Stick Your E-Ticket Up Your Arse!

Traveling! Some think it's great, but I bet the fuckers don't have to do it for their work! Now, many years ago, traveling was simple. You went to a travel agent, you bought a ticket, booked a hotel, and pissed off home. A few days later, Postie pushed an envelope through your letterbox containing a plane ticket (a thin paper booklet around 6 x 3 inches with the tickets on separate pages) and a confirmation of your hotel booking. For that, we paid them a few pounds - money well spent.

Today, it's fucking dreadful. First, you have to go on-line and spend a few hours filtering through numerous fucking web-sites to find the only one that isn't going to tear you a new arsehole. Then you have to book the fucking shit yourself. Okay, it's not hard, but if you're drunk, you are likely to fly out of one airport and return to a different one. Yes, I've done that a few times, and then spent a small fortune trying to get to my fucking car.

However, then - for ecological reasons - we have the fucking e-ticket. Now, I'm all for saving a few trees, but the e-ticket is a con. The airlines and hotels don't print them, the fucking customer does. In most cases, the cunts don't want the actual e-ticket, but on the one occasion you don't print it, you'll be fucked! The cost for this - nothing, but then they want a fucking credit card fee, which costs more than the fucking paper ticket ever did.

So, having just returned from a trip, I spent an hour this morning shredding all my unused e-ticket vouchers. Then I spent another hour printing out a fucking ream of paper for my next trip. It's not work, it's a holiday, but it feels like work. I need 17 separate items of fucking paperwork, and each one is designed to not fit onto a single sheet.

E-tickets? Stick them up your arse!

Phone Sex (Sort Of)

So, I'm sitting letting my dinner digest, sipping on a nice glass of Barolo, and the fucking phone rings. Despite knowing that I shouldn't, I answer it (an unusual act, I usually ignore it) because Mrs SC is away and I figure she's checking I'm not dead yet. It's not Mrs SC, and I'm not dead. It is, however, some salesbod trying to sell me some shit via an unsolicited call. What's more, he doesn't have the best command of the English language. I think to myself, fuck it, there's nothing on the TV.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mister Santa Cruz?"

"Who's that?"

"Is that Mister Santa Cruz?"

"Why? Who are you?"

"I can't discuss that with you unless you confirm you are Mister Santa Cruz."

"Why?"

"Data Protection." * This is a piss-poor ruse to get you to identify yourself!

"Well, if I say I am Mister Santa Cruz, what does that prove?"

"It confirms who you are."

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does."

"Well, I'm afraid Mister Santa Cruz is dead."

"Oh, I see. Are you the homeowner?"

"Who's the homeowner?"

"Are you?"

"Give me a name and I'll tell you if he's the homeowner."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me the name of the homeowner."

"Why?"

"Data protection!"
"Oh, I see. Are you the homeowner?"
"Which home?"
"This one."

"Which one?"

"I have a special offer if you are the homeowner."

"What is it?"

"Are you the homeowner?"

"Tell me what the offer is, and I'll tell you if I'm the homeowner."

"I can't tell you unless you confirm if you own the property."

"Which property?"
"Your property."

"I do own property, that I can confirm."
"What is the address?"

"It's the address that Mister Santa Cruz used to have."

"Are you Mister Santa Cruz?"

"No, he's still dead."

"So who are you?"

Now, if you're fucking confused, imagine how he felt. I still don't know what he was selling. I managed to keep him at it for 19 minutes before he hung up on me. My all-time record is 59 minutes. That bastard hung up just before I made the hour. I now have taken to recording the calls. It's fantastic what you can do if you put your mind to it. I had one bloke trying to sell me a phone barking like a dog.

Just remember folks; telesales people are for life, not just for Christmas.

Fuck them!

The Face of Jesus in my Soup

Now, many of you will have - at some point in your pitiful lives - laughed at those who wear their faith like a badge. Personally, I love it when they get all riled up because I laughed at them, and at the peak of their offense I remind them that they'll forgive me. Funnily enough, they often don't, which is just like spitting on baby Jesus in the cow shed.

Anyhow, the other day I was about to enjoy a bowl of soup, when I saw the creator of the Universe looking back at me. Now, in the old days, several Bishops would have turned up, along with a crowd of devotees, and my house would have been converted into a shrine before I could say "Fuck off, you Christian twats", or something like that.

Now, I do think we live in a Godless age, but as my aged Mother often tells me, it seems Godless because my soul is corrupt. So, I decided to believe, and convert to Jesus of the Tomato Soup's club. The next thing was to evangelise. Luckily, the soup manufacturer (I admit I didn't make it myself) had put a telephone number on the side of the carton, telling me to contact them if I had any queries. I did.

"Hello, it's about your tomato soup."

"Yes?"

"It has something in it."

"Are you sure it didn't fall in when you were preparing it?"

The point to note here is that the woman didn't know what was in it; she didn't care. All she wanted to do was shift the blame.

"No, I certainly didn't put it there."

"What exactly is it?"

"The face of Jesus."

Click ... Brrrrr

I redialed.

"Hello, I was just talking to someone else and we got cut off. I found something in my tomato soup."

"Was it a piece of tomato?"

"No, it wasn't, and it didn't fall in while I was heating up the soup, before you ask."

"What did you find?"

"The face of Jesus."

"Pardon?"

"The face of Jesus is in my soup. The creator of the world is looking up at me from the bowl."

(After a brief pause) "Really?"

"Yes, really."

Click ... Brrrrr

For a moment I thought about taking the bowl to the local church, but instead I stuck the spoon it, gave it a stir, and ate it. We do indeed live in Godless times.

There's a Padded Cell Free in LA, If Anyone Needs One...

So, Jacko's dead, eh? Heart attack, or was he 'disposed' of by those standing to benefit from his estate? Maybe there were a few more kids lined up, their parents out for revenge on the eve of his comeback tour. Maybe the idea of losing the lot made them slip him the back capsule? Who knows?

Maybe he was spirited away by aliens, a lookalike body left behind to confuse and confound. The doctors, knowing not to bite the hand that feeds, quickly signed off the death. Now Jacko is being held hostage by some three-headed green being from the planet Pissflaps.

Maybe this is the biggest publicity stunt in history. maybe on the third day he'll rise again, like some other showman did a few thousand years ago. Maybe we are standing on the brink of the Church of Jacko, where all the ladies hand over their children to Neverregions 'carers', and no one has a normal nose.

One thing is certain; the conspiracy theorists will already be hard at work, and this fucking charade will run and run, a bit like when Fatty Elvis shuffled off to the shitter with a burger in his hand. I couldn't even watch Iranian protestors getting beaten by Republican Guard this morning as the BBC dedicated an hour or two to Uri Geller talking about his friendship with Michael Jackson.

Yes indeed, a human has died and it's all very sad. However, while the vultures pick over the bones (aparently Madonna issued a press statement to say she can't stop crying - bet she's got her eye on his children, though), no one has asked the real question; what the fuck happened to that monkey?

Sexy Food? Probably Not!

For those few feeble-minded idiots that actually bother to read this toss, they might have noticed a slow down in my posting rate recently. Apart from having to do some work, I also spent some time with an old friend who has recently been released ... I mean who has recently returned to the country following a short sabbatical.

Now, like myself, Mr Cabanas has a love of fine food, and sometimes when we get together in the kitchen, we realise that we are denying so many people a glimpse into what real food should be. The only "Bargain Bucket" in our kitchen is the black plastic one we piss into when we're too drunk to find the stairs.

Now we have decided that it's about time we taught the world to cook in a right and proper fashion. Where corners can be cut, we'll cut them. Where there's a quick way, we'll take it. If we can fool those eating our food, we will! If there's an option to add alcohol, we're already there. And pornography? Yes, we have that too! You could become a kitchen god or goddess without any effort!

Don't fuck about; have a look at NOSH JOB today!

Setanta Sucks Arse

Today is probably the day that Setanta, the Irish broadcaster, goes into administration. Now, whilst no one likes to see people put out of work (although a fair few of the so-called "customer facing" staff will be getting what they deserve), the reality is that the Setanta operation sucks arse, and was always doomed to fail.

I won't waste valuable drinking time explaining why they suck arse; if you want to know more, just Google "Setanta suck arse scam fucking robbing cunts shit signal poor selection crap customer service load of fucking tinkers bollocks to you all money grabbing wankers" or something similar, and you'll stumble across their fan base.

I had a short spell as a Setanta customer. I voted with my feet when the first two football matches I tried to watch were unwatchable because it was raining in Mongolia. The signal was so poor that even if someone mentioned rain, the satellite link was lost. It sucked arse, so I stopped my Direct Debit. They then contacted me to say I had to give 30 days notice, and I should set up a Standing Order for one single final payment. I told them to fuck off. A Standing Order basically is giving them a blank cheque. They replied that I was in breach of my contract, so I told them I'd happily see them in court, because I was a lawyer. I never heard from the scabby fuckers again.

Problems with poor quality transmissions, shabby customer service and questionable practices when people cancel subscriptions are very well documented. One classic trick is that the address for written notice of cancellations is not in the contract. Many viewers have sent cancellations to the address in the contract, only to be told a second address must be used when they query payments taken by the company after the contract has been terminated. The ones I feel very sorry for are those who set up accounts via credit card payments. 

Basically, Setanta was a one trick pony, and that trick was taking the piss out of customers. Talking to others reveals that one shit telephone call equates to getting off lightly. The company will disappear from our screens, and might I add it's not a minute too soon. Now, if we can see BA collapse, BT go to the wall and Zurich Insurance fall over, it will be a good day for customer service.

Reggae Reggae Shit

If you've never heard the name Levi Roots, then you're a very lucky person. Levi is a reggae singer, and despite reggae being one of the dullest sounds in town, we won't hold that small fact against him. However, Mister Roots has another string to his bow.

A few years ago he appeared on a television show called Dragon's Den. Now, if you've never heard of it, you very very lucky. In a nutshell, it is a show where five very rich people view presentations by wanna-be entrepreneurs. They then either ridicule the person's idea, ridicule the person, or attempt to buy into the idea by seizing control of the company for a paltry sum.

So, in walks the aforementioned Mister Roots. He sings a song about rubbing sauce on a horse (or something like that), and then announces he makes a food product called Reggae Reggae Sauce. It's a jerk seasoning sauce which he makes and sells at Notting Hill Carnival. He also calmly informs the Dragons that he has an order for 60 billion gallons of the sauce, which he currently makes in his kitchen. That's why he needs the investment.

They check through the order, which he brought with him, and discover he's shit at maths. The order is actually for two jars of the stuff, or some such amount. Obviously, all the Dragons bale, bar one who invests.

Fast forward to today, a few years later. Nearly every supermarket in the UK stocks the aforementioned sauce. White people buy a bottle and immediately talk in a Jim Davidson not funny black voice. Fat men wear fake dreadlocks and burn chicken on BBQs, splash Reggae Reggae Sauce all over it, and then talk about it being "Typically Tropical".

Now, I do like a bit of jerk chicken, and make my own sauce. I was somewhat surprised when Mrs SC returned home with a bottle of Levi Roots' jungle juice, but I gave it a go anyway.

Now, here's some advice for all you white folks with a bottle of Reggae Reggae Sauce at the back of your cupboard that you haven't got around to using yet. Go fetch it now, and chuck the fucker out of the window. It's fucking rank. The only use I found for it was to stop cats shitting in my garden.

I'm a realist; I don't believe this is Mister Roots' own recipe. I think some sauce jockey has 'tweaked' it to make it more appealing to mass market tastes. However, I can't believe he's stood by and let it happen.

Reggae Reggae Sauce? Shove it up your arse!