I Am Livid

If you are wondering why I am putting up this very short post about BT Broadband, then click here for yesterdays post about BT Broadband.

I would imagine the ads below will be more suitable for the aims of yesterday’s post about BT Broadband.

“You can help children in distress.” screamed the email from BT Broadband as it arrived in my inbox.

My first instinct was that volunteers were being sought to keep 24 hour watch over Gary Glitter, but this was soon proven to be incorrect.  It seems my domestic broadband provider, BT Broadband, are doing something for the children.  I am always keen to do a good deed, especially when I do not have to leave my desk or spend any money, so I read on.

“ChildLine urgently needs more people to answer the phone to help children in distress. Your help won’t cost you a penny. All you have to do is sign in to BT Yahoo! and use the BT Yahoo! search engine. When you complete a search we’ll make a donation to ChildLine*”

Just use the search engine?  Is that all?  With the phrase “Your help won’t cost you a penny” ringing in my ears, I read onwards.

“To start helping Childline now, follow these easy steps:

1. Log in to your BT Yahoo! Home Page.
2. Simply click on the ‘Make BT Yahoo! Your Home Page’ link at the top left of the page.
3. Start using BT Yahoo! – it’s one of the best search engines around.

We are committed to helping ChildLine long term, so if you’d like to be part of it, make BT Yahoo! your Home Page and your default search method. The more you use BT Yahoo! search the more you could be helping.”

Right.  So BT Broadband actually want me to change my homepage as well?  They snuck that one in a bit quietly didn’t they?  Fair enough though, it’s still free I suppose, and I could always change my homepage back to Pornotube BBC News straight away.  Now, if I could only see how much my searching would earn ChildLine I could get on with it.

I finally found the difficult to read email footer which showed me the text associated with the * in the opening paragraph.

“*Only applies to searches completed by clicking on a sponsored link.

BT will donate 5% of online advertising revenue from this promotion to ChildLine, a service provided by the NSPCC, registered charity numbers 216401 and SC037717 via the NSPCC Trading Company Ltd. BT expects to donate at least £100,000 plus VAT to ChildLine.”

So I have to click on an advert.

It has nothing to do with searching at all.  They just want me to change my homepage, and click on their adverts, all for a measly 5% contribution to ChildLine.  Ah, but it is going to amount to “approximately £100,000 pounds” I hear you say.  Fair enough, that is not an amount to be sneezed at, but let us consider that this promotion, designed to HELP CHILDREN IN DISTRESS, is going to earn BT approximately TWO MILLION pounds.

I will say that again, BT will earn TWO MILLION pounds from your efforts to help children in distress.

Fuck. That.

I am now going to prove that I am at least twenty times better than BT Broadband.  You may have noticed that I carry some Google ads on this site above the comments.  Last year I earned $131 from them, which covered my hosting costs and left me with, literally, enough money for five pints of strong continental lager.

However, for the next seven days I will donate EVERY single penny I earn through the adverts on this site to Childline. Not 5% like BT Broadband, but 100%.

I will take screenshots of my Google reports and the donation confirmation to prove it.  It will be embarrassing if I only donate my weekly average of about £1.20, but I am NOT suggesting you should click on the adverts above this post, as that would be against Google rules, and would result in the advertisers losing money from poorly intentioned clicks.  The advertiser that will lost out, if I have done my calculations correctly, being BT Broadband*.

That’s right.  Every penny that BT Broadband pay to me, via Google, will go to ChildLine.  I am sure can you see the somewhat poetic symmetry in this operation?

So, if some of you happen to be genuinely interested in changing your broadband supplier, or anything else advertised above, and were to click on a BT Broadband advert above, I can assure you that 100% of the revenue will be going to ChildLine.

I am hoping it will be more than a fiver.

We were on our way back from one one of Cornwall’s most famous golf courses, when Ickle suggested we should stop off somewhere for dinner.

“Padstow is just down the road,” he said, “Rick Stein has got a quite famous fish and chip shop there?”

Ickle’s record that week for suggesting activities was far from impressive, but I quite like fish and chips, though I do not like celebrity chefs.  It was a dilemma, to be sure.  My argument that any celebrity chef opening a fish and chip shop is clearly going to be doing so not for Michelin stars, but just to make a shit load of cash fell upon deaf hears, and so off towards Padstow we headed.

We were surprised to find that there was a small sit-in area at his chip shop, I suppose to give us the faintest illusion of being in a restaurant.  We stood in the queue and waited for a table.

And waited.

At about ten to nine we had finally reached the front of the queue.  A waitress came over to us and I began handing over my order.  She immediately interrupted me.

“I’m sorry.  We close at 9pm, so I don’t think we’ll be able to seat you now.”

“What?  We’ve just queued for quarter of an hour!”

“Sorry about that.  You can still get a take away?”

Faced with with having nothing to eat, or having fish and chips in the car, we joined the take away queue,  which moved only marginally quicker than the sit-down queue.

“I’ll have cod and chips with mushy peas please.”

“We’re out of mushy peas.”

Out-fucking-rageous.

What sort of chip shop runs out of mushy peas?  A really fucking shit one, that’s what sort of chip shop runs out of mushy peas.  One that is more interested in ensuring massive profit margins and minimising potential waste than serving it’s customers.

I picked up a can of Coke and headed to the till with my tiny box of cod and chips.

“That’ll be £9.20 please.”

“£9.20? Are you sure? I mean, I know I’ve been queueing for quite a while, but inflation in Cornwall is hardly at Zimbabwe’s levels is it?”

“Urm, right.  That’s £9.20 please.”

I sat fuming in the car whilst eating my ridiculously expensive tiny dinner and vowed not to listen to any of Ickle’s ideas ever again.  Unless he suggested going to the pub.

“Do you fancy trying waveskiing?” asked my friend Ickle.

“Waveskiing?” I queried, thinking he had made up a new sport.

“Yes, waveskiing.”

There followed a brief description of something that sounded a bit like a cross between surfing and canoeing.  It led me to imagine myself riding the crest of a wave onto the beach to be welcomed by hordes of bikini clad blonds.

“Yes, I think I would very much like to try that!”

It is times like this that you miss access to Google.  Without the Internet being able to correct my perception, I arrived at Watergate Bay expecting to be like the cool surfer dude I obviously aspire to be.

Fifteen minutes later, I stood on the beach in an ill-fitting wetsuit, wrapped in a fluorescent buoyancy aid and wearing a helmet usually reserved for use by construction workers.  The one thing I absolutely did not resemble was a ’surf dude’.  I looked more like an amateur pot-holer looking for a cave to explore.

After dragging our waveskis approximately eight miles across wet sand to the waters edge, we were given some brief instructions and sent into the waves.

This is when I realised that paddling into a wave is difficult.  Really fucking difficult. And so very, very tiring.

I had been paddling for about an hour when I decided to turn around and try and catch a wave back to the beach which was probably about mile behind me by now.  Of course, the beach was only about fifteen metres away, and the first wave knocked me clean off my waveski before I had time to swear properly.  I tumbled beachward and realised the helmet was there for a reason as I was whacked to the back of the skull by my waveski, which then surfed in gracefully to the shore.  Without me.

“Don’t worry, that happens to everyone!” screamed the instructor ensuring everyone woman on the beach could hear him, and with the sort of patronising tone you save for the ’special’ people.

“Oh fuck off!” I screamed back as another wave came crashing over my head.

Ninety minutes later I called it a day having ‘caught’ just two waves without falling off.

As we dragged our waveskis the eight miles back to the storage shed, the instructor asked us how it went.

“I bet you’ll all be back for more.”  he asked, or so Ickle told me, as I didn’t hear him due to my ears being full of sea water.

And no, I fucking will not be back for more.

A friend had booked the accommodation for our short golfing break in Cornwall.  I could not blame him for the torrential rain and howling gale, the but location was all down to him.

I do not watch a lot of television, so when people started saying things like, “Have you come to see where Doc Martin is filmed then?” I was a bit bemused.

Port Isaac is tiny.  And remote.  And completely incapable of receiving a mobile phone signal.  This may be an attraction for someone trying to get away from it all, but I am busy twenty-first century man who needs to feel connected.  At least there were some good pubs.  It was in one such pub that we had our first encounter with the locals.

“And this is [name forgotten]“ said one of the friendlier barflies, “He’s the pot washer in your hotel actually.”

“Really?” I replied,  “You do a great job, you could almost eat your dinner off them.”

As the night wore on it turned out it was pot washers 21st birthday, and to celebrate this fact, he had got a tattoo.  Upon reaching such a milestone in a man’s life, I can understand the need to mark the occasion with something memorable.  I marked my own 21st by being sick out of my nose by 10pm, a cherished memory.  It did not take much persuading on my part to convince him to lift his sleeve and show us his new body art.

“It’s a big fish?” I enquired.

“Yeah, because I live near the sea and that.”

He had a point.  He did.  Probably still does, as I would hate to think he would move to the city just days after having approximately four hundred fish scales painstakingly etched into his upper arm.

“Do you fish a lot then?”

“A bit, I suppose.”

“So has the other arm got a rod on it with a line going across the top of your shoulders?”

“No, why?”

I have never understood tattoos, and I feel quite sure that this young man will wake up in the sometime soon and scream, “What the FUCK have I done?”

Or maybe he won’t.

It was only when the third pretty young lady gave me the eye as she walked past that I began to wonder what was going on.

Obviously I get eyed up in the gym all the time, but three times in one visit is a personal best.  By two.

I put this down to it being a particularly good hair day, but I then ruled that out as I had been on the treadmill for nearly 30 minutes and was unlikely to be looking my (quite spectacular) best.

Still, being given the eye by three pretty young ladies is a positive boost to the ego, and so the final few minutes on the treadmill passed with little pain and a(n extremely small) spring in my step.  I think I might even have had a small smile on my face.

I know.

As I wandered to the water fountain for some much needed refreshment I tried to catch the eye of one of the girls, but she was steadfastly avoiding my gaze.  She was clearly not wanting to appear to keen. I understand her stance, but it was a bit silly of her really, as I really value ‘keen’ as a personal attribute of the women I date.  Along with dubious morals and a low alcohol tolerance.  She could have been perfect.

I reached the water fountain and drank heavily from the cold water.  As I wiped my mouth I glanced in the mirror and that’s when I saw them.  There, atop my head, were my sunglasses.  In a gym.  Indoors.

Twat.

I had ridden my bike to the gym, and it had been sunny, very briefly, so I had decided to wear them en route.  I had clearly forgotten to take them off my head after raising them to swipe my membership card, and now people had been looking at me like one of the those gym ponces that wear medallions and designer tracksuits.

I made a big act of taking them off, “Oh, I can’t believe I had them on all this time, it’s because I rode here you see, you must think I’m a right twat.”

I can’t be sure, but I think I heard a few faint murmurs of agreement.

I left quickly and have yet to return.

Calligraphy ‘artists’ give a bad name to proper artists.  Being able to write fancy wedding invitations does not make you an artist.  What it actually makes you is the slowest note taker in the world, I bet they would be rubbish at taking the minutes.

“Did you get all that Maude?”

“Not quite, what did you say after ‘I’?”

Surely this ’skill’ must have died out by now?  My Mac has absolutely loads of fonts built in, so I can make my dreary prose look as fancy as I like.  In seconds.  I even have a font that lets me write like the lettering Back to the Future, it is ace.

At no point would I consider getting someone else in to write something down for me.  Being able to do something that a computer can do, only doing it slower and more expensively, does not offer a strong career path.

Don’t get me wrong, I am sure that back in the nineteenth century it was quite popular, mainly as Helvetica and Arial had not taken off among the word processing community.  It was probably a lucrative career at that point.  But so was sticking leeches to people to cure them of the bad Aids (or whatever the Victorian equivalent was; the good Aids?), and that skill soon died out.  Apart from the mentals who believe in ‘alternative’ medicine, but you can’t count them as proper people.

I remember a girl at school who was very good at calligraphy, which at the time was her single redeeming feature.  Getting her to spend her lunch hour writing “Dale sucks balls” on the blackboard in two feet high calligraphy lettering was quite amusing at the time.  If she offered to do it today I would say no, not because Dale doesn’t suck balls, he might well still do, but because I can do it myself in moments on a computer.

All calligraphists should learn a proper skill, like plumbing or contract killing.

I recently visited a friend who lives just outside Liverpool.  He will tell you he lives in a posh bit of the Wirral, but it’s just outside Liverpool as far as I am concerned.

As part of the visit we were treated to a night out in the city, my first.  It was a strange experience overall, but I managed fully take in the 2008 European City of Culture, in between avoiding puddles of vomit.

We had been wandering around a few bars when I was approached by a young lady of the region.

“Are you a scouser?” she asked in the broadest scouse accent it has ever been my pleasure to hear.

I have no idea why she asked me if I was a scouser.  I do not look like a scouser, I don’t think.  I wasn’t speaking scouse, but I suppose I was in an area densely populated by scousers.   I quickly weighed up the pro’s and con’s of pretending to be a scouser, with the pro’s topped by nothing more than a brief but awkward conversation, and con’s topped by a fatal stabbing, national press coverage and my name used in knife crime adverts for years to come.  The decision was fairly simple.

“Er, no I’m not a scouser.” I replied, matter-of-factly.

With that she sighed and moved on to a guy a few feet away.

“Are you a scouser?” she asked him.

This seemed like a bit of an unnecessary question, as the answer was self-evident.  It was clear to me and everyone else present that he was, in fact, a genuine scouser.  The ‘conversation’ vs ‘knife attack’ ran through my mind once again.

“Yeah.” he replied in the high pitched tone generally heard among the natives.

With that, she proceeded to give him a thorough tonsil lashing.  Which I think it is fair to say he seemed to enjoy.  I had not anticipated this in my brief assessment of the outcomes.  At no point had I considered the question “Are you a scouser?” being used to uncover the final unknown quantity in her decision to snog me.

That said, if my list of pro’s and con’s had been topped by ’stabbing’ vs ’snogging’ I would probably still have denied I was a scouser.  She wasn’t that fit.

As an aside, has anyone else seen the Lambananas?  There are lots of them around the city and they strike me as a little bit sinister.   If someone is going to mix animals with fruit I would much prefer to see a Chimpinapple or Rhinorange.

I am back from my little break, and have been catching up what on what everyone has been up to.  This post at Cliff’s place made me chuckle, and though I vehemently avoid memes, I thought I would give this one a go.

1. My uncle once: told me a rude joke that made me laugh so hard a bit of wee came out.

2. Never in my life: have I said boo to a goose.  Though I really want to, one day.

3. When I was five: I dated my first older woman.  Not that I had much say in the matter.

4. High school was: about four years too long.

5. I will never forget: jumping out of an aeroplane.

6. Once I met: Paul Gascoigne, pre-mental health issues.

7. There’s this girl I know: who thought the space shuttle landed like the rocket on Button Moon.

8. Once, at a bar: I bought everyone in the place a drink.  It was quite empty though.

9. By noon, I’m usually: turning off my alarm clock again.

10. Last night: I wrote a three-page introduction to a brochure for a lads holiday I am going on next month. It was loaded with Nazi jokes.

11. If only I had: the chance to do it all again.

12. Next time I go to church: will be a wedding or a funeral.

13. What worries me most: are things I think I’ve forgotten.

14. When I turn my head left I see: a window and a tree.  Sometimes a squirrel or two.

15. When I turn my head right I see: a whiteboard with ideas for sketches on it.

16. You know I’m lying when: I over elaborate.

17. What I miss most about the Eighties is: my first BMX.

18. If I were a character in Shakespeare I’d be: Ford.

19. By this time next year: I’ll be playing it cool Trig.  That’s right isn’t it?

20. A better name for me would be: I am a bit busy at the moment.

21. I have a hard time understanding: blind faith.

22. If I ever go back to school, I’ll: probably end up with another one of those restraining orders.

23. You know I like you if: I offer to buy you a drink.

24. If I ever won an award, the first person I would thank would be: the courier, for successfully delivering the bribe.

25. Take my advice, never: argue with someone who has fifty pounds on you..

26. My ideal breakfast is: poached eggs on toast, with brown sauce and a large mug of coffee.

27. A song I love but do not have is: Sympathy for the Devil, The Rolling Stones

28. If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: take a long, long shower.

29. Why won’t people: do as I say?

30. If you spend a night at my house: let me know in advance.  It saves on awkward breakfast conversation.

31. I’d stop my wedding for: about 20 minutes, then she might get a bit annoyed.

32. The world could do without: Jade Goody.

33. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: lick Jade Goody.

34. My favourite blonde(s) is/are: Sarah Alexander and Amy Smart.

35. Paper clips are more useful than: having someone hold your papers together for you.

36. If I do anything well it’s: probably because I copied someone else first.

37. I can’t help but: agree, most of the time.

38. I usually cry: extremely rarely.  I can’t actually remember the last time.  Actually I can, it was about four years ago.

39. My advice to my child/nephew/niece: don’t stand up in a rubber dinghy.

40. And by the way: all of the above is absolutely true, probably.

If you want to have a go, feel free.