Monday, January 30, 2006

Is there anybody out there?

Normally I can't be arsed to complain to big companies, it's a complete waste of time so I usually end up just ranting on here. It's been a hard day though. A long story, but the main theme gist is that the British tax man has torn me a new arsehole and the British banking system has proceded to shaft me up it. (My original anus is, as usual, getting the full prison-style attention of the University). In the end, I thought 'fuck it', and sent this email to A Well Known British Retail Bank. The name is unimportant - like politicians and sorority girls they're all the bloody same anyway.

Dear Sir, Madam or codeline

Firstly, let me say how much I appreciate the benefits that computer technology has brought us. In my own particular line of work, for example, I can now accurately complete literally millions of difficult computations in days, whereas forty years ago they would have taken years, if they were indeed possible at all. Using computers, I can analyse the complex fluid dynamics that govern our planet's climate. Pretty exciting stuff - not as exciting as ISAs or mortgages perhaps, but still jolly impressive.

Computers allow us to communicate across the world, to make financial transactions at the touch of a button, they allow us to look into the very depths of the Universe. What computers cannot do, of course, is make a pragmatic, non-programmed decision based on judgement. For that you need a human.

If there are any humans still working at A Well Known British Retail Bank, I'd love to hear from one, if only to say 'hi'. I've spent most of the day trying to contact one, and indeed have spoken to some very nice people at the call centre that you employ, but of course they're entirely constrained by what they're computer screen says - which is probably the same computer screen I can see when I login to online banking anyway. What I really wanted to do was speak to someone at my branch, but as you no doubt realise, any calls to the branch are automatically routed to the call centre. I could have gone into the branch in person I suppose, but since I currently reside 5000 miles away in California it's not entirely convenient. But of course you know this, because I had a little chat about it all with one of your staff members before I came out, back when you employed people.

I'm increasingly of the view that your bank is now just a vast agglomeration of Shylock codelines, a bit like that film with Keanu Reeves where he has some fetching sunglasses and a serious messiah complex.

I anticipate with excitement your next automatically generated demand for whatever fee is in vogue next week. A reply from a carbon-based life form would also be great.

Yours,

F. Fastrousers (Capt)

Ps there may be some delay in returning your reply, as I may have better things to do. Your response is important to me, and I will be with you as soon as I can. Your response may be recorded for training purposes, quality control, or just so I can bitch and moan about this with my mates.



Update

Here is what A Well Known British Retail Bank has to say for themselves:

Subject:Acknowledgement of your complaint of 31.01
Dear Mr Fastrousers

Thank you for taking the time and trouble to let us know of your
disappointment on this subject.
We value your feedback and are sorry that you have experienced
dissatisfaction on this occasion.


Could you please contact us again providing us with the following
information:


As you are A Well Known British Retail Bank customer, your address as held on our records.


As soon as this information is received your complaint will be
forwarded to the relevant area for investigation.
For security reasons, to respond to your complaint in writing.

Please see our website for further information on how we deal with
complaints, http://www.A_Well_Known_British_Retail_Bank.com


Yours sincerely

Internet Care Team
For and on behalf of
A Well Known British Retail Bank plc


Please quote this unique tracking number when you contact us - [......]


The email address we have contacted you from is used for outbound
emails only. Should you need to contact Barclays again please do so by
visiting the Contact Us pages on either the A Well Known British Retail Bank Homepage or A Well Known British Retail Bank Online Banking site.


Oh they're good, they're real good, it's clear that the gloves are off. I particularly like the line about 'having my address on their records' - a thinly veiled threat to send around the heavies if ever I saw one.

Update 09/02/2006

I've now received a second request to confirm my address, this time in writing rather than by email. Is this just a stalling tactic? A ruse to make sure I'm at home when they send around the bully boys? Who knows, but rest assured I shall persevere until I find out. As a precaution, and since I don't particular relish the idea of having my mouth filled with cement by the militant wing of the Financial Services Authority, I've actually given them the address of a friend. (Andy R, if you or Lady R sees a group of surly looking people in bad bri-nylon suits hanging around Abbeydale Road, it might be best not to answer the door. It's probably just a group of Sheffield United supporting estate agents, but you never know.)

Friday, January 27, 2006

One hundred million dollars...

It's so ludicrously improbable to get a winning ticket in the European lottery that nobody has won the jackpot for 10 weeks. That hasn't stopped millions of punters from buying tickets, no doubt driven to avaricious distraction by the rollover prize of $250 million.

A staggering amount, that begs the question what on earth would I do with all that money? Well, obviously for the first ten years or so I'd spend my time in oceans of alcohol accompanied by a trusty band of unmarried Philipino ladies, but sooner or later I think I'd want to use my cash for more frivolous pursuits. After all, there's more to life than just champagne and hot asian three-way love.

So what exactly would I do?

Firstly, I'd buy off as many judges as required to gain exclusive legal rights to the 'full stop'. The potentially crippling royalties I could then charge for any published writings would give me the degree of control over the litterati I so badly crave. Ayn Rand, Jane Austen, Margaret Attwood and any other fuckwit who should never have been allowed to put pen to paper are all going down. And L. Ron Hubbard might as well check into the poor house now, quite frankly.

I'd get a helicopter. No particular reason, but I would imagine a helicopter would be worth it's weight in top-notch quim.

I'd buy a controlling percentage in a large construction company (perhaps one specializing in the oil industry) and muscle my way onto the board of directors. I'd then become Vice-President to some insignificant brain-damaged turd, so I could pull all the strings without any having any public accountability. (I know it's not original, but imitation is the highest form of flattery).

I'd follow the advice of John Betjeman, and bomb Slough. Only a person who's never been there would ever need to ask why.

Perhaps surprisingly to some, I would continue my PhD. I haven't worked this hard to pass up the chance of being able to have at hand the hard evidence that I'm educationally superior to almost the entire planet. I would, however, refit my office so that it's much better than any of the faculty. I would employ a secretary through whom all petitions to see me would have to be channelled. Imagine the obsequious toadying of all those funding-starved professors.

On a similar note, I would offer a substantial sum of money to the ever greedy and spineless UCLA mandarins, but on the strict understanding that the administration staff list gets cut by at least 25%. That should sort out a few of the idle, venomous witches that so sour my life.

I would buy a Caribbean island that's even bigger than Richard Branson's, just to piss him off. I would then imprison Jeremy Clarkson on it.

That should do for a start.

Monday, January 23, 2006

There was a dead whale in the Thames over the weekend

There was a dead whale in the Thames over the weekend. Not that there's anything particularly unusual about noxious debris floating passed Battersea, but a bottle-nosed whale is a bit more noticeable than the usual concoction of human effluent and used johnnies. The creature, which normally resides in the North Atlantic, was spotted on Friday heading gamely for Hammersmith, but died during attempts to return it to its indiginous habitat.

It's a terrible tragedy of course, but unfortunately the firm smack of authority is the only way to deal with these asylum seekers. You let one in, and before you know it every bar in Earl's Court is having to serve briny and krill platters. I was also happy to note that those involved in the repatriation were rightly given parking tickets for leaving their cars on embankment.

If you break the rules, you get punished - no exceptions, no excuses. Anything else is anarchy.

Friday, January 20, 2006

No comment is necessary

On exactly the same day that the State of California has had to apologize to someone for 21 years of wrongful imprisonment, the state Legislature killed a 3 year moratorium on executions in California.

I have nothing further to say.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Exclusive: Mayor of New Orleans an Oompa Loompa!

The investigations into the havoc wreaked by Hurricane Katrina have begun in earnest now, and predictably the media are whipping themselves up into their very own category five maelstrom. Not one to miss a financial opportunity, I've opened a sweepstake on when the term 'Katrina-gate' is going to appear first (email the Captain's mailbox for details). When all's said and done though, the only thing that's remarkable about this catalogue of incompetence and financial tom-foolery is just how depressingly unsurprising it all is.

More exciting is the commentary provided by Ray Nagin, Mayor of what's left of New Orleans. His brain seems to have the knack of breaching his own mental levees of common sense and releasing devastating torrents of muddy water. His latest comments include the assertion that the rebuilt New Orleans should be a 'chocolate' city.

I'm not convinced. I love Willy Wonka as much as the next man (in a purely platonic sense, of course), but wouldn't chocolate melt in the sultry climate of the Big Easy? That might add a bit more sauciness to Mardi Gras, I grant you, but I can't see the it doing much for the longevity of the city, or indeed it's already obese inhabitants.

Mark my words, if they rebuild it in chocolate they'll be swimming in their own gumbo by nightfall.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

There's no such thing as a free lunch

I don't know who, but someone once said that 'there's no such thing as a free lunch'. If I may say so, that is utter bollocks. Clearly, this oft-quoted luminary was never a PhD student (or at least not a very succesful one), since at the lower rungs the whole academic game centres around an ability to score free food.

Our department is recruiting not just one but two new faculty members, which is great news for me, since PhD students from related sub-disciplines are invited to lunch in the faculty club with every candidate. Fortunately, my colleagues aren't quite as good at bluffing as me (it must be a British thing), consequently I've managed to get on every free lunch going, irrespective of my personal aquaintance with the candidate's field of research.

I don't know the first thing about network theory in urban planning or GIS, but as the juice of that tender braised lamb dribbles down my chin, I shall learn.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Jet lag is like drugs, but not as fun

I just got back from the Warm Bosom of my Motherland yesterday, of which more perhaps later. For know, content yourselves with knowing that RMT members are still tossers, London is still the most vibrant city in the world, and people in Sheffield are still supremely ugly. I'd go into more detail, but I haven't slept for about 30 hours so I fear I would make even less sense than usual.

Jet lag is a bit like some recreational drugs, but with the recreation removed. An expensive and curious mixture of being completely wired and yet absolutely exhausted at the same time.

Happy New Year, by the way. I don't know what Nostradamus predicted for 2006, but I don't suppose it was good. A man after my own heart.