Irreversible rage

Keep Your Teeth in Grandma

noreply@blogger.com (irreversiblerage) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 22:44:00 +0000

Bluetooth that won't sync with one of my two computers. My blackberry
that won't charge with the cable. Nor will it sync with the cable to
the computer. The iPhone that always flashes 20% battery power left.
The Kindle that crashes. iTunes that loses songs or tells you that
you're not authorised to play them. Technological gadgets are sending
me over the edge. Things that just don't or won't work. I am gonna cry
and then stamp on them. Computers that run out of memory. That
annoying egg timer that's not an egg timer but a spinning colored
wheel. That's always slowing up your day I want to shoot that like
it's duck at a fun fair. Crashing wifi is another problem at the
moment as is resetting the retched time machine and the airport that
plays a few songs then crashes. When did it become acceptable to
invent rubbish that is unreliable I'd ask my grandparents and they'd
tell me things were built to last and WORK in their generation.

what am I to do?

noreply@blogger.com (irreversiblerage) — Sat, 08 Dec 2007 14:58:00 +0000

It is so relaxing here

learning Spanish in Antigua, Guatemala

the sky is blue

the sun is shining

I am relaxed and chilled

I am not in a rage

what am I to do ?

I have a blog to run and like mother Hubbard my rage cupboard is empty

I need to go and pick a fight with someone quickly

this can't possibly last

My blog will be over even before its begun

Driving in the Fast Lane

noreply@blogger.com (irreversiblerage) — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 01:10:00 +0000

It is the Murder Capital of the world and after my journey today I would not be surprised to discover it is also high up the charts for motor accidents. Two points to you if you guessed I am talking about Guatemala in Central America.

Nerves of steel and quick reflexes are the minimum requirements when you decide to set off on a road trip here. I am staying in Antigua –the former capital of Central America and quaint Colonial town with cobbled streets and dormant volcano - enroute to Lake Atitlan for a friend's Wedding.

We were pre-warned by the Bride that there were going to be road works on the way but were totally unprepared for the scale of destruction and construction we were to witness. It was total bedlam: miles of old motorway is being widened and adjoining hillside is being hacked into. Family homes that once lay happily on the side of the roads are now being bulldozed and removed. Rather than start one section of road it appears construction workers are randomly and abstractly working where they choose creating chaos. It is a relentless task that will easily take years to complete and during the development it will undoubtedly cause hours of trauma, delay and tantrum for all life on the road.

I am no novice when it comes to dealing with road works and delays. I have spent many a time stuck behind a mobile home crawling up a hill, but Guatemalan Roads are an absolute nightmare, even without the new building works. The roads have pot holes that are deep enough to swim in and then we have the Guatemalan drivers who are complete psychopaths behind the wheel. If kamikaze driving became an Olympic sport Guatemala would unquestionably win the bronze, silver and gold.

The main offenders are the drivers of the multi-coloured public buses, known affectionately as ‘Chicken Buses.’ For some reason they seem to think they are driving their Granny’s old mini and not a huge heaving juggernaut, vacuum packed with quivering and impoverished Guatemalans. If the roads were straight it would possibly be acceptable to watch them overtake you like a ball out of a cannon but on hairpin bends and blind corners it is another thing all together.

A few last minute driving tips: If you get the short straw and have to drive I suggest you swallow a handful of valium before leaving. If you are a passenger wear a blindfold, earmuffs and a mask if possible. That way you can avoid watching the stray dogs, boys on push bikes, infants with sticks, women with loads on their heads, men with full wheel barrows, duck and dive the on coming juggernauts. It feels like a gratuitous Playstation game only this is real and it’s excruciating to watch.

The earmuffs are to muffle the deafening honking horns of the buses, the mask is to avoid the heavy black noxious smoke that pumps out generously from the exhaust pipes of these Terminator like machines - Guatemala is really not a place to come to if you have tuberculosis unless you have a healthy life insurance policy your family are anxious to claim from.

The one joy of driving here is the satisfaction and ecstasy you feel when you arrive at your destination in one piece, airbags still intact, nerves a little frayed but no knocks or bumps to car or your body. It feels like a modern day Miracle.

so many monkeys so few banks....

noreply@blogger.com (irreversiblerage) — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 18:04:00 +0000

NATWEST

wrote to me today ;
"As part of our on going commitement to provide you with the best service possible,

we want to make it easier for you to contact us and to ensure that there is always someone available to help you"
"The attached business card provides contact details for your Relationship Manager"

Perfect timing I thought: I have been meaning to call the bank as they have charged me £60 for being overdrawn in one of my accounts, even though I have sufficent funds in one of my other accounts to cover the short fall. I unpeel the posh laminated business card from the letter and call the number on it.

Some grumpy old bloke answers the phone and tells me my Relationship Manager (RM) is not available on this number only her assistant my 'Relationship Advisor.' The bloke tells me I can reach my RM on the old number I already have. Dutifully and diligently I redial using the old number and after several rings voice mail picks up and tells me everybody has moved to the new number I had previously dialed.

So contrary to sweet Richard Crump's (Area Manager Private Banking) letter it is now actually impossible to speak to my Relationship Manager.
Monkey nut anyone?

Do Monkeys Eat Monkey Nuts?

noreply@blogger.com (irreversiblerage) — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 18:43:00 +0000

Fuck me they make me angry. They give me turrets. Verbal diarrhoea erupts from my normally calm receptor.

If any other business ran the way my BANK did they'd be out on the streets. It's a shocking state. They have your money and they dictate the rules.

I was paid by a client in dollars. When I tried to withdraw some of the dollars from my dollar account the bank charged me $35 for the honour. It felt like my cleaner turning up and asking me to clean while she sat in front of the TV with a woman’s weekly on her knee.

I have tried for the last two weeks to get my bank to quote me a rate for saving my money. CITIBANK – a rival bank - have offered me 6.2% with an instant access account. To date the dreary and (in my mind) soon to be defunct Royal (ha!) Bank of Scotland has offered me 5% if I lock it away for two months.

Are banks unable to make outgoing calls because they never call me back? When I call them I get a variety of different but identically sounding bland Guileless voices that passively quote the same thing, offering hollow apologies for the lack of service. You can tell from their voices they don’t want to be there. You can sense their faded childhood dreams of one day playing in a premier division football team. Now they are trapped like monkeys in a cage in the banks florescent lit, sterile offices. They spend their days in their polycotton suits counting down the minutes on the office clock that hangs next to the photocopier.

I was dragged kicking and screaming to lunch with my bank manager or 'relationship manager' he turned up wearing novelty Bart Simpson socks under his man made fibre suit. I sat opposite him watching his mouth move not actually hearing anything. Wondering if it would seem rude if I ordered a coffee and the bill for my first course?

Why do I don't want lunch or drinks with my bank manager? All I want - as Eliza would say - is for the bank to do their job. I would just like my call returned, payments to be made and not lost, new cheque books to be sent: Little things, basic functions.

Like the poster that claims: Don’t Hate Mother because She’s Beautiful. I know I must learn not to rage about my bank. It's not their fault they are incapable and inept. You can only expect so much from the monkey in the cage. I wonder if they’d be any better if they were fed a different nut?

GET YOUR SKATES ON !

noreply@blogger.com (irreversiblerage) — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 18:13:00 +0000

So today I am flying with a new airline Silverjet to sunny NYC from Luton airport. From this sentence alone you can probably feel the rumblings of problems brewing.

The journey began well - or with hindsight maybe not - I was trying to find a big enough suitcase for my month away and found an oversized canvas bag with wheels on top of the wardrobe. During the process of getting the bag down I unknowingly dislodged a pair of retro roller skates. When I opened the wardrobe door to begin packing the skates fell from the top narrowly breezing past my head. At the time I saw this as a good sign. If the luminous 80’s disco skates had landed on my bonnet I could have easily been knocked out.

Thanking my lucky stars I speedily packed my bags omitting the dodgy skates. Once all the clothes were safely accounted for I then began the task of locating all the necessary chargers for my trip: cables for the iPod, the camera, the mobile, the speakers, the Nintendo (brain age), the video camera, the computer. Ahhhhhhhh so many different plugs, cradles, and adaptors. Can I make a quick suggestion; Will all the Electronic Companies of the world please unite and provide a 'one fits all' charger. I will happily agree to pay three or even four times more for it so you can all still make your money and help me avoid a suitcase full of tangled spaghetti like cables.

Finally packed and out of the house I have a horrid feeling in my bones that we are a little behind schedule. We get to Kings Cross only to discover it is the wrong station. Like finalists in the 400 meters we sprint to the right station which is not an easy task when you have five full bags with you. Airhostesses always look so demure when they strut across the concourse with their wheelie bags. It is not the same sprinting across crowded streets with the bags flying in the air. I felt like a demented women trying to reach the china department at the Harrods sale.

At the new station I sail imperiously past the ticket collector avoiding buying a ticket – no time for that. My partner annoyingly has been abducted by aliens as he is nowhere to be seen. By the time he reappears Victor - the non friendly ticket collector - has become more attentive and is not letting anyone through without a ticket. After joining a long queue we now have tickets and descend to the platform. Our bags seem to have procreated and got heavier during all this and the wheels are not terribly stair friendly.

Now happily sitting on the train we ask a sweet lady clutching a train timetable what time we are due in at Luton. Helpfully she tells us the train doesn't stop at Luton. We get off at the next station to discover the train we need is on the opposite platform. Yippee more stairs or couldn't we just lob the bags over the track? We are now very late. I have however called the airline to let them know we are running late and they have not called me back to say it is too late so we trundle on with determination and utter delusion that we will make the flight.

At Luton train station there are more ascending stairs to get us across the track. On the other side we finally have descending escalators that match my spirit. Like a corkscrew we spiral down endlessly. Dizzy and dejected we reach solid ground, stumble into the back of a taxi and head for the airport.

We arrive fifteen minutes before our flight is due to take off. Strangely we are unable to board and crumble in a corner exhausted from the joys of visiting new airports and avoiding low flying roller skates.

Why is the boss immune from being 'let go?'

noreply@blogger.com (irreversiblerage) — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 19:17:00 +0000

An innocent man is gunned down in front of stony faced commuters on a rush hour tube train. Seven bullets are fired into his head.
The Police are found guilty of ‘19 errors’ of judgement and the Commissioner and his deputy keep their jobs.
Ignoring demands from Politicians to resign, the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary both give them their full support to stay.
It is a total and utter travesty and misjustice. Out of respect alone for the Menezes family Ian Blair and Cressida Dick should resign.
And if they wont step down, what message is Government sending out by allowing these people to keep their jobs? ‘19 errors’ is not the odd mistake. These are fundamental flaws that undermine a complete system.
How can we be in a position where the verdict is guilty and the prosecuted are immune from proper punishment. Imposing a derisory fine (that the taxpayer will pay) is the equivalent to asking a murderer to do a few hours of community service sweeping roads.
We need our confidence reinforced, and rebuilt, by Government to give us faith that these tragic events can never happen again. We can not possibly win the so called war against terrorism if innocent people are being killed by the people who are meant to be protecting us.

------ End of Forwarded Message

Builders should learn how to cut hair.

noreply@blogger.com (irreversiblerage) — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 18:38:00 +0000

They seem to be like hairdressers. They plug their ears then ask you what you want done?
They happily watch your lips move and then when you have stopped they unplug their ears and begin doing what they think you want.
I had a bespoke kitchen made. Note to self. Not again. And I know I have said that one before. I spent a small fortune on a posh stainless steel worktop.
I had men in matching logo emblazened sweatshirts come and template.
Three times lovely men came and templated. Never the same men which seemed a little odd but I had faith they all understood what I wanted.
Faith until the anorexic slither of stainless steel arrived. I wanted thick wraparound and I got wafer thin butted on top of the wooden units.
I had a mini and very polite tantrum, the head stainless steel man visited in a plaid shirt (no logo sweatshirt for him)
we talked about how it should have been.
I accepted the waif like thinness and he offered to remake wrap around bits.
Weeks later boss and logo wearers return to refit wrap around bits that still didn't wrap around.
Cue losing will to live moment.
I decided to take it on the chin and just smile sweetly when they finished everything (wrongly) for the second time.
And now to today and the same thing has happened again. I asked another carpeter for a stainless steel infill panel and in true fashion, and £200 poorer, a décor panel arrives that is too big and wrongly fitted.

------ End of Forwarded Message

How difficult must it be to write a damn blog?

noreply@blogger.com (irreversiblerage) — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 22:20:00 +0000

Ahhhhhh it’s really difficult because you don't want it to be too self conscious and then you wonder who is actually going to read it anyway: My mother except she hasn’t got a computer. Friends probably for once under friendly sufferance. Strangers in Missouri ? Rapists on trial in Prison? People on death row..... Getting all excited now. Lets see. If you are any of the above and your stumble across my blog drop me a line and say hello. If you’re a bored housewife in Stoke on Trent waiting on Richard and Judy to start then say hello too.