Customer Service Train-ing

Isn't it cold though? Brrrr and all that.

I'm currently looking anxiously out of my office window to the train station opposite, wondering if I'm going to get home tonight. Not much seems to have moved in or out all day since I got here this morning, and that's a worry, when you are the worrying sort, like me.



#Feral Ashford International Station(ary).

 I went over to have a gander earlier, to find out if trains were in fact running today. What I was going to do, was have a look at the little screens, and see if any of the trains said "Delayed" or "Cancelled" on them, and work it out myself from that. I'm good like that - give me the information and I'll digest it - I'm quite a talent.

However, due to the widespread disruption, they have decided to turn these screens off and replace with a message stating that due to "RAIL ADHESION PROBLEMS*" there was widespread disruption today.

So, surely, you'd have thought that to ask a member of the station staff, so easily identified in their florescent orange tabards, would be the next best and indeed ONLY option to find out when the fuck a train would be next coming along.

But clearly not, judging by how irked the tabarded-twats seemed to be at being asked the question.

Oh I'm sorry, have you already been asked the same question 10 times in the past half hour? Well TURN THE FUCKING SCREENS ON THEN, YOU USELESS IDIOTS!!!

Do these fucking cretins honestly expect people to just turn up onto a platform, stand there in minus temperatures with no information, no announcements and just think "Well, I may as well just stand here and freeze my nuts off in the vain hope that a train will come along eventually. Asking a member of staff would be a silly idea, as even if there isn't a train for another 2 hours, I'd much rather stand here aimlessly and die of hypothermia waiting for something to come along than gather some information and better spend my time sat in a warm coffee shop until the next expected train is actually due."

It's one of my many, many bugbears that train and platform staff seem to get so disgruntled and annoyed about being continually asked the same questions about when the trains are due, as if it somehow isn't their fucking job to help the public get on and off trains.

They often appear so bloody annoyed at the stupidity of the commuter asking such a question, as if we should somehow be all too aware that they have already answered that question barely 5 minutes earlier, and that if we weren't there to hear it then it was our fault.

If you really don't like being asked "When is the next train to...." I suggest not getting a job that involves standing on a platform with a shiny orange jacket on!

The fact is, if you didn't try your best to make it some kind of cryptic riddle as to when the next train was likely to arrive by turning your myriad of information monitors into static statements of the frankly obvious† we wouldn't need to bother you in the first place!

I have more to say on this issue, but I want to try and get home now. So goodbye.



* I mean, what the fuck? What was it, wrong type of Pritt-stick?
†They may as well say "There's a bit of bad weather today, so the trains are fucked. Just how fucked they are though, you'll need to find out yourselves by asking the platform staff individually, one by one, until they get really fucked off with you all."

Zoo Are My Everything

Regular readers may have noticed I've started tracking how many people visit this blog, by way of the counter, to the right over there              --------------------->

See it? It's right there, yes that's it, the box with the numbers in it.
What many of you probably don't know however, is that I can also now track where you are in the world, and how you have got to my website.

If you got here through a search engine, it even pulls up details of what search term was used to end up here.

This has led to some interesting revelations.

As you can see from the above, my core demographic appears to be people interested in washed up ex-Football star Paul Gascoigne and fucking animals.

What is wrong with you people?

I mean, Paul Gascoigne? Really?!!! (Ho ho ho, I am very funny).

To be honest though, it's not the craving for online bestiality that surprises me in itself, as much as what type of bestiality has brought people here.

Zoophilia rabbit / Rabbit-loving.
Seriously? How does that work? What sort of carrot incentive would that require? Two separate searches for Rabbit-love so it's clearly a popular pursuit.

Cartoon zoophilia.
What, so it's not just animals, but imaginary ones for this guy (or girl)? I guess talking cartoon animals could at least consent.

At last, an answer to the question "What's Up, Doc?"

Lady fucking with Ox. 
An Ox? Really? Now, I know you may think I have a natural affinity for the Ox for toponymical* reasons, but they are hardly the most beautiful of creatures, and certainly an odd one to inspire sexual lust.

I mean, I can just about understand someone looking at a horse and thinking "My, what a beautiful, noble creature that is. I'd love to see it shafting someone."

But an Ox? A dirty, shaggy haired, stinking old Ox? Someone saw this in a field and thought "oooh yeah baby, lets Get. It. On."


Musk Ox: Arousing.

 Is this the bestiality equivalent of granny porn?

Hampster[sic] big arse small waist.
So, with this feller/lady, it's not just Hamsters that get them going - oh no! It's Hamsters with big butts. They just love the way they shake it in their rotastak! Is that a stash of nuts in your cheeks or are you pleased to see me?

This visitor was from Australia, by the way. Just thought that needed highlighting.

Hammy the Hamster: Bootylicious.

I guess what should really alarm me though is the fact that these queries seem to end up at my blog. What started out as a blog about random, everyday events in my life has turned into a homing beacon for all the freaks, sickos and nutters of the online world.

Zoophillia chatrooms worldwide are posting links to my blog, egging on newbies to seek out my stories about cartoon animal sex and ladies fucking oxen.

Of course, I've probably made it worse now, with this entry, haven't I?

So, I might as well see what other depravities I can attract to this site with a few choice, searchable phrases:

Raccoon dogging.
Necrophiliac Vultures.
Horny Aardvark.
Jellyfish Bukkake.
Barely Legal Duck-Billed Platypus.
Lobsters: Whores of the Sea.

I'll let you know how it goes... 




*Yes, that is a big word isn't it? Look it up here. And don't say you never learn anything from visiting this blog.

Fraudian Slip

I have become something of a vigilante hero this week.

No, I haven't been mistakenly beating up pediatricians and I haven't been dressing up as Batman and rounding up brightly-attired criminal masterminds.

But what I have done, twice in a week now, is prevent fraudsters from scamming innocent cashpoint users by detecting that a young rascal has placed a cheeky gadget on the card slot.

The gadget in question you can see here above. It sits neatly over the normal card slot, and is even cunningly 'painted' in a sort of scuzzy black/metallic pattern that the actual card slot has - it's actually quite difficult to notice that there is anything wrong with the cashpoint at first inspection.

So cunningly concealed is the device, that on Tuesday morning, I put my debit card through it, typed in my pin number and asked for £50 (Yes that's right, £50. I like to carry a bit of extra money just in case I need to donate it to someone dressed as a fucking teddy bear carrying a bucket on my way to work).

Now, all seemed to be going swimmingly, the bank had decided I was credit-worthy (always a relief - I never know when my numerous regular charity direct debits are coming out you see) and told me to take my card and await my crisp notes below.



Problem though - the card was not returned. I could hear it trying to eject, but nothing came out. It was then that I realised what had happened.

FRAUD!

The card slot had seemed a bit stiff when I put the card in, but I hadn't really paid it a second thought. Now here I was, feeling helpless and scammed, with a trapped card and £50 just behind the screen. If I walked away, I knew there was someone hanging around somewhere ready to pounce and remove the device, thus gaining my trapped card and also subsequently releasing the £50 into his spindly, filthy, Fagin-like fingers.

Well, I simply wasn't having that.



Fraud Device!



It took me a few minutes of exasperated clutching and grasping, but eventually with the help of my keys I prised the fucker off the card slot. I suffered for my fraud-busting too, finger-tips covered with still-setting superglue and a slashed open thumb (as evidenced in photo number 2, above).

But I had beaten the crook and his merry game. I looked around me in smug defiance, knowing the brute was almost certainly still lurking somewhere, looking on in annoyance. I even held up the device in the air for him to see, as my trophy. By now my face was seven shades of smug. I'd beaten him. A true victory for the man in the street.

Well, a victory for the man in the street who wasn't a thieving shit lurking in the shadows waiting to steal my fucking money, that is.

As soon as I'd prised the device off, the cashpoint obviously recognised there had been some tampering and shut down, instructed me not to re-enter my pin and did not dispense the cash.

Later that day I returned to the bank and handed over the fraud-device, explaining the events. It was a pretty good job that I did because having checked the CCTV footage the police were currently looking for a portly chap in an Oxford United beanie hat who had been angrily gouging away at the card slot that morning with his keys.

I informed them that I was not the miscreant they were looking for, and to rewind the camera 10mins to find the culprit, as when I got there the glue was still wet. I received a couple of pats on the back for my efforts from the bank clerk. I thought that was a bit patronising to be honest though.

Well would you believe it dear reader, but this very morning I went to the same cashpoint, and low and behold, a similar device was again in place. Out came the keys - off came the device. 2-0 to FMO, eat that fraudster!

My only regret is that I didn't catch the scammer. But I will do.

Tomorrow I will be pretending to put my card in, then pretending to act frustrated and walking immediately off.

I shall then hide around the corner and pounce on the culprit when he emerges to take my card and money.
"Haha! I have got you, you swine!" I shall exclaim.
"It's a fair cop, let's go to the nearest police station" shall be the retort. Either that or he'll stab me and run off.

Fall to your knees and tremble cashpoint scammers, for from hereon in I shall be known as -

THE FRUADSMELLER PURSUIVANT!

The cashpoint in question is the RBS cashpoint on High Holborn - opposite the Princess Louise pub, for those that know the area.

Do be careful, citizens! I cannot be there 24/7 to save you, unfortunately.

Less Than Charitable

Oh! It's Children In Need* this Friday is it?

Oh joy.

Oh fucking, fucking, fuckety joy.

I'm sure there will be lots of people doing some absolutely hilarious stunts!

Some crazy cat will no doubt be bathing in a bath of baked beans- CRAZY! 

Perhaps some zany loon will be eating a jar of chillies! OUTRAGEOUS!

Bath of Beans: Ha Ha Ha! Hilarious!

Ho, ho, what fun and all in the name of helping unfortunate children - how could you not want to join in?
I'm not sure if you could tell from my tone there, but I'm not really a big fan of this forced fundraising business. Don't get me wrong, I love charity. And I love children, especially poor and mis-treated ones. But I fucking hate the forced nature of these big fundraising events - Comic Relief, Children in Need, Telethon and on and on and on...

All of a sudden, like this week, everyone is out with buckets dressed up as a tool, baking over-priced cakes and forcing you to buy them, or doing some half-arsed sponsored walk or other.

As it happens, I already contribute quite a bit to certain charities regularly each month. Although I don't like to talk about that much.

It's probably more per year than many of these 1-week charity wonders will raise for Children in Need this week, actually. But as I said, I don't like to talk about that much.

But it is quite a lot.

Yet I'm still made to feel guilty every time I walk past a zany cock dressed up as Ronald McDonald on my way to work, rattling a bucket in my face.

"Children in Need Sir?"
"No, sorry - I've already given this year."
"Oh... I see."

...and with a disdainful glance as if I were a dog turd found on his shoe, he turns away in disgust and rattles his bucket anew at other, clearly more generous commuters.

Fuck off!

The wacky idea that companies in my office block have decided to do this week in order to prise more coins out of my pocket EVERY FUCKING DAY, is to walk up the 11 floors of stairs in the building 272 times - the height of Mount Everest. Reasonably impressive, I thought initially, as this was being outlined to me by one of the participants.

"Ohh, you'll be awfully tired though! That's quite a distance for you all to cover in a week!" I exclaimed to him.

"Well, we are not actually doing 272 climbs each - there are about 30 of us - and we are doing it like a relay." He replied.

I was aghast & perplexed. "So, what your saying is- you yourself are, over the space of a week, going to walk up 11 flights of stairs about 10 times? That's not really climbing then height of Everest, is it? In fact, if you were an energetic fellow who worked on the top floor, you might well in fact walk the same distance every week of your working life as a matter of course."

He looked sheepish. "Well yes, but it's still the height of Everest when we add up everyone's contribution!"

And with that he gleefully rattled his bucket and smiled at me once again, quite inanely.

Tensing: Not sponsored for his efforts.

Well, Sherpa Tensing, it certainly is the height of Everest when you add in everyone's efforts, but by the same ridiculous logic, I can probably claim to have successfully walked the equivalent of the moon and back if I add up the walking contribution of everyone in London this week!

So no wonder I'm being so grumpy with you arsehole fundraisers, having walked to the moon - I'm very fucking tired!

I mean really.

Then we've got the ruddy cake-makers, wheeling their trolley full of sick-making cakes in and out of our offices every day this week.

If it wasn't enough being felt forced to shell out £1 for a mediocre flap-jack yesterday, I'm going to be asked to do so again today, and tomorrow, and the next day, right up to the big night itself on Friday. 

Presumably we'll also get visited by the intrepid Everest mountaineers on their way up and down the stairs, pausing in their difficult ascent only for the nourishment of lemon drizzle cake and to count the many coins they've accrued through the pretence of endeavour.

Well, at least when I get home on Friday night I can put it out of my mind and relax in front of the TV with some of the special edition programming commissioned exclusively for Children in Need. I hope James Corden is doing something!

Brilliant!

 
 
 
*Children In Need of Getting Out of My Fucking Angry Face.