Friday, 12 October 2012

The icing on the cake...

That's the brown, squidgy, runny, unpleasant, poo-like icing on the big cake of shit that this week transpired to be. I find myself considering the grammar in that sentence as incredibly suspect. Don't think I haven't noticed it. Just assume I can't be arsed to correct it.

This week basically started badly, tailed off in the middle, hit a crisis on Wednesday, floated on the scum-covered grey waves of a sea of diarroeaha on Thursday and barely dragged itself out of bed on Friday. This week, basically, can go fuck itself.

And that was before O2, my ridiculously unreliable and unbelievably shit 'network' decided to not only merely deign to deliver just one random text in three, but shuffled off its mortal coil completely.

A quick internet search by my colleague showed that yes, it's true, 10% of O2 customers (or victims as I prefer to label us poor, suffering fools) have lost their network. But it's OK, it'll be fixed by 16:30. Except we were looking at the update at 17:30.

So that is how I found myself having to go and purchase things from One Stop in order to get cashback in order to rustle up the 60p [minimum charge in four coins or less] in order to make a call in a phone box. Yes, kids. Those things you see occasionally covered in beer, piss and graffiti are actual boxes with phones in that people used to use. All the time. That was back in the day when it cost 10p to make a call. Now, you can only connect to someone else with 60p, which gives you 30 minutes. But wait, I don't want to stand in this piss-ridden hell hole for 30 minutes but I sort of feel like I have to to get my money's worth. I'd rather spend 10p, deliver important message, preferably while not breathing in or out and get the fuck out of there. How has it come to this? And have you ever tried to hold a phone without actually touching it? It's difficult.

I'd picked the only phone box I've seen in York. Naturally, it's outside the One Stop which seems to be exclusively staffed by tagged ex-cons and frequented by hoardes of drunken, shit-covered tramps.  I'm thinking of setting up a new tourist attraction and standing outside selling tickets, so unusual is the experience.

I was determined to stand in that disgusting, stinking, fetid box until I had used every penny of my 60p but after a very long 10 minutes became aware of someone staring at me through the window. It was a man, clearly off his face, in pyjamas and hi tops. And on crutches. He was staring at me with a stabbing expression. As in, if I didn't get the fuck out of that box he would stab me in the face with his handy flickknife. Clearly, freak man needed to get on the phone fast. Presumably to organise his next shipment.

I hate O2.





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