As I closed the back door this afternoon, my mother, always a fusser, frantically called out of the car window at me. I dropped everything I was carrying, pulled open the door again, shuffled outside and strained to hear her above the car engine.
And what was this gem of information she desparately needed to tell me?
“Don’t forget to close the door, dear.”

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Well, after much playing and adjusting and changing and swearing, I can finally confirm that the family and I are back online, with no help at all from NTL. in fact, the successful installation did not even start to use the installation CD, nor the adapter that came with the software.
Bless em, though, the connection’s VERY fast…

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Dear Cretins,

I have been an NTL customer since 9th September 2002, when I signed up for your 3-in-one deal for cable TV, cable modem, and telephone.

During this three-month period I have encountered inadequacy of service which I had not previously considered possible, as well as ignorance and stupidity of monolithic proportions.

Please allow me to provide specific details, so that you can either pursue your professional prerogative, and seek to rectify these difficulties - or more likely (I suspect) so that you can have some entertaining reading material as you while away the working day smoking B&H and drinking vendor-coffee on the bog in your office.

My initial installation was cancelled without warning or notice, resulting in my spending an entire Saturday sitting on my fat arse waiting for your technician to arrive.

When he did not arrive at all, I spent a further 57 minutes listening to your infuriating hold music, and the even more annoying Scottish robot woman telling me to look at your helpful website…. how? I alleviated the boredom to some small degree by playing with my testicles for a few minutes - an activity at which you are no-doubt both familiar and highly adept.

The rescheduled installation then took place some two weeks later, although the technician did forget to bring a number of vital tools - such as a drill-bit, and his cerebrum.

Two weeks later, my cable modem had still not arrived. After several further telephone calls (actually 15 telephone calls over 4 weeks) my modem arrived … a total of six weeks after I had requested it, and begun to pay for it.

I estimate that the downtime of your internet servers is roughly 35%…these are usually the hours between about 6pm and midnight, Monday to Friday, and most of the useful periods over the weekend.

I am still waiting for my telephone connection. I have made 9 telephone calls on my mobile to your no-help line this week, and have been unhelpfully transferred to a variety of disinterested individuals, who are it seems also highly skilled bollock jugglers.

I have been informed that a telephone line is available (and someone will call me back); that no telephone line is available (and someone will call me back); that I will be transferred to someone who knows whether or not a telephone line is available (and then been cut off); that I will be transferred to someone who knows whether or not a telephone line is available (and then been redirected to an answer machine informing me that your office is closed); that I will be transferred to someone who knows whether or not a telephone line is available (and then been redirected to the irritating Scottish robot woman…) and several other variations on this theme.

Doubtless you are no longer reading this letter, as you have at least a thousand other dissatisfied customers to ignore, and also another one of those crucially important testicle-moments to attend to. Frankly I don’t care, it’s far more satisfying as a customer to voice my frustrations in print than to shout them at your unending hold music.

Forgive me, therefore, if I continue.

I thought BT were crap, that they had attained the holy piss-pot of god-awful customer relations, that no-one, anywhere, ever, could be more disinterested, less helpful or more obstructive to delivering service to their customers. That’s why I chose NTL, and because, well, there isn’t anyone else is there? How surprised I therefore was, when I discovered to my considerable dissatisfaction and disappointment what a useless shower of bastards you truly are. You are sputum-filled pieces of distended rectum - incompetents of the highest order. British Telecom - wankers though they are - shine like brilliant beacons of success, in the filthy puss-filled mire of your seemingly limitless inadequacy.

Suffice to say that I have now given up on my futile and foolhardy quest to receive any kind of service from you. I suggest that you do likewise, and cease any potential future attempts to extort payment from me for the services which you have so pointedly and catastrophically failed to deliver. Any such activity will be greeted initially with hilarity and disbelief - although these feelings will quickly be replaced by derision, and even perhaps a small measure of bemused rage.

I enclose two small deposits, selected with great care from a cats litter tray, as an expression of my utter and complete contempt for both you and your pointless company. I sincerely hope that they have not become desiccated during transit - they were satisfyingly moist at the time of posting, and I would feel considerable disappointment if you did not experience both their rich aroma and delicate texture. Consider them the very embodiment of my feelings towards NTL, and it’s worthless employees.

Have a nice day - may it be the last in your miserable short life, you irritatingly incompetent and infuriatingly unhelpful bunch of twats.

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Shameless Bill annointed King of Blackpool: “All week, the Labour Party has revelled in sanctimonious jokes about John Major; yesterday it cheered to the rafters the world?s most famous adulterer.”

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Simon B and I dolled ourselves up and trotted off to the East India Club in London’s St James’ Square last night. It was our annual Old Cranleighan dinner, and an opportunity to mix with the social elite. It was thoroughly impressive, with Jac’s stepdad, an amusing-looking man and host for the night. After a few drinks, he’s frankly anybody’s, and after swaying towards us and clutching the nearest scantily-clad girl, he proceeded to regail us about the time he danced with 6 indian woman in Harare. “I was on fire that night” he boasted, before haring off after another buxom woman wobbling past.
The speech after dinner was surprisingly entertaining, with reference made to Wally Brown, an old school prefect. Right on queue, puncturing a moment of silence, Simon B shouted, “Oh, where is he now”, neatly making reference to the Where’s Wally books and causing the two people opposite to collapse in laughter, tears rolling from their cheeks. Believe me, it’s funny after 3 glasses of port.
So, I’ve successfully entered the realms of posh London life without being rumbled. As we ambled back to my car, we noticed the square was littered with expensive cars and huge offices, and firmly decided that we would join them in a few years. Possibly.

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