Slightly Askew

You’re just about to sit down for dinner when the doorbell goes.

Ding-dong.

Hello Sir, you don’t mind if I come in, do you?  Brilliant, I’ll just take a seat here for a few moments.  Yeah, I’d love a cup of tea.  Milk, two sugars, not too strong.

So, anyway, I thought you might be interested in buying one of these wonderful new t-shirts that we’ve designed.  It’s got a hilarious strapline about saving water by drinking beer on the front.  You’ll love it.  Comes in four different colours.  If you buy it today, we’ll give you one-third off.  Yes, that’s right, one-third off.

And that’s about all.  Don’t worry about the tea, you’re too slow.  I’ll see myself out.  Thanks for listening.

Oh and if you didn’t want to hear from me, you should have unchecked a small box on our website when you enquired about a t-shirt a few weeks ago.

Would you even contemplate visiting that website again, let alone buy their product or service?  Of course you wouldn’t.

So why does your business send people emails that they didn’t ask for?  That they were just too lazy to opt-out of?  What does that say about your company?

It says you’re desperate and you’re scared.

Opt-in, on the other hand, says you’re confident that you’ve got something to offer that’s worth reading.

So which one are you?

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It was great, thanks.

We got back yesterday, and popped into Sainsbury’s today to pick up a few bits of food.  We’re off to a wedding tomorrow, so when we noticed a Pizza Express voucher, we thought it would make a nice gift - y’know, a meal on us, so to speak.

Presenting our gift voucher to the gormless-looking lady at the checkout, we were greeted with an unsurprisingly gormless facial expression followed by a panic-stricken look around for help.  It came in the form of a boy who was probably just about to start puberty.  As he unhurried over, Tweedle-Dee at the checkout asked:

Do we even sell these?

No, of course you fucking don’t, love.  I just want to pay twenty quid for something that I’ve brought into the shop myself.  There’s a credit crunch on (so we’re told every day) and I thought that J. Sainsbury PLC could do with a booster.

Welcome home.

Please note: this rant isn’t about people who work in Sainsbury’s or any other supermarket - just that silly woman.  My mother works in Sainsbury’s, you see.

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Excuse me?

I’ll think you’ll find that you sent me the unsolicited email.  So who the hell are you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do?

Sending an email from an address such as do-not-reply@igonorant-arseholes.com is akin to phoning your mate and saying:

Hi there, I’ve got something to tell you.  I don’t want your opinion on what I’ve got to say, nor am I looking for any answers.  I’m just going to talk at you for a bit and then hang up.

Those with any sort of self-esteem would hang up first, of course.  Obviously, injecting an abrupt:

How about you fuck off

before doing so would be ideal.

If you want people to buy a product, converse with them.  It doesn’t matter whether it’s credit cards (yup, that’s you Tesco; every little bit helps you know) or music (Polydor - you’re on the ropes, don’t make it worse for yourselves), allow your customers to speak to you.

They’ll like you all the more for it.

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Some time ago, an article by Erin Kissane stirred a hatred inside of me.  Not because I didn’t like the article; I loved the article.  She give a thorough and humourous explanation as to why the word solution is, well, shit.

“Solution” is much too vague to be useful.

And she’s absolutely right.  I went to an ebusiness seminar today and every godforsaken IT company in attendance were parading their products as solutions.  Even better (and by that, I mean worse), an end-to-end solution.  As I sit writing this, I’m still no closer to fathoming-out exactly what those products actually did.

So this nonsense has to stop now.  Just because the financial sector is often riddled with self-indulgent jargon, the IT crowd should not be trying to play catch-up.  If you’re a consumer, and someone can’t explain what something does without using the word solution, that something probably isn’t worth buying.

After all: you can call a turd a bowel disposal solution, but it’s still a turd.

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Ah, the evil mouth ulcer.  Foe to many, friend to none.

Remember the 80s cartoon Dungeons & Dragons?  Where every episode brought new hope of a resolution; that finally those brave teenagers would be reunited with their loved ones?  So near they came, and yet so far it all transpired to be.

The magical cure for mouth ulcers appears to be similarly elusive - yet not without hope.  There’s sugar-free Rinstead pastilles (they’re like extra tough Wine Gums) and Anbesol gel.  Not to mention Bonjela, rinsing with salt water, and - my Mother’s favourite - a good night’s sleep.  I tried, they failed.

The mouth ulcer remains, and the pain of eating salt & vinegar crisps frightfully obvious.

But what’s that coming over the hills?  Is it a monster?  No, it’s a rancid tasting mouthwash, that - golly gosh - seems to work.  Yes, my fellow sufferers, we no longer need to, er… suffer.

As someone who’s been riddled by these bloody things for the last ten or so years of my life, Cordosyl comes recommended.  Sure, it feels like you’ve dipped your tongue in hydrochloric acid, but as we all know: if it hurts, it works.

If you don’t suffer from ulcers and you’re feeling smug reading this, go paper-cut your eyelids or something.  I’ll laugh at you when you’ve got migraine; take some Nurofen you pussy.

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Someone’s lost their temper:

You’re a fucking dickhead.

Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares is a stunning programme.  Not for the culinary delights.  Not even for the colourful language.  But because it never ceases to amaze me how many people get caught in a cycle of stupidity and stubbornness.  Neither is a particularly desirable character trait; put them together and you’ve got dynamite.  And great TV.

How these people end up running their own restaurants is quite staggering.  They are a different class of idiot, in an environment that doesn’t suit them.

My career has led me into (and out of) the crazy world of restaurant kitchens.  They’re quite incredible places: drenched in grease, tension, and good humour.  Somedays you’d do so little, it’d barely be worth turning up for work.  We’d do the ’salad olympics’, with tomatoes and obstacle courses made from crockery and chopping boards, or just bodypop on flattened chip boxes.  There’d always be one day that made up for all those easy days, though; you’d work ten hours without looking at a clock.  You would, in the words of Ramsay, be fucked.

Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares takes me back to those days - without the long hours and shit pay.  I’ve got respect for Ramsay.  He’s worked for what he’s got - bloody hard too.  And he’s mastered his craft; perfected his skill.  Sure, he’s got a filthy mouth, but you need one - it’s the only way you can get your point across in some kitchens.

Don’t knock him until you’ve tried it.

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What is it with some people? People say I’ve got a big ego - but nowhere near as big as the audience members on light-entertainment TV shows.

Take for instance, the cringeworthy birthday tribute to Bruce Forsyth I’ve just subjected myself to. The producers get Jools Holland - a quite fantastic piano player - to make an appearance, and Bruce, being the all-rounder that he is, tickles the ivories with ol’ Jools in a pleasant, but frankly underwhelming, number.

Being they BBC, that have the black-tied orchestra in the studio to back them up. Quite a wealth of musical talent.

So why is it that the audience starts to clap along? Why do people do this?

Talented musicians get their performance murdered by a bunch of philistines intent on being heard. Talented drummers hear their intricate rhythms butchered by the sound of hands clapping to a standard four-beat. And barely in time.

No doubt, these are the same people that put blackcurrant in Guinness. That put lemonade in good wine. And feel the need to transfer their fish & chips to a plate. Stop it. Stop it now.

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