What made Brian angry today?

Nothing is more likely to send someone into a rage as change. Not just any kind of change mind you. Some change is great, a change of bed sheets is ace, a change of salary, in the upward direction, is always welcome, a change in job can herald a wonderful change in life.

Yes, some change is good, but there is change that is unwelcome, or rather, the means of getting that change. The kind of change we are discussing here is the handfuls of shrapnel change that you have thrust into your outstretched hand by a bored, uncaring, retail till operatives.

You might wonder how I can get annoyed by getting change give back to me. You’re probably thinking that not getting the change that I am due would be more rage inducing and you’re probably right. It’s the manner in which they dispense this coiny goodness that infuriates me.

You pop into the local Happy Shopper to buy some Happy Shopper Value Arsenic to continue your campaign of terror against your arch enemies. The teller jabs their pudgy fingers at the till ringing up the 0.23p that it costs these days to do away with unsavory elements of life. You take a crisp clean ten pound note from your wallet and hand it over. Several minutes later once they have managed to obtained the correct change from the till you hold out your hand into which they thrust a receipt (that you clearly neither want nor need), a tatty torn five pound note, then finally they dump a handful of change on top of the paper portion.

You glare at them like they are the devil spawn then leave in disgust as they fail to fall prostrate to their knees and apologise for this outrage.

What outrage has occurred  you might wonder? Well the problem here, people, is the order in which the change is returned. It’s an inherent truth that the coins go into the hand first, any right thinking person can see this makes more sense. If you put the coins on top it makes it impossible to pop the notes into your wallet without showering the shop floor with the coin element of your change. If you try to pop the coins into your pocket, you end up ramming the note element into pocket too and as it’s already on the brink of total destruction this last exertion renders it asunder into two worthless parts.

Sure, if I turned up with a huge sack of swag and just grabbed handfuls from it to pay for stuff, it would be OK to assume that I might just lob all the change back into the sack without separating it. However I clearly just withdrew that nice clean ten pound note from a thin, changeless wallet, meaning I will want to separate the two change elements to store them. Separation is only achieved properly if you can grip both elements of the change independently at the same time. This is only possible if the damn coins go first.

Sort it out retails, this has infuriated me for years.

Several days ago I received a lovely letter from Mr Gas man, he politely informed me that:

“We have not heard from you despite leaving a number of cards urging you to make an appointment with us”

The problem was they had in fact left a total of no cards at all. The accusation that I was ignoring them was somewhat irksome and I informed the nice person on the phone that I did not really appreciate this accusatory tone to the letter.

“Oh don’t worry sir lots of people have not had any cards, just ignore that part.”

Ignore the fact that you are accusing me of ignoring you? Classy.

Anyway down to the arranging the appointment, apparently there are slots from 8-12, 12-5 and 5 to 8. Clearly I use gas so I have a job to pay for it, somewhat ruling out the first two straight off. The last slot is still somewhat problematic, like most people I have a normal job, that does not let me get home by 5.

I inform the phone monkey of this little factoid and we come to an agreement that she’ll add a note to come after 6 so I stand a chance of being in. Also, I politely inform her that I don’t have a door bell (I like to have as little contact with the random outside world as possible) so if they want to stand a chance at getting in to see the meter they will have to call me when they get here.

Wing forward to the day of the visit and I leave work at 5:02 to ensure that I am home in time. I cycle hard, I don’t even slow down to hurl abuse at moron road users obstructing my path. This takes a lot of effort but needs must and all that. I get to my (primary) door at 5:39, leaving a full 21 minutes to make it through my 3 front doors to be home at the appointed hour, easily early enough time. Result!

Wait… What’s this, a note! Oh now sweet, maybe it’s a belated Valentines card, perhaps an amusing missive from some religious group or other. No it’s not these things, it’s a bloody note from the gas man telling me that:

“Urgent gas safety inspection - Called after 5 as arranged. Time of call 17:05″

Only that’s not what we arranged is it. No no, we arranged for you to come after 6. Well at least there will be a missed call on my phone to tell me he’s here and it’ll have been my own stupid fault I did not hear the phone… Only there isn’t. So in fact none of the instructions were followed.

I grab the nearest phone and jab away at the keypad to hammer in the number on the card and get through to someone who sounds so stupid I just know this will go badly. After explaining the situation he tells me, in his tedious droning voice, that he can’t actually help and I should phone another number which deals with appointments.

Me - If there is another number, why not just put that on the card rather than this one?
Moron - Well some of the cards are out of date sir, we outsourced appointments some time ago.
Me - Maybe you should stop handing them out the wrong cards then…
Moron – Well it’s not us that hands them out sir, it’s another company.

Yes, I know what outsources means you blistering idiot, I was just venting a general annoyance at your stupid system not imparting sensible business advice – I thought quietly to myself.

Me - Fine, whatever I’ll call this other number and shout at them then

*slam*

*jab jab jab*

I politely explain the problem again (contrary to popular belief, I try and be nice to call center staff for an long as possible, often not very long I admit) to the infinitely more pleasant sounding appointment facilitator:

Phone girl - Oh, we’ve no notes on that, I can make another appointment for you if you like
Customer - No, I want him to come back today as previously arranged, it’s still not 6 so it’s not even after the agreed time
Phone girl - I can’t get him to come back today as he called as arranged and you weren’t there
Miffed customer - No… he… didn’t… As I just told you, I arranged for them to call after 6, and to phone me when he got here. He failed on both counts
Phone girl - Well it doesn’t say anything about that here
Incredulous customer - I don’t care what it does or doesn’t say ‘there’, its not my fault the person I spoke to before took down the wrong details is it?
Phone girl - I can try and call him if you like and see if he’s still in the area

Anyway the long and short of it is she tries to call the meter reader but he’s ignoring call, no doubt aware he’s upset Karma and thus avoiding any retribution. So we have to go through this whole tedious process again. Only, just to wind myself up even more I decide to wait till tomorrow to re-book, forcing myself to explain this whole tedious affair again, just in case they get through to him and he comes later. I’m an idiot, an furious idiot.

It’ll be just my luck if I’m blown to smithereens in a tragic gas meter fight accident later on.

Continuing my efforts to keep the even more ailing economy afloat I sallied forth once more to the heart of London’s capitalist experience that is Westfield in order to wine, dine and spend spend spend. On the agenda today is meeting my Mother for dinner, seeing if Sports Direct has any of last seasons Chelsea away kits and buying a TV.

First up was the dinner portion of the outrage of an evening. GBK, Gourmet Burger Kitchen or as I will now refer to it Gormlessly Banal Kafe. The only reason I was lured into the place was the prospect of two for one vouchers that had been nestling in my wallet for some time that were about to expire. The place was predictable empty, not everyone is as committed to reviving the fortunes of the capitalist elite as myself you see. Apparently we can sit where we want, that’s nice.

“Have you been to a Gormlessly Banal Kafe?”
“Yes”
“Well just order over there at the counter, table number 15”

Err what, I just told you I have been here, why are you thus wasting my time re-telling me the frankly easy instructions. I don’t even know why they have this stupid policy, it would be quicker to just take my order than explain every time the stupid system to me regardless whether I want you to or not.

Anyway I ordered some burger action, some accompanying portions of their somewhat overpriced “fries” - they are not fries of course, they are chips but being pretentious New Zealand types they saw fit to lie to me – and a bottle of finest Budvar. A bottle that cost me five bloody quid. It’s not even a pint, it’s not even a swanky restaurant, it’s a fucking burger bar for homesick kiwi’s desperate for a fix of vile beetroot burgers. Why oh why was I duped into this purchase I will never know. Anyway done now. I sit down to drink my slightly too warm overpriced beer and await the arrival of the food.

Eventually a brace of plates turn up, each with a burger nestled in the centre, they are hurled onto the table and we’re informed the “fries” are just coming. I suspect the waitress was foreign, there were several clues, the thick accent, pretending to look like she cared rather than being outright rude, the utter lack of knowledge to the meaning of what “just coming” means. 10 chipless minutes later after several complaints two little bowls arrive with our “fries”. 10 minutes in which I’d consumed a good portion of my burger, somewhat rendering this fresh injection of food pointless as I ordered them together for a good reason, I wanted to eat them together.

Then and only then, once my mouth was full of blazing hot chip did another waiter type see fit to come over and ask

“is everything ok?”
“No it’s fricking not, your beer’s grossly overpriced and warm and the chips were not only late but almost lethally overheated”

Is what I would have said has I not been writhing in agony with a mouthful of hot starch burning it’s way through my mouth.

Shortly after we left in disgust.

I bid adieu to my mum and made my way to Sports Direct – a store, if you don’t know it, that as far as I can tell have a permanent sale of slightly crappy sports wear crammed into a space about 56% too small for the shelves. The result is it’s almost impossible to make your way through the place as a) You constantly ram into the jutting out rails, and b) when your not doing that your trying to get the plebe who’s blocking the aisle to get out of the way for 2 second whilst you pass.

Having negotiated my way to the “replica” sports wear section (as an aside the reason I want last seasons Chelsea away kit is, not as a gift to annoy Brad ‘The Whicket’ Downing (Man of the year 2007), but because it’s about the brightest item of clothing I’ve ever seen and ideal for preventing bus death crush action whilst cycling home, they are also grotesque and thus no one bought them causing the price to plummet when the much less vile new seasons version came out) I find the item in question and discover that alas there is no price tag. Now I bought some of these tops 6 months ago, in another branch of this horrifying chain for £12:50 so I am guessing they will be the same right?

I saunter across to one of the pimply oiks that pass for “sales assistants” as she checks out her hair in a nearby mirror and ask:  “Excuse me, can you tell me how much this is?”

She snatches the garment from me, and proceeds to look inside for a price label. I can only assume she thinks I’ve never bought clothes before and thus might be unaware that some shops put the price inside…. Shockingly she fails to find it on a little label.

In fact she fails to find the price at all and tells me it’ll probably be £25 cause that’s the price of other things near it in the section. That’s a strange pricing policy I think, I regale her with the fact that they were £12.50 6 months ago before the new version came out but this seems to fall on deaf ears. To check properly, it seems, would interfere with her preening time so she was less than keen to do so. I decline to part with that much cash and can’t be bothered to waste more time so try to leave in disgust, this is hampered by a plebe blocking the aisle. I am outraged.

I make way to TV shop, buy a TV, they ask me for my address, for the warranty you see. I know this is a lie, they just want to send me crap but I am outraged out, I can’t muster an argument, I hand over my address in defeat. For shame…