Slightly Askew

16 months ago, I flew from Las Vegas to Gatwick with Virgin Atlantic.

I wasn’t impressed.

And so I emailed them. I didn’t ask for a refund or any free stuff, I just thought they should know. Because if I didn’t tell them what was wrong, how could I be upset if they didn’t improve? My email wasn’t horrid (I like Virgin – they have some damn fine copywriters), more a plea for them to try a bit harder.

Here’s an excerpt:

It felt as if you’ve given up trying to be better, trying to stand out.  You could almost smell the apathy.

They had a chance to make amends last week – I made the very same flight.

But it was the same old story.

Virgin Atlantic is twenty-five years old this year.  The aircraft (a Boeing 747-400, enthusiasts) was probably the same age. And its “award winning in-flight entertainment” didn’t seem too far behind, either.

It was the system where all the channels are on loops. So only once the longest film is finished can everything start again. Granted, I was only in economy. Perhaps in First Class they were giving out Sega Game Gears to keep the patrons entertained.

Although limited, this poor excuse for in-flight entertainment would’ve been welcome in seat 48J. Because the only thing the poor sod in that seat could see is the image you see above. For nine and a half fucking hours.

No points for guessing who that poor sod was.

I did point out the problem, obviously. Three times, no less. And each time the member of Virgin Atlantic’s (award winning, no doubt) cabin crew toddled off and never toddled back with an explanation, apology or alternative.

Perhaps it’s time for another email.

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In search of a spot of lunch, we headed to The Fountain in Tuddenham, a little village on the outskirts of Ipswich. It’s usually a busy pub/restaurant/bistro/whatever-it-brands-itself, but we figured that Mother’s Day last Sunday (one of the busiest days of the year for the restaurant trade) would render this Sunday a good day to get a table. And we were right: seconds after walking in The Fountain’s door we were seated and ordering drinks. My lager arrived quicker than it could’ve been poured. Remarkable stuff.

And it got better. The menu was brilliant – I wanted to order about eight meals. I settled on a homemade cheeseburger with horseshoe fries (okay, hardly the most opulent of dishes, but I do love a good burger). And bloody good it was, too. My burger was cooked beautifully and the fries were perfect. And how often do you get a perfect plate of chips? Not often. They’re often too crispy or too greasy. Or there’s a minging green one that brings all the others down.

I didn’t have dessert, although Caroline said the crème brulée was better than the Bistro’s. And the whole thing was a good price – less than fifteen quid a head (for four of us).

In fact, The Fountain at Tuddenham was pretty much faultless. Pretty much meaning I’m go to be a nit-picking nobhead.

Because for all the quick service, brilliant food and very reasonable pricing, The Fountain is in need of some smiles. Yup, smiles. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not demanding that people who work in customer service bounce around like they’re advertising the newest tampons known to humankind. But a smile – even a forced one – makes me feel that I’m not completely spoiling your day by eating at your establishment. And word has it they’re cheap.

Just a small glitch then. Oh, and the disgraceful apostrophe omission.

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The alarm was sounding. I stood there like a lemon with a guilty look on my face.

I’d go down for this. I’d lose my job, my house, my girlfriend, the lot.

All for a bottle of Pimms.

Have you got your receipt, Sir?

Shit. What if wasn’t in my back pocket where, on auto-pilot, I’d probably put it? What if the dopey cashier hadn’t scanned it?

Thankfully it was, and she had.

She hadn’t taken the security tag off though. That was why I was currently looking like a criminal.

And as the customer services assistant walked past me and muttered “I’ll tell her off for not taking that tag off”, it was left for the security guard to apologise.

In customer service, you deal with the problem first, then you assess the cause. And never forget to say sorry if you’re at fault.

If I was the guilty party, would an apology from my dad have been sufficient? I doubt it.

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Two of my best friends - Danny and Katie - are hairdressers.  Brilliant hairdressers, in fact.

This means two things:

1. Looking this good costs less.
2. I don’t go into salons much.

I went to Katie’s salon today though.  It’s spanking new and pretty swish.  So swish in fact, I could’ve had a glass of cold Budweiser while my barnet was being chopped.

I questioned Katie about how they get around licensing laws.  Turns out that you don’t buy the drink; you rent the glass.  The drink is effectively free.

They don’t make a profit on it either; it’s done for the benefit of the customers.

Which is pretty cool I think.

It demonstrates that not every element of your business should make a profit.  Some elements that only break-even are worth talking about.

So what about if you made a loss?  What if those drinks were absolutely free?  What if I was brought a cold Budweiser without even asking for one?

Cold Budweiser, sir?

Yes please.  I’ll happily drink it, relax during my haircut, and then tell all my mates about your salon.  Never underestimate how much blokes talk about the time I got a free beer.

I know of companies that give away £10 vouchers if you refer your friends to them.  Why not spend £10 giving a service worth talking about?

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Me and the lady were being good citizens on Saturday: paying-in some money for a friend at a high street building society who are, apparently, proud to be different.

In walked a young couple.  They went to one of those ask-a-question queues (we were in the cashier queue, there was a queue for the machines, and a queue of people wondering what queue to join).  The male-half of the couple spoke.

I’d like to change my address please.

I really wanted to make an amusing comment about needing an estate agent instead of a building society, but my seldom-seen restraint kicked-in.  The customer services representative (or whatever his job title was) responded.

Okay sir, I’m going to need you to fill in one of these forms.

As if people don’t have enough bloody forms to fill in when they’re moving house, I thought, restraint still intact.

Well, how long’s it gonna take?  Cos I’m trying to buy something over the internet and I can’t cos my address don’t match the one on the card.

Surely it would be instant, wouldn’t it?  All they have to do is change a record on a database.

We have to post it to central records, sir.  It will take a few days….

…but since I’m in a good mood, and it’s an exceptionable circumstance, I’ll do it for you today.

What?

You’re in a good mood?  What’s that got to do with some bloody customer service?  Just change the fucking address!  And if you can do it instantly for them, you can do it instantly for every other person that needs to change their address.  I can’t imagine they get more than five requests a day.

If there’s a logical shortcut that improves the standard of customer service, make that shortcut the standard.

Surely?

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There’s something wonderful about the idea of getting milk delivered in the morning.

Maybe it’s that whistling milkman, piping an unforgettable melody from this week’s hit parade into the crisp morning air.  Perhaps it’s his cute little milk float, buzzing around with minimal noise and bother, gently clinking as he stops at another home.  Or probably that cold bottle of seemingly unbranded milk that awaits you and your Corn Flakes; helping you to start your day the Kellogg’s way.

Why doesn’t everyone use this wonderful traditional service?  Surely glass bottles reduce wastage and carbon footprint - allowing us normal folk to pass for tree-huggers once in a while?

The reality is that, at half-past eight this morning, my milk hadn’t arrived.

So do I go to work and come home to a bottle of milk that’s been out in the sun all day?

No.  I cancel my orders and go buy it in a plastic tub from Sainsbury’s.  In a plastic bag.  In my car.

So, you can have the all the glorious tradition and imagery you want - after all, marketing is about telling stories.  But, if you can’t get the basics right, like delivering my milk before I go to work, you lose.

And you always will.

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Threepiecemealwithfriesthankyouverymuchenjoyyourmealbye.

Good old KFC prove that it’s certainly not what you say, but the way that you say it.

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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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