hard cash. Those Two Kings knew nothing with their Frankincense and Myrrh. Baby Jesus wanted the Gold.

After surfing the Internet for a while, and consulting Money Saving Expert (he is very clever), it transpired that the Halifax had the best rate of interest for children’s savings accounts. They are my bank, so this made me happy.

This excellent rate of interest meant I would not not only be generous, but I would also be a financially savvy God Mother!

I went to the Halifax homepage and followed the appropriate, easy-to-find links to open an account on-line. After several clicks and entering quite a few personal details (5′7″, blue eyes, brunette, if you’re interested), I was informed that I would need to phone them.

This is struck me as somewhat strange for an on-line application process.

I duly picked up the phone and dialled the appropriate number. A call centre operative (as I believe telephone monkeys like to be called) answered the phone and very pleasantly took the details from me that I had already spent 10 minutes entering into the Internet (I type slowly).

A reasonable enquiry as to why I had to duplicate information got me nothing but awkward silence. I assumed I was ‘off script’ at this point, so I let it lie.

The call centre operative continued, “I have opened the account for you and you will receive notification within 5 working days. Once you receive the notification, all you have to do is fill in and sign the forms, go into your nearest branch and verify yourself.”

Once again, I note the distinct lack of ‘on-line’ activity in opening this on-line account.

“I’m sorry, verify myself?” I enquired.

“Yes ma’am, you have to provide some documentation to prove you are who you say you are, and provide a utility bill to verify your address.”

“Why do I have to do this exactly?”

“Oh, it’s for anti-money laundering purposes.”

“But I have a mortgage with you. So you know who I am and where I live. In fact, you lent me the money to buy the house you want me to prove I live in. You send me regular statements, to that address, detailing the mortgage payments I have made and monies owing to date.”

“I’m sorry but you have to verify yourself in person. Whoever verified you last time didn’t update the computer system so we have no record of it.”

“So let me get this straight, I have a mortgage with you for the property at which I live, and I still have to take in a utility bill to prove my name and address, and my passport or driving licence?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Sensing my line of questioning was going nowhere fast I thanked her and hung up, silently fuming that I actually had to go into a branch of a bank, something I haven’t had to do for several years, thanks to the Halifax’s slick not-very-online on-line account opening service.

A few days later, after receiving the documentation I was breathlessly awaiting, I found a morning where I could “work from home” and do all my errands, top of the list being a visit to ‘verify’ myself at the Halifax. Now, I purposely chose a mid-morning time to go into the Bank, thereby avoiding the lunch time queue of nutters and piss-smelling oldies. I parked my car around the corner from the branch, and made my way inside. How long could it possibly take to hand over a few forms I had already filled in, and show my passport…?

(Concluded tomorrow…)

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All,

I am disappearing for a few days due to some Very Import Work I am currently involved in. In my absence, I would like you to welcome my good friend Amy. Say Hello Amy. She is from the North, quite funny and she drinks a lot, so she will fit right in here.

She told me of a recent experience of hers* which she is going to share with you over the next couple of days, I am quite sure you will like it. When she told me over the phone I spat tea out of my nose. The bitch.

If they have got the Internet outside of Greater London I may pop in over the next few days, but if it is like I imagine it to be north of the Midlands (a bit like the island in Lost, but with less sunshine and hot chicks in vests), then Amy will be your only host.

* Greavsie, BoT, Oli, banana and other pervs, she is not a sex-blogger, she is going to tell you about proper, real life problems.

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I am fast becoming good enough at Do It Yourself (DIY to those of us ‘in the know’) to be considered an Absolute Novice. I think with a little more practise I may graduate to Beginner.

This week I have attempted to put up a mirror. A very big, very heavy mirror. In a very big and very heavy brushed steel frame. This meant drilling and securing proper brackets to the wall before hanging it.

I felt as confident in undertaking this task as I would disarming a nuclear weapon. Despite how easy Tom Cruise makes it look.

For my first mirror-hanging exercise, I even bought a power drill. This is a great experience for any man.

Whilst at the DIY superstore, I carefully considered the assorted power tools before me and then proceed to pick the one I felt most comfortable performing the “quick-draw” with. You never know when you’ll get challenged to a drill-duel, probably at dawn. Well, I am now very well prepared for this eventuality, more so than most of you reading this, I’ll bet. It also drills holes of assorted size into walls and other stuff.

In a classic extension sell on the part of the DIY giant, I was then coerced (by a very persuasive, very bright, and very shiny inanimate sign) into buying an additional assortment of drill-bits, 24 to be precise. 24 is a lot of bits. I think.

OK, in my Absolute Novice opinion, 24 sounds like a lot of bits.

So, armed with a new quick-draw-friendly power tool, a selection of 24 drill bits of assorted sizes, and a steely determination, can someone explain to me how I cannot find a drill bit of the correct size for the raw-plug needed for my new mirrors industrial strength brackets?

This is why someone needs to invent super strength cello-tape.

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The office cleaner has just been to clear the bin next to my desk. Having recently moved to a new office, this is the first time I have met him. As regular readers will know, I am a man of the people and not concerned with such things as social standing, so I engaged him in polite conversation.

“Wow!” I said pointing at his eye-patch. “You’re really getting into this Talk Like A Pirate Day thing.”

“Excuse me?”

“The patch, it’s a nice touch, you know, for national Talk Like A Pirate Day. It’s all over the Internet, err, m’hearty! Arrrrr!”

“I don’t have the Internet. And I only have one eye.”

Sometimes it’s better just to keep your mouth shut.

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As I walk into the local I’m greeted by Fat Jim at the Bar. I have not seen him since I got back from my holiday. Fat Jim likes to think of himself as ‘down with the kids’, not in the Gary Glitter way of course, and when he sees me he cries, “Sup Dawg!” in an American drawl. I consider leaving immediately, but I really want a beer.

“How was your holiday Angry?” he enquires.

“Not bad thanks Fat Jim.” I respond, trying to avoid conversation.

“Any action?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, lady action.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, a bit”

“Nice one. Snoggy Woggy?”

“Yeah.”

“Boobie Feely?”

“Yup”

“Touchy Wouchy?”

“Indeed”

“Sucky Wucky?”

“No unfortunately.”

“Licky licky?”

“Nope”

“Fucky wucky?”

“Not a jot.”

“Shame, good week though? A pint of the usual?”

And that is how todays grown men inform each other of how the weeks endeavours with the opposite sex went.

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I think most adverts are shit. This is not new, and should not come as any surprise to anyone reading this. However, those clever advertising folks have now started adding useful pieces of information during the product placements. Just little things that could possibly save your life.

I believe the Marketeers out there would refer to what they’re doing as introducing the FUD factor. In that they’re creating a desire to purchase through creating Fear, Uncertainty and Doubt.

Well, I’m here to tell you it works.

“Did you know that your chopping board contains 50 times more bacteria than your toilet seat?” said the nice lady on the Dettol advert.

Well, this is an extremely useful piece of information. Unfortunately, going upstairs to the bathroom every time I want to chop a carrot is playing havoc with my knees.

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“I’m writing this book you see.” said the friendly ginger-haired cab driver.

All of you people with your pre-conceived notions of ginger hair equalling fiery temper are clearly wrong, they can be kind and happy too. If a little pale for my taste. Almost sickly in fact.

“Really? Tell me about it.” I enquire enthusiastically. It is not everyday you get to meet a book-writing cab driver.

Unlike JonnyB I have never minded a bit of small talk. It helps to pass the time, and generally speaking, I can talk to anyone about anything. And I quite often do just that.

This is how I found myself listening to a cabbie talk about a book he’s written, which is all about winning the lottery.

“So you’ve actually won the lottery then?”

“Well, not the big one, no, but I won a few hundred pounds in 2001, and I obviously get the odd tenner every now and again.”

This did not strike me as the ideal set of qualifications for writing a book about winning the lottery. It would be like me writing a book on winning the Premier League, or Tony Blair on running Popular Military Incursions. I let it pass.

“Oh. Right. I wondered why the cab was a Vectra and not a Rolls Royce!”

“What people don’t understand you see is that there is a system to it. You can maximise your potential winnings quite easily.” he continued, completely missing my very funny automotive based joke.

“I see.” I mumbled in fake interest at the humourless cabbie.

“Plus there are literally millions in unclaimed prizes, did you know that?”

“Yes, I did know that actually.” I stated, impressing him instantly with my general knowledge.

He looked at me crestfallen, and for just the briefest of moments, I felt a pang of guilt for giving him a glimpse of my extraordinary general knowledge prowess. He was not down for long though, and the best was clearly yet to come.

“Did you know that they changed the rules as well?”

“No I didn’t.”

“Oh yes! It used to be that three numbers guaranteed you a tenner, but so many people were winning that they now take the tenners out of the prize fund. Do you know what this means?”

“Not really, no.”

“It means that if 6 very popular numbers come out, then the number of £10 wins could mean that there is nothing left for the jackpot. You could win nothing. For six numbers. How gutted would you be?”

“Probably very gutted I’d imagine, you know, if I played the lottery, which I don’t. So what are you going to call this book?”

“It’s a work in progress, but I’m erring on the side of “How to win the Lottery“, what do you think?”

“Not bad, but how can you be sure people will know what it’s about?” I offer, deciding my automotive joke was a little bit too in-his-face. Anyway, sarcasm is always big and clever. Like Raymond, everyone loves sarcasm.

“Good point”, he began, missing the second brilliant joke of our brief conversation. “After all, it’s about my system for winning, and my system works. When I win, I’ll win it big!”

“But you haven’t actually won big yet?”

“Well, no. Not yet.”

This has confirmed my opinion that the Lottery is merely a tax on stupid people and those without a rudimentary understanding of mathematics or probability theory. Then again, the Lottery punters may not be quite as stupid as the people who would be willing to buy a book about how to win the lottery written by a man who hasn’t actually won the lottery.

I left the Vectra-driving cabbie to his dreams of lottery winnings, and pray I don’t see his smiling sickly ginger face on the front of The Sun anytime soon.

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