dear edf

March 7, 2011

Fuck you and your fixed daily charge. WHAT THE FUCK?!

Fuck you and your letter that arrived today, (I paraphrase) “from March 2 we will be putting the prices up ahahahaha”. It’s MARCH THE FUCKING SEVENTH YOU CUNTS.

Fuck you and your “the price of buying electricity and gas has been going up”. No it hasn’t.

Oh. And did I mention… Fuck you.


the internet – still spazzy

March 3, 2011

Friday’s coming, folks, and that can mean only one thing. A trip to London Town to Tallulah Rendall‘s album launch.

For this, I required a number of things:

  1. A ticket for the event (done)
  2. Somewhere to kip (done)
  3. A ticket for the train (done)
  4. Trendy album-launch-style duds  (done. I shall be attending in my best polyester slacks, acrylic shirt and clogs).

My experience purchasing a ticket for the train gave me pause for thought last night. I chose my trains and selected the Buy Now button, at which point I was instructed to set up an account.

Here are some FACTS for you, National Express East Anglia:

Fact 1 – You can’t effficiently/correctly/properly run a train service which involves the simple forward propulsion of a vehicle invented in 1829 down two parallel tracks.

Fact 2 – There are naughty hackers out there who would very much like to have my personal details from anywhere they can get them.

Considering FACT 1 and FACT 2, why would I trust my personal address and personal credit card details to your website? Why do I need to create an account on your website to purchase a ticket? What’s wrong with a “I don’t want to set up an account, here are my details, let’s checkout now” button.

I do not want to have to supply you with my title, first name, surname, telephone number, email address, email address again, password, password again, postcode-and-then-click-on-the-appropriate-address-for-the-postcode-in-this-annoying-pop-up-window (all the houses in my street have the same frickin’ postcode). And if I don’t want to have to do that, why in God’s name would I want to tick a box to tell you and your “approved third parties” not to spam my email account? Oh, and don’t play that “You didn’t fill in a field quite right” game and untick the Do Not Spam Me box, just in case I don’t notice what you’ve done. If you do this, you are not a business with which I wish to be associated. With.

By the way, who approved these third parties? Because I know that I didn’t. Could you send me the list and I’ll decide whether they should be approved or not? I suspect I am more choosy than your marketing gurus:

Guru 1: Like, they get on a train, so they must want to hear from Reader’s Digest!
Guru 2: And Kay’s catalogue!
Guru 1: And they must need a new phone contract!
Guru 2: And a new laptop!
Guru 1: And those fake scratch cards!
Guru 2: And information about coach journeys!
Guru 1: And conservatories!
Guru 2: And comfortable polyester slacks!
Alf boredofjam: Wait! Fuck it, I’m signing up.

But seriously, all I’m asking is that you let me buy my tickets, simply and easily, preferably without the hassle of account creation. I bought the cheapest tickets I could get hold of, I am not going to be a big revenue earner for you. Take my details for this transaction, verify my card, sell me my tickets and then ditch my information.

Please, internet people, let me live my life simply. If I’m making a one-off, quick purchase, then that is what it should be: Quick. I don’t have the time or the patience to be told that “Username boredofjam is taken, how about wkerjndvn_22 instead?”

I. Just. Want. My. Stuff.

Now excuse me whilst I go lay down somewhere dark and have a good cry. But first I’d better buy some tissues. Now where’re my Tescos log in details?

classic wankery

April 28, 2010


Have this link. It made me chuckle thanks to its expert demonstration of a professional wanker demonstrating classic wankery.

Starting off by comparing some in-ear headphones to floor-standing speakers as a way of justifying this hand moistening, self indulgent pocket shuffling, is pure grade-A wank in a gold bucket.

I have a feeling that Steve Guttenberg, whilst not not-starring in Police Academy films is the sort of fella who will spunk out on $1500 HDMI cables. Literally.

But, whatever floats your boat. Enjoy listening to them badly encoded MP3s, y’all.

animal politics

April 20, 2010

The local and general elections are accelerating toward us as we sit here and study our belly-buttons, dunk shortbread fingers into cups of tea, and watch Corrie on ITV.

Here in Ipswich we also have some election stuff going on, but as usual we’re too concerned at allowing fucking monolith supermarket stores to build yet another one of their poisonous outlets in our small town. Here’s some information on why we shouldn’t have The World’s Most Massive Tesco Store Ever built on a one-way system just outside the town centre. Apart, obviously, from the amount of traffic that this would bring to an area which already struggles to cope, the environmental impact and the fact it’s fucking Tescos. Oh, and the Green Party have an interesting and less ranty article on it, too.

Unfortunately, it would seem that the crazy Liberal/Tory councillors in the Borough Council have enjoyed the hospitality of the Cohens too much, allowing the redevelopment to go ahead, and what lovely new cars most of them have outside their houses. Allegedly.

What a sad day for this sad little town. Not only do we get another Tesco store shitting all over the small business economy of fair Ipswich, we are also going to be treated to yet more apartments. Obviously no-one has considered that little more than half a mile down the road is the Docklands redevelopment which is stacked full of flats, most of them empty.

But all this is by-the-by.

The fellow who has represented Ipswich in Parliament for the last few years, Chris Mole, is looking to get re-elected. He is very on-message with his party. You decide whether that’s a good thing or not.

However, there is a glut of signs with VOTE MOLE written on them in large, Labour letters around the town. These hurt my poor eyes. My antidote to this particular curse is here.

I wouldn’t suggest printing it out and gluing it over the existing Chris Mole signs.

(The badger picture used in the PDF, for those who don’t know, is stolen from off of Weebl. Go here for the original truly annoying thing).

the shame

March 27, 2010

If you suffer from cold sores, you’ll probably spend a lot of time trying your best to avoid them. You’re ashamed of yourself when you get one. You’re a dirty whorebag of a slut for ending up with herpes simplex, and you shouldn’t be seen in public. Basically, you should die.

Or at least, that’s how I feel about myself when I get one. So I’ll do anything to encourage the fuckers away as quickly as possible.

I find that lysine seems to help keep them controlled pretty well so that they’re not as intrusive (or rather obvious) as previously. Of course, as with all of this sort of thing, your mileage may vary. I take a single 1000mg tablet a day. They come from the health food shop.

This morning I discovered that I was running low on tablets, with less than a week’s supply remaining. So I figured that I’d pop into town and pick up another tub of them. Manfully striding into town I make straight for the appropriate shop and start scouring the shelves. Obviously, along with every other shop in the world, nothing stays in one place very long, and this time was no exception. The lysine was not where it was previously. However, being male, I’ll be damned if I’m going to ask a any shop assistant for, ahem, assistance.

Eventually I caved. I looked really really hard. But all I could find was cod liver oil, candied pineapple chunks and whey protein. I didn’t want any of those things. So, with shame in my heart, I asked the shop assistant.

“Hello!” I said.

“Ooh!” She said, “you scared me.”

I guess I had loomed from out of a different part of the brightly lit shop and into the ten feet of personal space around her, so that’s fair. I’d scared her with my obviousness. Damn me.

“I wonder,” I asked, “do you have any lysine? I’ve looked everywhere and I’ve been here for about a week.”

At this point the assistant, bless her, looked upon me with sad eyes. She reached and took my hand and patted it sympathetically.

“Awww… lysine,” she cooed, and continued in a whisper, “of course. We keep it behind the til.” And she wandered off, my hand still in hers, towards the cash desk. Part-way there she stopped and turned to me, and again, in a conspiratorial tone said, “We do three sizes. Five hundred milligrams in sixties, a thousand milligrams in sixties and a thousand in hundred-twenties.”

As far as I knew, lysine is some kind of soya protein and not really something worthy of hushed voices and gently-gently customer treatment.

“I may as well take the big tub,” I said.

“Awww, bless you, ok,” she smiled and shrugged and fished around behind the til until she found the packet. As she put the price through the til, I had a nasty feeling that I’d just about managed to escape without her pinching my cheek and ruffling my hair.

To quote from some of the higher quality Sunday papers, I paid, made my excuses and left.