BT are Fuckwits

I am still here but following a bout of masterly incompetence by BT since I moved house I still have very limited internet access (I am writing this from a crappy little internet cafe). Hopefully this will be sorted shortly but until then it's difficult to post.

Just how incompetent have they been? Following my last rant down the phone at them the call centre monkey said he would put me through to the complaints department. A few seconds later I was spoken to by a different but strangely familiar voice. I had a hunch, and my hunch proved correct. On interogation this voice admited that it was the same person, he hadn't put me through to anyone different and that he was just pretending.

In the words of Littlecock, you couldn't make it up!

Just how much worse can it get?

After a very pleasant weekend (which I may blog about another time) I think I reached a low earlier this evening. It is the kind of low that not even reading Richard Littlejohn articles back to back could achieve. Let me explain the circumstances.

Having booked a cheap train ticket home I first found myself waiting in the cold for over an hour for the train I had to get. When it arrived it had no seat reservations resulting in a wonderful bum fight for seats. Having found a seat the air con was stuck on when the temperature outside could barely be arsed to get above 2C. So I needed the toilet. The first toilet I found was flooded. The second one I used the flush wouldn't work and then the taps had no water. So I used a third to wash my hands. Lovely.

So I arrived at Peterborough where I needed to change. I had missed not one but two connections. I was now in need of sustenance and I explored the delights of the Pumpkin Cafe on the station. And this is where an already shit journey hit absolute rock bottom. I chose, foolishly, a veggie pasty which the individual serving warmed for me. Sitting down at my table in the freezing cafe that stank of stale beer I extracted the offering that I had paid £3.

I was tempted to ramble on for several paragraphs to explain this horror but instead I think I shall keep it short. It looked, smelled and tasted, like cat sick wrapped in cardboard. At this moment I thought things could get no worse, that I had reached a low that most people will never know, that this was as bad as life could get. Then something happened to snap me out of that madness. Lets face it, there are worse things than eating cat sick in Peterborough. What was that thing?

Celine Dion came on over the piped music.

From thinking life could get no worse, I now knew.

Akela is now going to bed and hoping that life will look better in the morning.