Bolton cafe stops serving egg soldiers. Trump considers military options.
Trump visits little girls school, who stare open mouthed as he tells them “…’Trump’ is only one letter away from ‘Trust’..” and talks of ‘kicking the arses of little girls in Korea which he says is only one letter away from ‘career’ which is what they should all have if they are ‘good and nice Americans’.
Kim Yong Un has entered himself for the Olympics. He will win gold in the High Jump. A life long Telly Tubbies fan, he has chosen to Don (no yong pun intended) the suit of his favourite Tubster, ‘Laa-laa’. His closest aide was shot after pointing out he needs to go over the bar, rather than diving through the space below the bar. More follows.
WhiteHouse celebrity president, Ronald Rump, calls total solar eclipse ‘Fake news’ and vows to do something ‘very very good with a lot of big big things, folks’.
Kim Yong un’s mam says her son is crumpet mad and still pretends he’s a spy. ‘I catch him peeping at me from all corners of the palace. It’s unsettling especially with that silly pug dog he carries around. It’s fuckin batty that dog’. More follows.
The sister of celebrity President, Ronald Lump,
Has been seen with Kim Yong Un in a series of pictures circulating the internet that most people take to be completely legit.
They can be seen canoodling and fondling each other’s boil-in-the-bag meals at a famous boil-in-the-bag restaurant in downtown Nevillsville.
‘KIM is a blockhead and looks like a frog in a syrup (syrup of figs = wig) and also the syrup looks like someone fired one of his beloved missiles through the centre which skimmed his lovely podgy skull, but I love him and he feels the same’, she was overheard saying on set of her new game show ‘Name that Pie’.
This could be awkward for the ‘precedent’ as he tries to navigate between ruining his country, his life and the lives of those around him, and trawling the net for things said about him that are ‘perfect, nice and good, with a lot of feeling, a lot of feeling’.
Kim Yong un has been ‘getting on his mam’s nerves’ according to his Uncle Morris, because he’s constantly singing ‘I get so emotional baby, every time I think of you’ around the grounds of their Victorian mansion on Lake Lollipop near Australia.
‘That’s bad enough’ said a tear soaked Uncle Morris ‘but then he points at his mam and screams ‘ain’t it shocking what, shocking what love can do!!!??!!’ , often bursting out of a cupboard or some such, frightening the bejesus out of her.
‘He’s a fucking pillock’ said his mam.
Ann, Gwil’s mam, has been having problems with OpenReach, the hilariously named
phone company much used by BT, another hilarious company.
Years ago, when I was a customer, I thought I’d write a letter to them (To Warren Buckley specifically, who was the man at the top at the time) explaining a particular problem I had.
Anyway, it’s long but has moments of funny. But I was mightily pissed off at the time. Life has been richer since I jettisoned them both into the ether.
BTW, I did not share this with social media. I wanted shut of it. So I archived the letter.
Dear Mr Buckley,
First of all I feel it fair in an unfair world to tell you that this e mail is going to just about every single consumer watchdog I can get my hands on.
It’s going to my MP with the express wish he passes it on.
It’s going to every contact in my mail account and every contact in their mail account.
I tell you this in fairness. I know this shouldn’t worry you in the least as, as I have recently discovered, BT seem to have been let down by the company they employ to do the work.
I hope your day is going well. If it’s anything like mine, I empathise.
I want to terminate my BT contract.
This is because, after a century of cold calls, an engineer that you employ (is it called out-source now?) came to fit the fine internet package that is ‘Infinity’ after I finally agreed to have it installed.
When he came he called me ‘mate’ and ‘pal’ etc and I instantly felt warm and fuzzy.
When he left, I found my Internet connection was faster than ever and I courted happiness for a delicious, if brief, moment.
It was new year, and I stayed with my Sister and Brother in Law.
I got back to my house on the 2nd and checked for messages on my phone. I was especially keen to finish any details of outstanding business because I was on my way to do some work in Lanzarote for a Month that very day.
But the phone was dead.
So I went to the BT website, initially for a phone number, to register my concerns.
Now, I tried to phone the number, but the outcome, (after the friendly warning it would cost me 14p a minute), was not satisfactory.
I was told, automatedly, that I was not a BT customer and would I take it up with my particular phone company.
I tried this a few times, thinking somehow, I had dialled in the wrong number. I hadn’t. But it was all to no avail.
Then, I tried to e mail. I filled in a form. At the end of the form, having filled it in with surgeon precision,
I tried to submit it, and was tepidly surprised that it would not allow me to submit it.
This is because the place it wanted me to put the correct format for the date of submission, was either hidden, or did not exist.
So it wanted me to write a Date, but it didn’t have a place to write that date.
I find this kind of strange, as I’m sure, many people do, after slavishly trying to input the right details.
Like rowing upstream for 2 days only to come to a dead end.
So then, I tried to test my own line with a service on the BT website that prompts me to do this.
But it then said it was sorry but it couldn’t give me any results.
So I went to Lanzarote, with the thought the good folk of BT will put things right when I get back.
So, a month later, I got back.
I went through the above process again.
This time I was able to ‘chat’ in textual form, with a guy who took forever to get back to me.
He eventually phoned.
We spoke, but between his accent and the operators next to him who were making so much noise,
It was extremely difficult to make sense of what was happening.
Upshot was, he sent an engineer, (the out-source kind).
When this guy came, I was amazed to learn that I was also his ‘mate’ and his ‘Pal’.
It was like being born again but clothed in a softly heated romper suit.
He was at my house for all of 1 minute. Maybe 2.
He informed me that the cord from the phone to the wall socket had been snapped.
‘You need a new phone’, was his considered opinion.
I informed him that this could only have happened when my first engineer friend moved the table
with the phone on.
The phone has not had one call in or out, nor any messages listened to, since the day my first pal, the Infinity fitter,
came to get me up to speed. Do we need a detective to work this one out?
After my initial shock and consideration of his considered opinion,
my thoughts turned to fairness, and the human instinct to do right.
So I tried to report it.
After another century of pointless efforts of contact with the usual BT channels of muted conversation,
I went to the big guns.
This, to my surprise, got a stirring in the loins of the Behemoth that is BT(moth).
‘We’ll get a guy out to you asap’, said the very nice Emma.
I was ill in bed. So I waited. And ya know what happened?
Nothing. For a further 4 days, I waited.
Emma tried to get the out -sourced wittily named ‘Openreach’ to come and see what the fuss was going on.
He finally came, and ya know what? We were instant, lifelong, pals. I couldn’t believe my luck.
I didn’t feel a hint of cynicism. I hope you get my drift, but make sure to keep your eyes closed.
So, guess what he did.
He pulled the table out from the corner.
‘I see what he’s done’ said my pal the out-sourced BT/Openreach engineer,
‘he’s pulled this, and that has pulled that out of there’.
At last, I thought, we have arrived.
‘I’ll put it all in my notes’.
‘Can you also put in your notes, that you also moved the table’, very naturally, ‘out of the way’?
‘No problem, my pal’. The glowing flow of……
I’ll stop there, but I would have said it was warm,
if I wasn’t blessed with the decorum I have,
but whatever it was that flowed, and glowed, it made my heart soar.
What made my heart sorer was the phone call I got from Emma F, who said she hadn’t seen anything in his notes about the table or indeed anything else that would have suggested an accident on their behalf, and that she was under the impression, in the first place, that it was my BT incoming line that was faulty when I had already said in my first e mail that “….. the line from the phone to the wall socket had been snapped” and that this,
“could only have happened when your engineer moved the table back that the phone sits on’ and what is more..
‘I have not been near it’.
And finally, Emma informed me that I would be charged the normal (extortionate) £130 call out charge that makes folk resist the temptation to call out BT.
I was told BT was moving back into the slumbering shadows.
It was now the out-sourced wittily named, closed and uncontactable ‘Openreach’
that my beef was with and I should make a claim against them.
Thing is, I was under the impression I was letting BT into my house, and had no idea that the wittily un-ironically named ‘Openreach’
was something different.
Had I known this, I would not have let them in.
So Emma gave me a number.
It was the number of doom, the one that has an auto’mate’ warning of our possible 14p a minute demise.
Realising, possibly, that this would not bring me joy, she gave me another number.
This put me straight through, almost, to an actual person.
I’m guessing it’s more cost effective to have the system you have.
I’m guessing actual persons dealing with our queries is a fools journey?
Well, I put in a claim.
Now, I know this claim will yield absolutely nothing. Ya know, when ya get a feeling? It’s like an acerbic feeling.
I reckon you can calculate it by looking at the fall-out rate against what it would cost to provide a real customer service. One that you have faith in. One that you admire. One that exudes integrity. Ok, I’m indulging fantasy and I apologise. It’s more cost effective to go with the fall-out.
I also know that if they make good the claim, then they can’t charge me the bloated, extortionate, unjustifiable, ludicrous, call out charge.
Bottom line, I want out of BT. In all it’s guises.
I told this to Emma. She gave me a number. Guess what? I can’t even terminate this so called contract.
Well not through the number of doom anyway. It rings on and on, into the night, at 14p an automated minute.
So I want you to cancel it. I want to be free and breathe the air again. I don’t want to feel sullied, or stressed, or sad, or depressed,
or mute, or battle worn, or let down, or tasered, or frustrated, or like I’m pawing at the window saying ‘please release me, let me go.’
I don’t want to pay for any call out charge, to a company that wrecked my Bang&Olufson expensive tear soaked phone.
And don’t tell me it’ll be the salt that did the damage.
I’m all out of Cynicism.
Come, dear one,
let’s walk through the echo
of this moment
hand in hand and quiet despair
that hope to leave us
from the smiles
of passing strangers
or ‘protected’ from a common air
Let’s walk amid
these single roses
made wreathes by loveless hands
and would be thieves
and those, that one supposes
resist the will to care.
But there, and there
and there, there, there,
in the church you don’t attend
and the colour you don’t trust
and the team you don’t support
around the bend
not quite in your sight
not quite in your court
are those that would
dig through the rocks
would open doors
would clean your face
would wipe away the tear stained dust
and hold you for the longest time
to rest inside a real embrace
devoid of those dividing lines
that we’re so quick
to put in place.
Dear shouty folk,
You keep going around all creation and being shouty
and I end up covering my ears and I see your shouty face but hear nothing.
You shout at just about everyone and everything including family, friends,
some animals and your car and traffic and the telly and people on it
and a little slug the size of a baby thumb and you shout at underpants and crayons
and fish just because they the fish don’t wear T-shirts or something like that and your face is always in a state of disgust like this;
2. Raise your head cheeks (the right cheek should be raised a little more)
3. squint your eyes
4. smile but don’t bend the sides of the mouth upward, keep them straight
5. That’s your mardy head all the time
And you know what’s really happening and you said so ages ago
and you tell people again when they didn’t hear you the first time because someone else had an opinion and it cut through your ‘see I told you so’ stuff…
so you actually repeat it to get the full recognition you deserve and will it ever stop no I don’t think so but then again.
And you do this to each other –
‘No YOUR a knob’
‘No YOUR a knob’ and point a finger toward your interlocutors face
and scrunch your own face up as in 1 to 4 above and I used ‘knob’ with a k
because my mummy might be watching and also ‘interlocutor’ for the same reason.
And you shout for about 4 days on social media and you cack on and on then talk about
the fact that at least you give a toss about everything to actually
call someone a knob and god help us and jesus christ I wish you didn’t give a toss.
And you pick targets that are literally the size of a planet made from bisuits
or you use a flamethrower to catch a blind fly in a wheelchair or you go around and around in a revolving door for a billion years and occasionally shout ‘I don’t believe it’ or you go on the Mad-Mouse in Blackpool
and try and talk sense to the woman in the buggie behind you
who’s screaming her teeth out or you do a frown face as in 1 to 4 above.
Or you look at me because you want confirmation that your pissed offness is warranted – well guess what:
IT”S NOT!!!! Not everything warrants your mardy face.
You’re reading one side. You’re seeing one road.
You’re caught in a trap. You can’t walk out.
Because I love you too much
They are all wrong, no matter which side you’re on and your
particular paper ‘The Daily Bias’ said so and you feel all the better for it.
You’re all wrong
No, you’re all wrong
No, YOU”RE all wrong
No, go back to your disillusion planet
No, YOU go back to the 70s
No, you go back to being a lolly
He took money from ‘Elvin Tremendous’, the Flax seed magnate.
Yes but Elvin was his Father and it was money for a bonnet for
his best friend ‘Putin le’Pepper’ who was six and her parents have an ironic sense of humour and are you following this?
And 3 thousand years back you had dinner with Len Smalls
the guy who now owns ‘Bubblewrap for Cows’.
Well, you said something nice about Ged O’Creamy the Westboro Baptist T-Shirt Tycoon.
No I didn’t.
Yes you did… and here’s THE LINK!!! AHA!!
HO HO … That’s Fake I was saying something nice about Barry Gibb
and someone cut in a pic of Ged O’Creamy…
I know you is but what am I?
If you give a flying fuck, source your bullshit to the endth degree
and if you can’t get to the endth degree i.e the truth about Kevin,
then why are you clogging up the airwaves with it?
Stop it. Or we all chip in and buy our own planet called ‘Planet For Non-Bullshitters who seldom use 1 to 4 above’ and we have a waste bin for vitriolic
epithets so that we can get to the point.
Actually good vitriolic epithets are fun in the mouth of an expert.
But experts are too few.
Know why your not an expert? Because you source what you already agree with!!!!
You source what you already believe! FOR FUCK’S SAKE! IT”S SCREAMING AT YOU SO LOUDLY!!
We actually hate that guy or that woman because they truly believe a certain credo?
We HATE them?
Or are these just words? Are we using hate in the fun sense?
And then you say, ‘I know what you’re going to say’.
Jesus!! – now you can chew on my opinion and spit it out before I get chance to even taste it.
I wish it were all so simple. But it ain’t.
It’s complex. And shitspraying everywhere with a biased opinion sourced from a biased opinion just makes a crock of shit out of the whole shebang.
Plus, you keep quiet about your shares in the ‘Marimba Weekly Magazine’ and check the share price against Shell Oil on a weekly basis.
It takes effort to get into the opposite opinion…
It takes even more guts to see at least some of the points of that opinion.
But jeez it’s an effort worth making in a land of the shouty.
And they’ll get mad and try to shouty you into silence.
Have none of it.
In the shadow of your history
Under your wing
Safe and silent
In the dust of your blazed trail
Following your footsteps,
Safely out of reach
Of that love you crave
And then I saw
That beautiful Dark
Where your light
Hadn’t thought to wander
And I held the Darkling close
And was met with life untraveled
And colours you couldn’t hide
And I had to let go
I had to let go
Of that love you crave.