Hw hrd cn it B?

Someone once said, “Life's a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get” Whoever said it was a fool. A 24 carat jackass. A buffoon. Because as you get older and you’re part of the working class, I’ll tell you what you get. Cacked on, that’s what. Not content with cacking on you, they do it from a great height. They’re quite open about it. Your position in life is under them. You are there to be cacked on.

Perhaps it’s me? I’ve almost reached a half century and… God that sounds bad. A half century. That’s, whisper it, fifty years. FIFTY YEARS! Buggeration!! And that deserves a double exclamation mark. I’m older than my dad was when he told me off for listening to music “too loudly”. I’ve lived longer than Gordon Ramsay for goodness sake and look how gnarled he is. I’m older than the leader of the opposition/PM in waiting! And have you noticed that the policemen are looking younger these days?

No, I’m not having that. I still think The Who had it right when they sang “I hope I die before I get old.” Put the age thing out of your head Rob. I work with young people. They keep my outlook young. I’m in the loop regarding what’s hip and what’s not. Believe me, if you utter some “old man’s” garbage in front of teenagers, they’ll let you know soon enough.

I’m pretty well up with technology too. I can find my way round the innards of my PC in no time. I’ve streamed tunes over the net. I’m a geek! So why is it that some smart assed kid from a phone shop can upset me so? No, I take that back, she merely contributed towards the cacking from on high that I received today. She, if you like, positioned the defecator (or is it defacatee?)above my head.

Look, last week, rushing about as is far too normal in this hectic world, I stormed home and quickly changed from my work trousers. Got to get them in the wash at night time, it’s cheaper electric. It was only an hour later that I found that I’d also washed my mobile phone. The poor thing gurgled a bit but even after mouth to mouth it refused to jump back into life. It had died. I’d even given it a burial at sea with full honours. I’ll be honest here. I don’t even like mobile phones. Intrusive little shits they are. If someone wants you so badly, they’ll get hold of you. But, damn and blast it, they do come in handy. I tried doing without over Christmas. The silence was deafening. The trill “toodley doot de doo” of an incoming text message never sounded. I never thought I’d miss reading “mry xmas m8” or even asking me “hw r u m8, u ok?” I never have any idea what they mean but they are quite comforting to know that some illiterate person somewhere cares for your wellbeing.

So today, I’d decided. I was going to buy a new mobile phone. That’s a work of art in itself. But strolling through a well known Rochdale supermarket I spotted one for the right price. Basic as they come. Small enough not to get in the way and on the same network as before. What’s more, the price included £10 of credit! Result.

Hopes high, I marched into the Orange shop in town. I wanted them to transfer my existing credit onto the new sim card and apply the new credit. Can it be that difficult? Oh damn yes, of course it can! Believe it or not, the “Orange” sales representative couldn’t touch my “Orange” phone because I’d bought my “Orange” phone at another store. No matter that the “Orange” phone is locked to their network. No matter that my old sim card was supplied by “Orange” Aaaaaaaaargh!


No matter, I’m a geek, remember? I’ll do it myself. One hour later and the phone is up and running. All I need to do now is get the £10 voucher validated and added to my account. A quick look on the net and it all comes to an abrupt halt. I have to be registered to use the “Orange” site. No matter, I’ll phone them up! Twenty minutes and I’m still being told that it’s a busy time and they really value my call. Ok…. Take a deep breath. Try another sequence of key presses. Bingo! I’m through to some lady in Delhi. For a one off fee of 25p. Aaaaaargh!

Ok, let’s get through this. I explain to the lady that I have a voucher included as part of a package with my new mobile phone. I need to add the voucher to my account on this phone, with my old sim card. “Not a problem”, she assures me. “Just read the voucher number out and bob’s yer uncle” ok, I made the last bit up. You’ll not believe this. Eleven numbers in the code. “Orange” codes have to be twelve numbers. “You need to take it all back to the supermarket and tell them the code doesn’t work” Aaaaaargh!

So here I sit on New Years eve, a bottle of Stella by the side of me, a bottle of wine warming nicer for later. Goodbye 2009. Hello 2010.

A resolution? Yeah, the first person that texts me “Hppy nw yr m8!” is gonna get “pss off” right back at ‘em!

Dogs, idiots and fat, ugly women

I’ve got a sign above my head that can only be seen by dogs, idiots and fat, ugly women. I’ve no idea what the sign says but it must be there as they all make a beeline to me. The worrying thing now is, I think this sign can be seen even when I use the phone. Don’t get me wrong, I quite like being approached by dogs and the occasion fat, ugly woman. In fact, some would say the two groups are one and the same. However, the idiots of this world, I can do without.

All I want to do is transfer USD to an account, held in the name of my Indian tour operator, at the State Bank of India. I’ve contacted the chap in India, he’s contacted his bank and equipped with all the relevant details, we’re set to go. How difficult can it be? Being a tech savvy kind of guy, online banking is the way forward. I can keep out of the sweaty branch at lunchtime and conduct all my business online or over the phone. Tickety boo!

Whilst I can open a new deposit account “in a few easy clicks” there’s no way to transfer money from one bank to another. So, it looks like it’ll have to be phone banking. After fifteen minutes talking to some lame-brained Lloyds telephone monkey, my life force is being sapped from me at an alarming rate. Have I got the receiving bank’s identifying code? No. Have I got the BIC? Have I got Saturday’s lottery numbers?...Ok, I made the last one up but you get the idea. No matter, let’s go direct to source and speak to someone at the State bank of India.

I’m in luck. There’s a State Bank of India branch just down the road from me. I’ll give them a phone call. Surely, I can buy some travellers cheques (commission free) and then just deposit them into the tour operator’s account? If only life were that simple. Have I got an account at the State Bank? No. “Oh well you’ll have to open one and then transfer the money to the receiver’s account and then keep the account open with a minimum of $1,000US.” What about the traveller’s cheques idea? I might as well have asked her about football’s offside law. Gibberish, that’s what she came back at me with, gibberish!

Meanwhile, the local dogs must have smelt my presence. Woof! Woof woof! I could just about hear the bank employee now over the noise of the dogs. Woof woof! “look on the…”woof woof! “and you’ll be see..” woof! Woof woof!”… then contact your bank…” woof woof woof! “...but there’s a charge” I lost the will to live, hung up and contacted Lloyds again. Thirty minutes later and I was still dealing with a phone monkey reading from a pre-determined, un-wavering script when… my phone gave up the ghost and, like me, its batteries went flat.

Tail between my legs, I trekked to my local branch of Lloyds at lunchtime. Another soul destroying experience. The place was crammed to the rafters with folk. Luckily, the good folk at Lloyds have come up with a novel way of managing the queues. Shut a couple of teller’s windows and go for lunch. No noisy, inconsiderate customers for them. A Greggs steak slice and sit on a bench for thirty minutes, that should see the queue die down a bit! Bastards!

Forty minutes later, with my lunch missed, the transaction is complete. Apparently, it’ll take twelve to fifteen working days for the money to get India. There’s no guarantee the money will get there and they won’t notify me if it does. I’ve been charged £20 for this wonderful service and I’ll be paying again when the recipient receives the money. I can’t understand why we have a banking crisis with this standard of service. Ah well, as long as there’s a couple of pounds left over for them to award their executives a nice bonus. Bastards the lot of ‘em!

Now then, where’s that fat, ugly woman?