M&S: Steak and Kidney Puddings
This is no ordinary steak and kidney pudding, this is an M&S steak and kidney pudding. Well actually, it isn't. This one has steak and kidney in it!
I do my best to eat a healthy balanced diet.
Most of the time.
Occasionally, I don't so much fall off the wagon as swallow dive off it.
A few weeks ago, I was looking forward to an unrestrained orgy of nutritional self abuse when I found myself alone at home for the evening. Unfortunately, all did not go entirely according to plan:
Dear Customer Relations,
My wife is gluten free. Actually, to be more accurate, my wife is gluten intolerant. The food she eats is gluten free. If my wife eats gluten, she gets terrible stomach and bowel pain for 48 hours afterwards. My daughter is coeliac. If she eats gluten, she becomes very ill indeed - for up to six weeks!
As you can imagine therefore, we go to great lengths to avoid the gluten which hides in everything from OXO cubes to soy sauce. Of necessity, we have a very healthy diet of nothing but freshly prepared food.
It's awful.
You see, I also have an eating disorder.
I'm a greedy b@$£@*d!
I love gluten. Pasta, pizza, crumpets, garlic bread, battered fish, spicy cous-cous, naan bread and, most of all, pies. I love them all but they're all banned at our house.
I therefore live a life of severe nutritional deprivation.
So, once in a blue moon, when my wife and daughter are both eating out with girlfriends or away on a late night shopping expedition, I get that rarest of opportunities - to abandon my gastronomic strait-jacket and indulge instead in a shameless orgy of glutinous self abuse.
Now it just so happens that Monday 11th February was one such occasion.
The ladies of my life were otherwise engaged and I was wandering around the M&S Leeds store fantasising about a seriously oversized steak pie with flaky pastry crust when my eyes fell upon a pack of your M&S 'Steak and Kidney Puddings'. Not just one, but two of the little darlings nestling in every box. This was perfect. Not only could I rectify my gluten deficiency at a stroke, but I could also rekindle childhood memories of my mother's home made steamed suet puddings. I couldn't resist.
I added a box of 'Gastropub Thick Cut Chips' and a token bag of fresh green vegetables (because I can't shrug off my conditioning completely) and on the way home I picked up a couple of bottles of real ale to wash it all down.
Arriving home to a blissfully empty house, I resisted the temptation to slam my puddings in the microwave and instead followed the recommendation to steam them gently for 35 minutes.
I had a bit of a struggle getting everything on a single dinner plate but I told myself that I wasn't actually going to eat all of it. I could leave half a pudding and a chip or two. I was genuinely excited. So, with my overflowing plate, chilled beer and a recorded episode of 'Top Gear' on the television, I was about as close to heaven as a bloke eating a billy-no-mates dinner can get.
Then I cut into one of my M&S Steak and Kidney Puddings. The suet crust was every bit as stodgy as I remembered. Clearly, steaming had been the right thing to do.
So far so good.
Then the pudding deflated. Tyres and balloons deflate. Your dinner isn't supposed to.
Not so good.
All the air had escaped. Yes air because, for the most part, that is all the pudding contained. Air. Gas. Stuff that is neither liquid nor solid and therefore doesn't need much chewing and has the same nutritional value as nothing at all.
"Where was my steak and kidney?" I asked myself. I know that this had all started because I wanted gluten but I was actually expecting to get some serious animal protein to go with it.
Leaking from the collapsed and now alarmingly flat pudding was an anaemic coloured liquid. Personally, I like my beef gravy to be an encouraging dark brown colour. Light beige just doesn't cut it.
This wasn't good at all.
I cut open the pudding to see if there was anything else in there.
The contents looked alarmingly like the little sachet of 'Whiskas Oh So Meaty with Gravy' cat food I had opened for my small, hairy friend only a few minutes before - except there was much more meat in the Whiskas sachet and the cat food was broadly the right colour. As the cat is quite a lot smaller than me, it didn't seem fair that she got more meat that I did.
I tried the second pudding. Same result.
I must confess that at this point, I was every bit as deflated as my puddings. My indulgent feast had turned into a forensic post mortem as I dissected the limp remains of my culinary fantasy. I should have used a dictaphone and a camera like they do on in 'Silent Witness'. At least that way you would know for certain that I am not making this up.
Be that as it may, I estimate that the largest piece of 'meat' in either pudding measured 7mm at its widest point. Taken together, the solid contents of each pudding would have fitted on a standard desert spoon. I did eventually manage to find the toenail clipping sized shreds of kidney and I can promise you that the amount of kidney in both puddings combined would have failed to cover a penny coin.
These meagre contents tasted of nothing very much at all and there was a disconcerting lack of the fibrous structure one normally associates with lean meat. Instead, the lumps had the spongy texture of tasteless marshmallow. Or lung perhaps. What it wasn't was steak. There was NO steak in either pudding. None.
Sadly, it didn't occur to me to note batch numbers before the packaging disappeared into the recycling but I'm sure you can work this out from the date and location of purchase in any event. I hope you won't tell me that this was a faulty batch that 'slipped through the net'. That might be unwise when there are so many concerns about the integrity of processed food supply chains at the moment and disconcerting quanities of Shetland Pony keep 'slipping through the net' and turning up in all sorts of unusual places.
It would be refreshing if you were to admit to, and apologise for, selling a thoroughly disgusting, cheap and nasty product and undertake to replace it with something that deserves to carry an M&S label. Something that not only tastes of steak and kidney, but actually contains some.
If you need a recipe, I'm sure that my mother would be able to help.
Sincerely,
Anthony
I did not have long to wait for the reply. It obviously doesn't take very long to make no effort whatsoever when composing a reply to a disgruntled customer. I was in the USA when the email arrived, hence the EST time against the date. In fact, I had written my email to M&S on the plane over as a means of distracting myself from the hundreds of screaming children playing hide and seek in the aisles.
From: Marks and Spencer Customer Service <no-reply@marksandspencer.com>
Date: 18 February 2013 06:52:26 EST
Subject: Your M&S
Dear Anthony,
Thanks for taking the time to contact us about the steak and kidney pudding. I’m sorry you’re disappointed with the quality of them.
We have rigorous control agreements with all our food suppliers to ensure that our food quality is maintained to the highest possible standard. Despite the care we take, we’ve clearly not been successful on this occasion.
Please send us any available packaging from the product or the receipt so we can follow this up with our suppliers and send you a gift card to replace the steak and kidney puddings.
Our address is:
Retail Customer Services
Marks & Spencer
Chester Business Park
Wrexham Road
Chester
CH4 9GA
Alternatively, you can take the packaging or receipt into your local store where our staff will forward it to us. They will, of course, offer you a refund for the steak and kidney puddings.
Thanks again for getting in touch. If we can be of any further help, please don’t hesitate to contact us.
Please be aware this email is from a ‘no reply’ email address. If you would like to respond, please contact us via our website https://www.marksandspencer.com/contactus and we will be happy to assist you further.
We’re keen to know what you thought of our reply. If you’d like to share any feedback, please let us know by clicking on the following link: www.mandssurvey.co.uk/480
Kind Regards
Unsigned.
There was a distinct lack of any undertaking to make better steak and puddings from my anonymous correspondent and the word sorry was only used once which was clearly nowhere near enough. I had to serve another volley:
Dear Faceless Customer Relations Operative,
Thank you for your anonymous reply to my email on the subject of Marks and Spencers Steak and Kidney Puddings. I give it one out of ten - for managing to send it to the right email address.
It might have received a higher mark if you had actually bothered to read my email first. It is always helpful when the reply reflects, in some small way, the content of the original communication. For instance, there is no point in asking me to send you the packaging when I had in fact already told you that it had been recycled.
I almost gave you an extra mark for using the word "sorry" once in your email but alas, it had all the sincerity of Hannibal Lechter saying he was becoming a vegetarian so you missed out there too. You might have earned several marks if you had replied in the same spirit of my original note. A little narrative background and the occasional tongue-in-cheek remark would have been greatly appreciated.
However, most disappointing of all however is the fact that you gave me the impression that you are going to do nothing whatsoever about your disgusting steak and kidney puddings.
Perhaps I should get in contact with Steve Rowe (M&S Executive Director - Food). Strictly speaking, the buck stops with Steve. Effectively, they were Steve's steak and kidney puddings. He's only been in the job since October so he should still be really keen.
I also hear that Steve is a cigar smoker so I think we would get along really well. I bet he would read my email before replying.
In the meantime, please let me know what is going to happen about the dreadful steak and kidney puddings. You know when I bought them and from which store so you have all the information you need to DO SOMETHING.
Yours,
Anthony
Alas, my efforts were in vain. M&S still wanted me to retrieve the packaging from the recycling plant:
From: Marks and Spencer Customer Service <no-reply@marksandspencer.com>
Date: Tue 26/02/2013 15:43
Subject: Your M&S
Dear Anthony
Thanks for taking the time to contact us again about the steak and kidney puddings. I'm sorry you're unhappy with my response.
In order to follow this up with the correct suppliers we need the packaging return to us or to your local store. Without specific information, we're unable to feed this back to them.
I'm afraid we're unable to advise you what action our suppliers are going to take regarding the steak and kidney puddings as this will be looked in to internally.
Thanks again for getting in touch. If we can be of any further help, please don’t hesitate to contact us.
Please be aware this email is from a ‘no reply’ email address. If you would like to respond, please contact us via our website https://www.marksandspencer.com/contactus and we will be happy to assist you further.
We’re keen to know what you thought of our reply. If you’d like to share any feedback, please let us know by clicking on the following link: www.mandssurvey.co.uk/480
Kind Regards
Tanya Thackeray
Marks & Spencer Customer Services
Enjoy that? Help spread the word and hit the Facebook 'Like' button below:
A Nasty Case of the Willy Wonkas
I spent ages trying to find a suitably disgusting picture to accompany this letter but alas, this was all I could find. If anybody comes across a better one, please send it in.
The letter was sent to me by novelist, Phil Williams, who also writes the entertaining Write Right Now blog. It is addressed to Sainsburys and it concerns a rather dodgy bottle of cholcolate milk.....
Dear Customer Relations,
I am writing to you with a harrowing tale involving the purchase of one of your 1 litre bottles of fresh Chocolate Milk.
This was a tale I meant to tell yesterday, in a simplistic form detailing my horror at having discovered the milk had gone foul after one day (in fact on the 6th February, a day before its alleged use-by date of the 7th). This might seem a trivial matter, but it was shocking to slurp on a mouthful of mangled chunks of white goo when I had hoped for nothing less than smooth chocolaty delight.
In fact, I drunk perhaps more than I should have, in the vain hope that maybe I was imagining this monstrosity, in spite of friends pleading me to stop. It was only on the forcibly opposed testimony of a housemate I turned to for a second opinion that I finally laid the milk to rest, beside my bin, ready to be discarded. As I say, this was the tale I meant to tell, and I thought it frightening enough, but today things took a turn for the worse, in what could be described as nothing less than a life-threatening disaster!
I went out for the morning to attend to my daily duties and returned tired and worn, ready to catch some sleep after a trying late night before. When I came in, I instantly noticed that, despite the bitter cold wind outside, my room was a sauna from the sunshine. I opened windows and settled down to my computer, then glanced aside and spotted that wretched rotten milk. In the heat, I discovered it had mutated into something wholly unpleasant.
Hindsight screams at me that I should have taken a photo, for I am not sure that I can accurately describe what I saw, but I shall try. The base of the milk bottle contained a cloudy yellow liquid, separated from the rest to form something that resembled murky urine. Above that was a thin layer of a strange foam substance, and above that, filling the majority of the bottle, was the solidified remains of the chocolate milk. It had formed into a rancid network of chocolate tunnels, layered through the sludgy mess like a cave built out of mud. It was a fascinating sight that I marveled at, thinking to keep it to show others later in the day. How bizarre, that it should take such a form.
Little did I know, I was dicing with death when I left that bottle sat there.
Shortly after, I heard a hissing noise to my side. I did not react at first, maybe because I was tired, maybe because I thought it was coming from outside, maybe I just didn’t consider it a threat. Regardless, when I did finally turn my head on that bottle of milk I was met with a daunting sight. The hissing noise grew louder as white foam was fizzing out of the sides of the cap. Good heavens, thought I, it’s building up pressure, it’s going to blow!
I had to relieve it. I had to act fast. First lifting the bottle and turning the cap slightly, I found the hiss to increase and the foam to act violently. This bottle was solid in my grip, on breaking point. I wanted to release it gently, to let out the gas, but I was thankfully patient enough to allow the few seconds it took me to run to the sink first. So I aimed the bottle in, and I started to ease the cap around, desperately hoping I might relieve the pressure before it relieved itself.
This was not to be.
Tipping the bottle up to aim it into the sink, in the first instant my hands were drenched with the acidic yellow liquid from the bottom as it seeped out over the chocolate caves. Disgusted but undeterred, I tried to turn the cap the slightest amount.
The hissing grew further, the foaming more vicious. Then, against all my might, the bottle cap exploded off the top. It happened so fast it is perhaps best to explain through means of the aftermath: The solid chocolate mass was sprayed across the whole sink, resembling a sticky brown vomit, which had also coated one of my hands. The cap was nowhere to be seen. In one loud bang, the bottle had ejected over half a litre of chocolate milk gunk, with such ferocity that the cap had been propelled to god-knows-where, and my own hand was victim to the ghastly residue, the bottle rolling mournfully amongst the mess, thrown from my grip by the force of the blast.
Needless to say, this took me some time to clean up, and left me shaken. I got out of this unscathed, fortunately, although with a lingering smell of rotten milk now filling the air. I cannot help but wonder what might have happened if I was not here when the bottle started hissing. We can only speculate as to the horror that could have befallen the area surrounding that potent bottle. Further, on my return to the scene of the crime, having finally disposed of the bottle, I discovered something equally troubling. Where the bottle had sat, there was a damp patch and some traces of the rotten milk. Yes, it had seeped out of the base of the bottle somehow. That strange yellow liquid had melted through the bottle. That vile stain is yet to come up.
All this one day after its use by date. All this because the bottle was left out for a few hours in a warm room. No man should have to face this misery. It is a day that will live on in my mind for many years to come as the day that a bottle of chocolate milk threatened to turn on me in the most violent way milk can.
Yours Sincerely,
Phil Williams
Sainsburys relied as follows:
Dear Mr Williams
Thank you for contacting us. I am sorry to hear that you were unhappy with the chocolate milk you bought from us recently. I can appreciate how upsetting it must have been for you when, as you have described in your letter, the bottle exploded.
As a food retailer, it is really important to us to make sure that everything we sell is enjoyable and above all, safe. We want our customers to be completely happy with everything they buy from us so we set very high standards. We check our suppliers are meeting those standards by visiting them regularly and quality checking their products. I am therefore sorry that we have let you down.
We take complaints like yours very seriously and our technologists would like to examine the chocolate milk packaging. If you still have the packaging it would be very helpful if you could return it to us. I have enclosed a prepaid envelope for your convenience. If you prefer, you can send the packaging to us by recorded delivery, to the above address. Please could you enclose a copy of this letter, this will help speed things along.
Thank you once again for taking the time to get in touch with us. We welcome any opportunity to make sure our products are of the highest quality. We will write to you as soon as the investigation is complete. We appreciate you giving us the chance to look into this for you.
Yours sincerely,
Stacey Holmes
Phil wasn't finished there though....
Dear Mrs Holmes,
I am writing in response to your response to my tale of exploding milk woe.
I am happy to hear of your concern, which I would have hoped for considering the vicarious nature of the disaster. However, I regret to inform you that I no longer have the bottle in my possession. It was when waiting to be disposed of that the chocolate milk made its attack, after all, so when things took that ugly turn I thought it best that I remove the bottle entirely. Into a large bin it was thrown, and subsequently I’m afraid our noble garbage men have carted it away.
I’m not sure if I mentioned or not that my camera has not been working recently, but I did try to take a picture or two on my phone after the event. Unfortunately, my phone is rather shoddy in its abilities, and the results are less than clear or, I would imagine, at all useful. Picture, if you will, a blurred brown mess, and that’s about all it shows. Whilst I realise this demonstrates something of a lack of foresight on my behalf, and without accurate investigation into the packaging I would doubt there is much hope of solving this sordid mystery, I should stress that the offensive object did carry with it a murky mess and a stench quite unbearable, so I could not hold onto it. I expect it is of little consolation, but in the action of ejecting its contents the bottle did lose much of its innards, which is a shame because the sight of its pre-explosion solidification and separation was an interesting one to behold.
The only possibility I could think of now would be to recreate the circumstances in which this happened, to try and encourage a second bottle to explode. However, I would hope that what happened was a freak occurrence, and simply leaving already rotten milk in a warm room for a few hours would not cause it to explode in such a fashion every time. You may be happy to know that the smell has finally left my room now, and the stain is all but removed from the carpet.
Thank you for your concern and expedient response.
Yours Sincerely,
Phil Williams
Bless Sainsburys, they replied again:
Dear Mr Williams
Thank you for your further letter. Although I do sympathise with you over what has happened, I did enjoy reading your letters.
I can quite understand that you did not save the packaging, in fact you make it sound as if an exorcist should have been called. I am sorry that you had such an unpleasant experience.
Please accept the enclosed voucher as a goodwill gesture in view of the inconvenience we have caused you. I hope you will be able to buy something you particularly enjoy the next time you shop with us.
I would like to thank you again for taking the time to write to us. The comments we receive from our customers are very important, as it is through them that we are able to identify areas where we need to make improvements.
Yours Sincerely,
Sue Oyns
Enclosed: £30.00 Voucher
Enjoy that? Help spread the word and hit the Facebook 'Like' button below:
Old McDonalds
This letter was actually written by the person from whom I inherited my complaining genes - my father!
A grumpy septuagenarian who spends most of his time on cruise ships these days, he obviously beleives that McDonalds should be catering to the more mature end of the market...
Customer Relations Department
McDonald's Restaurants Ltd
11 - 59 High Road
East Finchley
London
N2 8AW
Dear Ronald MacDonald
I do hope you are real. If not, then this shocking news has two grave consequences. Firstly, it means that I am writing to a non-responsive, non-environmentally friendly plastic clown - that was probably made in some forgotten corner of Asia Minor by children under the age of nine. Secondly, that a well respected international fast food juggernaut of a conglomeration has once again been hoodwinked by another faceless 'image consultancy' (probably left over from Tony Blair's occupancy of No. 10) into spending millions on an utterly useless piece of none bio degradable pointless marketing. But I digress....
Ronald, please understand from the off, that I am a proud and grumpy fuddyduddy of the silver haired generation, who has long since outlived the 'wrinkly' stage and is now just about coping with 'crumbly' status. A good day is when things simply seize up, as opposed to fall off. Sadly, I now represent the largest part of the UK population - that army of Victor Meldrew[1] sound-alikes who are shaking their walking sticks in the direction of McDonalds.
Why is this you may ask?
Well, you seem to have forgotten that we exist!
Contrary to your expectations, McDonalds represents a genuine lifeline to the millions of old farts that make up our generation. Firstly, the many McDonalds outlets are an ideal meeting place - local, convenient and centrally-heated. Secondly, the normally miserable small proportions you serve up are in fact perfectly sized for individuals of our life expectancy afflicted as we are with the appetite of an anorexic tortoise. Furthermore, the cost of a bag of McNuggets is just about affordable on our almost non- existent government pensions. And to be honest, we haven't the energy left to go anywhere else!
But woe is me, your establishments are geared towards teenage yummy mummies spending their giros on stuffing their oversized offspring with chemicals and additives, over a coffee whilst updating their status on Facebook.
Well believe it or not, those of us born when fast food meant catching a chicken before you cooked it and coke was kept in the coal house don't want party balloons, cardboard crowns, noisy plastic toys or screaming brats drawing spirograph[2] patterns in tomato ketchup. Indeed, they are a genuine hazard to our brittle limbs and represent a constantly changing obstacle course that tests the remaining grey cells that make up our fragile minds.
What we need is our own area - a place devoid of children, set aside for us semi-incontinent geriatrics. Let's call it 'Old McDonalds'. A place with a parking area for our buggies and zimmer frames, close to the exit because we can't walk very far - and also to the toilets as we no longer have the bladder control we once had - particularly after one of those McFlurry things that can squeeze a bladder like a bulldog on a windpipe! We'd also like to request softer seating as like your burgers, we're made up of rather more gristle and cartilage than fresh meat nowadays. Some cardboard saucers would be handy to reduce the spillage from those with Parkinson’s or the fans of Strictly Ballroom.
Might I also suggest that a subtle change of menu could attract the more up market blue rinse set to your establishments? You could introduce the ‘Chicken Zimmer Fillet’ with ‘Deep Heat Relish’; ‘Sweet Chilli Chicken Wrapped In A Tortilla Comfort Blanket’; ‘Grilled Senior Citizens Salad’ with ‘Wrinkle Defying Oil Of Olay Dressing’; ‘The Big E (Euthanasia) Burger’; and of course, the ‘Dementia Happy Meal’.
Perhaps a line of food requiring less chewing could also be considered? After all, when you get to our age you have neither the energy nor the ability to masticate for very long.
So please Ronald, before we shuffle off this mortal coil, spare a thought for those of us that will soon be vertically challenged. Put the Mmmmm back into McDonalds and then we might just be lovin' it.
Yours sincerely,
Mr. Wrinkly
[1] For the benefit of our American readers, Victor Meldrew was the lead character in the BBC television comedy series ‘One Foot in the Grave’ which ran from 1990 to 2001. The hapless Victor is forced into retirement only to experience a constant stream of bad luck. I think it was inspired by my father. Bill Cosby made a loose remake in the US entitled ‘Cosby’ which ran from 1996 to 2000.
[2] Spirograph™ was a hugely popular toy before the internet was invented which involved sticking a biro in a hole within a plastic cog and then using it to drive said cog around another cog. The result, if you were incredibly steady-handed and remarkably patient, was that the biro drew a very interesting pattern. It was as utterly pointless as it was popular but kept children quiet for hours on end.
Enjoy that? Help spread the word and hit the Facebook 'Like' button below:
Focus DIY: The Dandruff-Eating Hobbit and the Pipe
My new best friend, Mrs. M.W. of Derby (who recently sent me her husbands fantastic letter to LIDL) has been at it again. This time, she decided to raid Mr. W's laptop and she hit paydirt! This latest plunder from 2009 could well make it into the 'Best Ever Complaint Letters' section of this website. Mr. W's sharp pen was aimed at Focus DIY, a company that was sold for just £1 in 2007 (and Mr.W would say it was overpriced). I have made a few subtle edits (Mr. W used the occasional bit of unparliamentary language) but with or without them, this letter is a classic. Well done Mrs. M.W. Try and find some more. Mr.W has a natural talent for this sort of thing:
Customer Relations Department
Focus (DIY) Ltd
Westmere Drive
Crewe Business Park
Cheshire
CW1 6ZD
10th April 2009
Dear Zorro (the gay blade),
I have no other option but to seek your assistance to lead the peasant rebellion that I’m in the process of organising to bring down the evil conglomerate that is Focus (Do-it-all).
I have tried and tried to be reasonable about the events leading up to this planned uprising but I am ashamed to say that enough is enough, my resolve has faded and it is now time for action. I only wanted a small piece of piping to replace a worn out section under my sink (hereinafter referred to as “the problem”). Is that too much to ask Zorro? A small piece of plastic pipe? You would think that would be an easy one wouldn’t you?
Oh well let me tell you Zorro, I would have been better off asking for a cure for the common cold or the keys to the Bank of England’s vault. Even Lord Lucan’s whereabouts would have been easier than asking for a small piece of plastic pipe.
So sit back Zorro, grab yourself a mojito and settle in as this will take some explaining…..
It was a nice day last Friday so I thought a nice spot of DIY was in order. I hadn’t planned to do this but I was shown the error of my ways by my dutiful and loving wife whom it has to be said is right in everything she says. (I had planned a day of arse scratching and nasal excavation but we don’t always get what we want do we…!!)
Not at sodding Focus (Do-it-all) we don’t Zorro, let me tell you.
I arrived at the Pandora’s Box of DIY produce situated in a crappy side turning near a carpet wholesaler somewhere in Derby at what transpired to be feeding time for the indigenous population, or in the middle of an impromptu remake of Dawn of the Dead. It was the only way to explain the complete void of cogent humanoid life. This place was empty Zorro, empty of those little apron wearing hobbits my six year old son delights in calling “Joey’s”.
“Yes son, this is what happens when you think being a van driver is only just attainable as a career aspiration…”
After locating the Plumbing section, (between the security alarms and the double glazed windows?) and gazing in wonderment at implements that would not look out of place in an abode of negotiable virtue, I thought I had struck lucky: There before me was a piece of pipe that looked vaguely similar to my needs.
I know what you are thinking Zorro, “what’s zee beef here amigo…..?”
Well Zorro, allow me to retort.
While looking fairly similar to the piece I required it didn’t have the same girth as ‘the problem’. So like Bilbo sodding Baggins I set off on a quest to find a hobbit to seek guidance. Do you know what happened next Zorro ? Yes that’s right; it got a lot lot worse. Obviously all the hobbit’s were out on quests too because after eon’s of searching I finally came across a blighted ovum in a polo shirt. This aberration was my only hope and it is with no sense of irony that it met me with “allree-t chap, need help….?”
If anyone in the world needed help more than me then it was this poor soul. What makes someone eat their own dandruff Zorro? In public? Can you be that hungry? EVER ? Even if the alternative was a Little Chef breakfast ? Anyway, I slowly and gently explained my situation to freak boy making sure to use very small words and do you know what I got as his opening gambit Zorro………?
“I’m cleaning the bogs now, then I’m on lunch. Can you wait ‘til after?”
Now let’s just get something straight here Zorro, I have often remarked how docile and understanding I can remain when dealing with eejit’s in this world. Some of the happiest wasted hours of my life have been at the mercy of Happy-to-Help badge wearers but this one, this one didn’t just take the biscuit Zorro, he ran off with the whole barrel.
… And the sponge fingers I was saving for Sunday.
Bastard.
I am ashamed to say I laughed in his face. Honestly and truthfully Zorro, I laughed in his acne strewn, pox riddled face. I told this walking amoeba through tears of pity that it was not to worry and I would seek assistance elsewhere. My quest continued with the faux replacement to ‘the problem’ clutched in my grasp like a cosh when I came upon Ken.
Now Ken is a name you can trust, Ken is the type of guy whom gives directions without telling your wife that she was right all along. Ken knows how to moor a boat without falling in. Mr Dependable. Mr Right. You know where you are with a Ken?
Not this one Zorro.
He was a twat.
Ken asked what I needed the replacement to ‘the problem’ for. I told him and he tutted. He TUTTED Zorro - through his wizened, piss-coloured moustache, he sodding tutted and came out with the epic…..
”Well, that’s you problem there sonny, you can’t do that as it just won’t work”.
I’m 6ft 2 and 38 years old.
Sonny I most definitely am not !
If I wanted condescension, I would have gone to see my mother in law, or my local MP, not stood in front of this failed geography teacher with halitosis so bad it could melt steel. ‘The problem’ felt more like a cosh in my hand than ever before but with my last ounce of resolve I refrained from beating this plum around the head and shoulders and instead, I asked why?
Now Zorro, please don’t shake your head in pity. I know it was a ridiculous thing to say but my defences were down, I was caught off guard. I wasn’t thinking clearly. It was a schoolboy error.
Obviously.
Ken then treated me to a good 10 minutes of why I mustn’t ever, under any circumstances, ever do you understand (!), connect a dish washer AND a washing machine to the same length of waste pipe.
EVER.
How I didn’t grind his pencil neck up and down the nearest brick wall is still a mystery even now. I’m a grown up Zorro, I don’t use a hair dryer in the shower, I don’t put cats in microwaves. I don’t even put knives in toasters. I have a family too, and a driving licence.
I am quite sure that I can be trusted to operate a dish washer and a washing machine quite independently of each other.
But Ken wouldn’t buy it. Not for one second. He actually forbade me from purchasing a replacement to ‘the problem’ stating:
“I couldn’t live with me-self knowing that was under yer sink…”
Ken then departed whistling a jaunty sea shanty safe in the knowledge he had saved the world from another talentless DIY’er. I stood motionless for a few moments Zorro. What could I say? Ken was obviously right and the world must be saved from Muppets such as I.
It was at this point that sheer frustration got the better of me and without remorse I screeched at the top of my considerable baritone voice in my best Mr Humphries impression
“Oh Kenneth….?”
Ken the twat stopped dead in his tracks and then slowly spun on his orthopaedic safety shoe to face me and while I wasn’t sprinting at him, I was certainly moving toward him at some pace. With utter bemusement he stood slack jawed at my breathless request to clear the shelves of these offending items so as to not let any other unsuspecting morons like myself deprive him of his nocturnal rest periods.
“If I take the shelves, you can take the store room and together Kenny, together we can save the world…!”
He didn’t take to kindly either to me grasping his liver-spotted claw of a hand and to be honest he nearly shat egg rolls when I began to skip through the store singing “we’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of pipes…..” still holding on to him.
Our arrival at the front of the store was greeted by the obligatory imitation security guard asking why I was skipping with a staff member. My response was muted but forthright Zorro, I had had enough.
Hysteria got the better of me and after venting my spleen at this bunch of cretins for a satisfyingly lengthy period, I departed the premises - albeit empty handed - laughing like a thoroughbred window licker. Even the conservatory sales person by the checkouts looked a little put out but to be fair, I shouldn’t have asked if she had seen a good length of pipe recently. In my defence, she looked a game gal. Roomy you might say.
My spouse was unimpressed with my empty handed return and didn’t buy for a moment the tale of Ken and his refusal to supply an idiot such as myself with a bit of plastic pipe. So now here it is Zorro, the situation I find myself in is not a good one.
I have an irate spouse whom thinks I sloped off to the pub instead and then lied about it.
I have seen and conversed with a walking genetic accident who eats it’s own dandruff. For fun!
I have met and been shown the error of my ways by Ken the happy saviour of the universe.
I have freaked out and bamboozled an imitation security guard on minimum wage with nothing more than a skipping gait and a winning smile.
I fully expect a restraining order against conservatory sales personnel to arrive by the end of the week.
All this and still I have a drip under my sink that I don’t feel qualified to sort out anymore.
I have tried to call the Manager of these toss pots but my repeated requests to speak to the “chief wanker” have all been met with the line going dead rather quickly.
All I wanted was a bit of plastic pipe Zorro. I’m just an ordinary guy in an extraordinary situation and as Churchill once said, “Action this day…!” Too bloody true.
So, the next logical step is to therefore raise a peasant army and storm the Reichstag, or Focus (Do-it-all) as it is more commonly known round these parts.
This is where you come in Zorro. I need you. I know this is addressed to the customer relations department of Focus (Do-it-all) but I feel that someone somewhere there can contact you on my behalf.
I have included my contact details on the off chance that should you or God forbid, another colleague of the ‘chief wanker’ feel the need to write to me (and explain why these dullards are in active employment and why I can’t have a bit of plastic pipe for a start) rather than to come swinging in through my bedroom window in the dead of night wearing a mask and cape.
I only say this as I don’t want to disturb the A-Team who are currently assisting me with the Bulgarian wheelie bin cleaner who keeps spraying my parked car with rancid bin juice from next doors brown recycling bin every sodding week.
Yours Sincerely
Mr R****** W****
You know me, I’m the one who called earlier on asking “Help me Obi-wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope”
If you enjoyed that, hit the Facebook Like button in the top right corner.
LIDL – The Wookiee at the Checkout
DCR is endebted to Mrs M.W. of Derby who has sent in a letter penned by her husband to the German discount supermarket chain LIDL back in 2009. Alas, they haven't replied just yet.
Clearly, Mr.W is a man I could spend and evening happily leaning on a bar with - as his letter clearly demonstrates. By the way, the footnotes are mine:
Derby
13th May 2009
Dear Sir/Madam/Faceless peon of the LIDL Corporation[1],
I felt compelled to write to yourselves to convey my thoughts and musings after a first visit to one of your stores.
On entering the premises located in Derby[2] at the Meteor Centre at 18.40 hours, I eventually found the few items I required - light bulbs, dishwasher tablets and a whole coconut, (stacked next to Tartan slippers and just below a torch with the power of a million candles!) and after deciphering the strange and cryptic dialect, (possibly Sanskrit?) that the costings of said items were displayed in, I
proceeded to the front of the premises. To where, traditionally it must be said, there is an area set aside for payment, usually occupied by at least one member of the workforce.
Imagine my surprise to find this area totally devoid of human life and instead of a checkout area, the front of your store had been turned into an urban game reserve populated by something David Attenborough would describe as “Not quite the alpha male we were hoping for…?” From the look of it, (him? Her? Chewbacca[3]?) the slouched demeanour and the elongated arms hammering into an electronic device of questionable lifespan (if the force it was being struck with was any
indication) - this was an actual employee. Incredible I know but please do wait as it really does get so much better.
I approached the checkout/game reserve/ape enclosure/Mos Eisley cantina[4] populated by this behemoth and was greeted eventually by a single glance over it’s rather expressive shrugging shoulder, packed with disdain and the thumb over said shoulder gesture teamed with the
obviously textbook ‘Welcome your customer greeting’ of “Not ‘ere, Till one !”
I have to admit that I was rather taken aback at this point to find that firstly, this thing could speak.
Secondly, it was being allowed to populate the public areas without a handler.
Thirdly, it was to all intents and purposes, clothed as the store manager.
You see, I did state it really did get so much better didn’t I ?
Imagine my delight after relocating to “Till one!” I was then treated to a few sideways glances and such sharp exhaling of breath as to embarrass an asthmatic, emphysemic pit pony. There followed much ringing of bells and bellowing of “Wheeeere’s An-dy?”[5] to the rear of the store, some 40 feet away or possibly more. As the store was empty, the echo did not take too much time to return so accurate sonar measurement was unfortunately curtailed.
Now, I understand that running a busy business is a demanding role and far be it from me, a humble customer, to expect to be served within any sort of time frame that is not on a geologic scale. But indulge me just this once please, as a wild and fanciful suggestion from totally left field.
Are you ready……..?
How about this lazy disgrace of an excuse of an employee from your corporation get up off his useless backside and attend to the needs of the person standing in front of him !
I am quite sure you have an expansive and thorough customer service training program rolling out to all employees, as every company worth its salt does. Might I suggest that at the first opportunity you visit this store to experience the majesty of your training program in its full effect? It will take your breath away without a doubt.
It is at this point that the reason for my correspondence enters the fray.
A young man walking the length of the store with a dustpan, brush, broom, mop and bucket clutched in the way that only the terminally harassed can carry off. It was quite obvious that this young man was trying to clean the store but on recognising my need to purchase something, (who would have thought it, in a grocery store to boot?) he apologised for the delay, entered the till area, scanned the items I required and then took payment promptly and courteously. He then
thanked me for my custom and bade me farewell. Now then, if it had not been for this polite and helpful staff member I would have simply left your premises vowing never to return.
It seems that an immediate review or overhaul of your management training in customer service is necessitated. Furthermore it is my strong belief that this young man, (server 10 on the included receipt) would be far better utilised within your business than the whipping boy position he is currently employed in.
Please feel free to respond promptly and succinctly with either your standard customer service template letter, remembering to change the font of the ‘delete as required’ sections so it all looks freshly typed…. or an honest and full explanation of how you intend to address the observations raised, your own findings after a visit to said premises and apology from the individual concerned.
The choice of which I will leave entirely to you.
I will await your response with baited breath. No, seriously I will.
Yours Sincerely
Mr R****** *****
PS. Please feel free to pop this ode to your significant level of customer service on your break room notice board for all to see. Might I suggest next to the vacant ‘Employee of the month’ picture
frame…..?
[1] For those who inhabit parts of the world not yet infected with LIDL stores, LIDL is a chain of discount supermarkets based in Germany that operates over 10,000 stores across Europe. The company's full name is Lidl (rhymes with piddle) Stiftung (pronounced stiff tongue) & Co. Most people go there to buy cheap bottles of Bailey’s Irish Cream. It is rumoured that some people actually go shopping there on a regular basis.
[2] Again, for our overseas readers, Derby is a city of quarter of a million souls in the East Midlands of England. It once had a half-decent football team. Its one claim to fame is that a 19thC member of Parliament, one Samuel Plimsoll, invented the line that is painted around every ship in the world. No one knows why.
[3] Aka Chewie. Big hairy dude from a species know as Wookiees. Best known as Hans Solo’s co-pilot of the Miillennium Falcon.
[4] Mos Eisley was a spaceport in the panet Tatooine, located in a valley somewhere to the southeast of the Jundland Wastesand roughly 80 kilometers north of Anchorhead, near the desert palace of Jabba the Hutt. Chalmun's Cantina played a crucial role as the establishment was where Luke Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi met Han Solo and Chewbacca (see 3 above) in their quest to get to Alderaan in order to deliver the Death Star plans to the Alliance. But you already knew that didn’t you.
[5] Those readers old enough will know that this would sound exactly like the announcer’s introduction “Heeere’s An-dy!” which began the ‘Andy Williams Show’ on US, and later, UK television between 1959 and 1971. The show also regularly featured the Osmond brothers (which is why most people didn’t watch it) and a bear who was always asking for a cookie. No one knows why.
The Giant Penis and the Champagne
As indicated on the 'About the Author' page, I work in the design business and I travel a lot with my work. This entirely true story begins in Atlantic City, New Jersey, where I spent quite a lot of time during a period when I worked in the casino sector. The story ends thousands of miles away in Yorkshire, almost a year later. As a result, this is a very long tale which ought to have been the subject of a complaint letter but never was - because I didn't know which sex shop was responsible for all the trouble that followed...
The central characters of the story, at least the beginning of the story, we shall call Bill and Ben[1]. They were both English-born but both lived (separately) in California and had done so for some years. Both had a physical age of about sixty and a behavioural age of about thirteen. Like me, they both worked in the design business and we were all in Atlantic City for meetings about the same project. This particular cold winter evening, Bill, Ben, myself, my English colleague Ted [2] and a few American friends had been out to dinner and had probably indulged in a few too many Yuenglings [3]. Nonetheless, we agreed to meet back at our hotel for a nightcap or two.
As it happens, we were staying at the rather swanky Borgata Hotel and Casino, Atlantic City's newest and most luxurious casino resort. So, Ted and I were soon comfortably installed in the bar at the centre of the gaming floor, nursing a Maker's Mark. Of Bill and Ben though, there was no sign. After a while, we began to get a little concerned. Atlantic City isn't the sort of place you want to get lost in. Some of the local neighbourhoods can be a little scary. An hour passed, still no sign of them.
Then suddenly, the two of them staggered into the bar and they looked terrible. Dishevelled and with their hair all over the place [4], they looked to be deep in shock.
"Man, it was terrible" Bill began. "We were attacked outside the restaurant. Got jumped by this huge black guy. [5] Came out of nowhere".
"But we still managed to put up a fight" said Ben. "It was a hell of a scrap..."
"...In fact we got the bastard - look!"
Whereupon, with a theatrical flourish, he proceeded to pull from the sleeve of his coat a 16" black rubber penis, complete with two rather undersized and wrinkly testicles, with which he started to conduct the music that was playing over the sound system. Obviously, the reason the guys were late is that they had decided to stop and take a look around a sex shop and being Bill and Ben, they couldn't bring themselves to leave empty handed.
Around us, couples who up until this point had been enjoying a romantic cocktail, stared wide eyed at the two crazy ex-pat Brits, who by now were pretending to be d'Atragnan and Aramis and were mock sword-fighting - one with a telescopic umbrella and the other with a giant rubber penis - to cries of "En Garde" and "Take that you blighter!"
Then I remembered where we were - one of the newest and most technologically advanced casinos in the United States. The thoughts flew through my brain at lightning speed. There would probably be hundreds of cameras, most of them PTZs [6]. The surveillance room would have at least 10 staff monitoring perhaps 80 video feeds at any one time. Every square inch of the property is covered except the hotel bedrooms. The fracas in the bar was not going to be missed. I had to make the penis disappear before I got arrested (again) [7].
I made a grab for it and the sword fight became a tug of war - which Ben found equally entertaining. Eventually, I managed to wressle the fake appendage from him. Then it occurred to me:
"Now what the hell am I supposed to do?"
The 300 pound, shaven-headed security boys (those guys that take you down for a cosy little chat in the basement somewhere after they catch you card counting) would be heading towards us at any second but like a complete prat [8], I had made sure that I'd be the one left clutching a giant penis in the middle of a crowded cocktail bar when they arrived!
What could I do? Throw it as far away as possible? It could hit an old lady and kill her. I could see the headlines: 'British Man kills Octenagarian with Giant Penis'. Stuff it down the back of one of the many sofas? They were all occupied: "Excuse me madam, could I hide my giant penis in your upholstery? That wasn't going to work.
I remembered my coat.
If Ben could smuggle it into the casino in his coat sleeve, then I could smuggle it out in mine. I grabbed my coat, stuffed the penis up the sleeve and then tried to make it look like I was leaving casually with my coat draped over my arm. All I could do was hope that nobody noticed that my coat had a seriously impressive hard-on.
Now what?
Should I go outside and lose the penis in a trash bin? No, that would lead to an immediate bomb alert. People leaving suspicious packages in bins is right at the top of the casino security list of 'Reasons to Have a Chat in the Basement'. Flush it down the toilet? No bloody chance. God, if I was caught in the toilets with a 16" rubber penis I would be in the basement for a very long time indeed.
I would have to take the penis to my room to give me time to think. That meant going right past the enormous security guy in 'The Lounge' - the casino-level guest elevator lobby. I was breaking out in a cold sweat. Nothing to do but go for it.
I approached Mr. Gorilla in the elevator lobby and tried to smile in a way that said "I may stink of beer and bourbon and fear, but I really don't have anything concealed about my person - especially any16" rubber penises". I showed him my key card whilst keeping the rigid coat sleeve in a vice-like grip between arm and ribcage. "Have a nice evening, Sir" he said as I breezed on to the bank of elevators. I'd made it!
I reached my room, and stuffed the penis deep into my suitcase, underneath the dirty underwear and socks where nobody was likely to find it and collapsed on the bed. Within seconds, I was sound asleep.
Two days later, it was time to leave. The penis was where I had left it and I still had no idea what to do with it. If I left it in the room, the chamber maid was going to get quite a surprise and she was certain to report it. I would be returning here and I didn't want a note on my guest profile saying 'known to leave deviant sexual objects in his room' or even worse, the greeting at reception: "Sir, you left this in your room after your last stay with us". No, the penis was going to have to leave with me. That brought with it a whole new series of risks.
Since 9/11, the Americans have got very good at screening aircraft baggage (especially on trans-Atlantic flights) and so I repacked my case with extreme care. A large can of shaving foam and another of anti-perspirant when placed in line were more or less the same length as the penis, so I arranged the contents of my case such that the two cans were aligned exactly over the offending article and then I added all manner of other metal objects over the top of those. When I had finished, I was satisfied that it would be all but impossible to see the penis on any x-ray of my bag.
At the US Airways check in at Philadelphia, the routine questions "Are you carrying any weapons?" and "Has anyone given you anything to bring home in your luggage?" caused a brief frisson of anxiety but the case disappeared along the conveyor belt without incident after I replied "No" on both counts. Back in the UK, I was half expecting a tap on the shoulder at the baggage carousel but my case reappeared as usual. At customs, I briefly thought about going through the red channel and declaring one very large penis, but as British Customs are not renowned for their highly developed sense of humour, I chose to pass unnoticed through the green channel.
I had got the penis home. There was a surprise waiting for me when I reopened my luggage however.
On the very top of my suitcase was a standard printed letter from the TSA - the Transportation Security Administration, an agency of the US Department of Homeland Security - and it had been carefully curled around the giant penis!
It stated that as a security precaution against terrorist activity my suitcase had been hand-searched by TSA staff and as a result, the contents might not be arranged exactly as they were at the time of packing!
When I returned to the office, my colleague Ted had told the entire staff about the giant penis and I was persuaded to bring the thing to work so everyone could see what all the fuss had been about.
A few weeks later, a meeting was to be held at our office about the very project hat had taken me to Atlantic City. Indeed, some of the Americans were over in the UK and so were Bill and Ben! Also attending the meeting was an estate agent (realtor) and part time Elvis impersonator who we shall call Shirley [9]. Now Shirley had a very large briefcase which he was in the habit of leaving open on the floor behind his seat at the meeting table. He also loved a practical joke. At a point in the meeting when Shirley was closely involved in the discussions, one of my colleagues retrieved the giant penis from my desk drawer and crouching directly behind Shirley's chair, carefully slid the thing into the depths of Shirley's case. At the end of the meeting, he quickly dropped his papers back in his case, closed it, and rushed off to attend another important appointment, taking the giant penis with him.
Finally, I was rid of it.
Or so I thought.
Shirley had walked out with the penis some time in February or March and for several months, its whereabouts are unknown. No doubt it was the subject of all manner of other stories.
That August, my wife and I celebrated our Silver Wedding Anniversary and to mark the occasion, our company Chairman bought us a bottle of Vintage Rose Champagne. It was a very expensive bottle and so naturally, it came in a very attractive presentation box. I was foolish enough to leave it on my desk.
Unbeknown to me, at some point in the previous few weeks the giant penis had found its way back to the office - no doubt with a little help from Shirley. Another of my colleagues, a serial practical joker who I shall call Elvis [10], decided that it would be highly amusing to substitute the contents of the presentation box - inserting the giant penis in place of the bottle (conveniently, they weighed about the same). Unfortunately for Elvis, the penis couldn't be compressed into the box. Undaunted, he borrowed a hacksaw and carefully removed the bottom 2" of the penis, complete with the testicles. He eventually managed to compress the remaining 14" into the box by bending it into a sort of spiral - rather like a coiled spring, ready to hurtle into the air as soon as the box was opened.
To Elivis's extreme disappointment, I forgot to take the champagne home for my anniversary celebration. Anyone who has had a Silver Wedding will know that you end up with a lot of champagne. So it was not until Christmas, 5 months later, that it occurred to me to take the champagne home, putting the box in the refigerator as soon as I arrived.
As luck would have it, it was our turn to entertain the in-laws this particular Christmas. After we had completed the annual ritual with the presents and the turkey was safely in the oven, I was sat chatting with my father-in-law and mother-in-law at the kitchen table when my wife suggested we relax with a glass of Buck's Fizz.
"Oh no" I said, "I've got something very special in a box in the refrigerator"......
[1] Not their real names of course, although their real names do start with the same letter and they sound very similar to Bill and Ben after a few mojitos. For the uninitiated, Bill and Ben were characters of a British children's television programme dating from the 1950s and 60s in which two puppets - called Bill and Ben - lived in two identical plantpots at the bottom of the garden. Their vocabulary consisted of two words - "flibadob" and "flobadob" - exactly the same as my two friends after a few drinks! [2] Also not his real name. I though I'd stay with the Children's TV theme. (Little) Ted was an appealing Teddy Bear from another children's television programme of the same period called 'Andy Pandy'. Rumour had it that Little Ted was having carnal relations with another leading character, a rag doll called Looby Loo, behind Andy Pandy's back! [3] For English and Australian readers: Yuengling - pronounced Ying Ling - is a very fine bottled beer from America's oldest brewery in nearby Pennsylvania. Infinitely better than Budweiser, Coors Light, Miller Light, Sam Adams and all the other witch's piss that gets drunk over there. Fat Tyre from Chicago is also pretty good. [4] Despite their advancing years, both Bill and Ben still had a lot of hair. Long hair. Children of the sixties, they thought that hippy was still hip. [5] This is not racist, it's relevant, read on. [6] PTZs or PeeTeeZees as they are pronounced in the USA are Pan-Tilt-Zoom cameras. They are designed to spot cheating in the casino and so can pick out an hidden ace of spades emerging from someone's sleeve. They would therefore have no difficulty whatsoever in picking out a 16" penis emerging from someone's sleeve! [7] I got arrested in California for driving a Corvette C6 at over 100 miles an hour round a hairpin in a 40mph zone. By coincidence (or perhaps not), I was on my way to visit Bill and Ben. In the end, Smokey the Bear let me off with a caution because my Bristish nationality meant that the paperwork would have been a "godamn nightmare dude!". Oh, and I once got arrested in Japan but that's a very different story. One day, I'll right a complaint letter to the Japanese Emporer about that too. [8] For American readers: A Klutz, but born in England. [9] Of course, Shirley isn't his real name but he does have a girl's name and he is an estate agent after all... [10] Because he looks like Elvis Costello.
The Exploding Rice Packet and the Dishwasher
There hasn't really been much for me to complain about recently but a incident in the kitchen this week was an opportunity that could not be ignored. I was late home from work, my wife wasn't feeling very well, the cat had thrown up. It was all a bit stressful. Then the rice packet exploded all over the bloody kitchen. Mr. Angry was back!
Waitrose Limited
Doncastle Road
Bracknell
Berkshire
RG12 8YA
Dear Customer Relations,
Waitrose Basmati Aromatic Rice
“The prince of rices, flourishing in the Himalayan foothills where fertile soil, snow-fed streams and the purest air combine to produce a splendid rice. Aromatic and fluffy, (it)[1] deserves pride of place on your table”.
That’s what it says on the packet and for the most part, it sounds pretty good. It would perhaps be more accurate however to end that particular piece of marketing bollocks with:
“Aromatic and fluffy, it[2] deserves pride of place on your floor”
Because that is where most of it ends up.
You see, the packaging for your Basmati Aromatic Rice was designed by a complete and utter moron[3].
I would like to challenge you to choose a dozen members of your staff at random and ask them to attempt to open a 1kg packet of Waitrose Basmati Aromatic Rice without the assistance of power tools or laser scalpels. If more than one of them manages to keep more than half of the rice in the packet, then you can be assured that they were cheating!
That is because the only way to accomplish this task is to place the bag of rice into a tall jug or similar vessel which will hold the bag firmly in a vertical position. The jug is then placed into a large and sterilised bucket (to collect the shrapnel) before the top 4mm of the bag is carefully removed with a freshly sharpened pair of tungsten-carbide surgical scissors[4].
Alas, these particular instructions were not included on the packet.
I therefore made the dreadful mistake of trying to open the packet… …with my fingers!
I happened to be preparing a Thai Red Curry so Basmati Aromatic Rice was the obvious accompaniment. Now I’ve been opening packets of rice for over forty years now so I was foolish enough to think that I’d developed a relatively efficient technique. Applying my four decades of experience, I carefully gripped either side of the packet between thumb and forefinger and tried to gently pull the sealed edges apart.
Nothing happened.
I increased the force slightly.
Nothing happened.
I increased the force a little bit more.
Then lots of things suddenly happened all at once!
The one thing that didn’t happen is that the seam along the top of the parted neatly. Oh no.
A tiny part of the seam opened and from that, a whole series of tears began to spread rapidly in a downwards direction immediately transforming the once homogenous bag into a series of plastic ribbons. The outward lateral force still being being applied by my fingers and thumbs now resulted in an upward movement of the still-intact bottom of the bag. This in turn had a drastic negative impact on the internal volume of what was left of the bag itself and a resultant positive impact on the internal pressure upon its contents – the Basmati Aromatic Rice.
The effect was rather like the activation of a fire sprinkler – only with rice instead of water.
300,000[5] little grains began to spray in every direction!
Now it just so happened that – roughly 1.5m to my right - my dearly-beloved had, only seconds previously, opened the door to the dishwasher and said door was inclined at roughly 45 degrees to the vertical. By coincidence, the largest tear in the bag of rice was perfectly aligned such that the jet of high-velocity rice grains struck the inside face of the door at precisely the right angle to ricochet straight into the dishwasher itself.
Seconds later, I was left holding the tattered remains of the bag containing perhaps 50 grams of the original kilogram. Another 200 grams had spread to cover every available square inch[6] of the kitchen work surfaces. Another 200 grams had managed to disperse itself to the farthest corners of the kitchen, including an open cutlery drawer, my glass of cold beer, the sugar bowl and just about everywhere else that wasn’t hermetically sealed.
However, half of the former contents of the bag had miraculously found its way into the dishwasher.[7] You can imagine therefore my unbridled joy at discovering that the dishwasher was full of dirty, wet dishes to which our Basmati Aromatic Rice had now adhered itself with remarkable efficiency.
We could hardly just switch it on – that would have simply cooked the rice – so we were obliged to scrape every plate, cup and utensil one by one before we set about sweeping, hoovering and generally chasing the rice around the kitchen (and sticking cocktail sticks into an effigy of your packaging designer fashioned out of the soggy rice from the dishwasher).
Obviously, I was very annoyed - but also mystified. Mystified as to how a company like Waitrose could allow such a mind-bogglingly crap piece of design to make it all the way to your supermarket shelves. Quite apart from the intellectually-and-grammatically-challenged packaging designer, you must have a small army of buyers and merchandising experts who signed off on this staggering display of complete and utter ineptitude.
I do hope that you will pass a copy of this letter to every one of them. I would be genuinely interested to hear what they have to say.
Yours faithfully,
Anthony
PS: Don’t try Red Thai Curry with potato wedges. It just doesn’t work. You need Basmati Aromatic Rice.
MIND THE GAP…. in Our Service
Mind the GAP (In our Service)
I am grateful to Alison Robins of the Channel Islands (the location here is highly relevant) for the following exchange with the Customer Relations Department at GAP. Their failure to answer Alison's simple question puts them right up there with the strangely named crew at Easyjet (see the Easyjet Chronicles page).
As a resident of the Channel Islands, Alison was keen to know why GAP refuse to ship their goods there.
Simple enough. So she sent them an email:
Dear Customer Relations,
May I ask why you don’t ship to the Channel Islands but you do to certain European countries that are further away? Has to be the most bizarre shipping policy I have ever come across and not one I would have expected from yourselves.
All the major retailers – John Lewis, Boden, Laura Ashley etc etc ship here.
Why not Gap?
Many thanks.
Alison Robins
And back came the reply:
On 2 Nov 2010, at 21:53, custserv@gap.eu wrote:
Dear Alison,
Thank you for your inquiry regarding why we do not ship to the Channel Islands. Although we appreciate your interest in our brand, we are unable to address your specific inquiry at this time as this information is proprietary and is not currently available for public consumption.
We appreciate your understanding and look forward to shopping with you again soon. If we may be of further assistance, please contact us at custserv@gap.eu or toll free from inside the United Kingdom at 00800 06006666 (Please dial this number exactly as it appears.) and outside the United Kingdom at 001 614 744 3997.
To review the complete Terms of Sale and Use applicable to your purchase and use of our website, please visit http://www.gap.eu/terms. To review our Privacy Policy, please visit http://www.gap.eu/privacypolicy.
This email is sent from Gap Europe Limited, a company registered in England and Wales with company number 06279672 and a subsidiary of Gap Inc, USA. The registered office is at Berkeley Square House, Berkeley Square, London W1J 6BS, United Kingdom.
This email may contain information which is confidential, privileged or subject to copyright. If you are not the intended recipient of this email you are on notice that any use, disclosure or copying of this email is expressly prohibited.
Sincerely,
Stephanie
Customer Service Consultant
I suspect there's a clue in the time of the email - 21:53hrs. I very much doubt that GAP's UK customer relations department is still hard at it at almost 10 o'clock at night. There is a second clue in the spelling of "inquiry" (an inquiry is something that the US Senate likes to do when the President is believed to have done something naughty with an intern. An enquiry is a polite question asked by a European). I think we may be dealing with an American customer relations person here.
We note that the reply may contain information that is confidential or privileged but in this case it clearly doesn't. The reason that GAP doesn't ship to the Channel Islands is a secret that cannot be divulged. Sounds more American every minute.
Undaunted, Alison had another go:
Dear Stephanie
I have no idea what you mean by ‘this information is proprietary and is not currently available for public consumption.’
Any chance you could explain in simple, easy-to-understand English why Gap does not deliver to the Channel Islands?
It is a simple enough request.
Alison Robins
and Stephanie decided to re-word her earlier unhelpful reply then send it again:
Dear Alison,
Thank you for your inquiry regarding our lack of delivery the Channel Islands. Although we appreciate your interest in our brand, we are unable to say why we do not deliver to the Channel Islands at this time as this information is held at our corporate offices and is not available to the public. We apologise for any confusion or frustration this issue may cause.
We appreciate your understanding.
(all the corporate babble at the end of the email omitted)
Sincerely,
Stephanie
Customer Service Consultant
That clinches it. "At this time" instead of "at the moment". Definitely American. The top secret information held at the corporate offices is of course the GAP copy of the world atlas. After all, there are just over 307 million Americans and only 126 of them have been abroad (mainly to Stratford upon Avon). They therefore have very little need of a book that shows maps of places that don't stock Hershey bars and can be seen on the Discovery Channel anyway. By now, Alison's patience was wearing thin:
Stephanie
Sorry, but there is no ‘understanding’ on my part. This is quite the most bonkers customer relations reply I have had the misfortune to have received.
I am asking a simple customer relations question. I am not asking you for your profit and loss balance sheet.
Perhaps you would be kind enough to let you ‘corporate offices’ know that I shall now take this further through the media.
Kind regards
Alison Robins
That was enough for Stephanie. She passed the buck to Katherine whose grasp of geography proved to be even less developed than Stephanie's:
Dear Alison,
Thank you for your email. We sincerely apologize for your frustration and disappointment that we do not offer shipping to the Canary Islands at this time. We just recently offered our online services to the United Kingdom and want to make sure that we do this properly. Please know that we have forwarded your request to see our service expanded to include the Canary Islands to the appropriate parties. In the meantime, we hope that you have an opportunity to visit one of our UK stores in the future.
For locations of our UK stores, just visit gap.eu and click on Store Locator.
Sincerely,
Katherine
Gap Inc. Customer Relations
There we go again. "Apologize" instead of "apologise". Canary Islands instead of Channel Islands. The fact that the former is off the coast of West Africa and the latter is in fact part of the UK and lies in the English channel due South of Bournemouth has obviously escaped Katherine's notice. That's what happens when you leave the atlas at the corporate offices.
Naturally, Alison did point out the geographical error to Katherine but alas, the exchange ended there.
So, people of GAP, assuming that your corporate search engines find this post, perhaps you could let subscribers to this site know whether you have invested in an atlas for your customer relations department (or even a copy of Google Earth - though that tends to suggest that the Channel Islands are off the coast of California, West of Santa Barbara).
Also, Alison is still waiting for an answer to her enquiry -
Why don't you ship to the Channel Islands (the British ones) ?
Tesco: Who Stole the Macaroni? – Part Deux
I have received a reply from Tesco to the letter below. I couldn't help myself. I had to send a follow-up.
Tesco Customer Relations
PO Box 73
Baird Avenue
Dryburgh Industrial Estate
Dundee
DD1 9NF
Dear Customer Relations,
Tesco Italian Macaroni Cheese
Earlier this week I had a wisdom tooth removed and very unpleasant it was too. I spent the rest of the day at home feeling terribly sorry for myself and leaving trails of dribble everywhere from my the lop-sided and comprehensively anaesthetised face. That evening, my wife considerately prepared a spaghetti bolognese so that I would not have to indulge in excessive chewing. Unfortunately, the humungous crater in my lower jaw, where my wisdom tooth had lived very happily for the last forty years, turned out to be the perfect place to start my own private minced meat bits collection. Now everyone who has ever had a wisdom tooth removed will tell you that you are simply not allowed to rinse out your mouth until the next day so as not to dislodge the little blood clot that will eventually allow your gums to heal. My little crater full of minced meat had to go to bed with me. It wasn't very nice.
So at lunchtime the next day, my freshly rinsed mouth and I wandered into the nice little Tesco Express store near my workplace determined to find myself something for lunch that didn't involve a lot of chewing and most especially, didn't have any 'bits' in. It proved to be a lot harder than it sounds. Sandwiches were out of the question and so was my usual packet of salted peanuts. The moussaka, the lasagne and the chilli con carne were all made almost entirely of bits. There were lots and lots of pasta salads - made with pasta layered attractively with mayonnaise - and bits. Even the soups had bits in - Chicken with bits, mushroom with bits and country vegetable with all manner of bits.
Finally, I spotted the perfect dish. Tesco Italian Macaroni Cheese. "Italian macaroni pasta in a deeply cheesy, thick and creamy sauce, scattered with gratings of tangy mature Cheddar". Nothing but easy-to-swallow-without-even-chewing pieces of macaroni in a completely bit-free sauce. Whoopee!
I danced across the store to the self-service check-out, paid my two pounds and skipped joyfully back to the office to pop it in the microwave. Once I had removed the cardboard sleeve however, I could see immediately that there was a problem. Well' actually, there were two problems.The second problem was the "gratings of tangy mature cheddar scattered" on top of the dish. "Scattered" was a well chosen word. Had I had the patience to lay all the little bits of cheese side by side with the aid of tweezers and a magnifying glass, they would have failed to cover my thumbnail. Quite how I was supposed to get that golden brown toasted cheesy topping in the photograph on the sleeve I'll never know (ignoring for a moment that I was using a microwave). Cheese apparently made up 19% of the dish. I can only assume that the other 18.9% was in the sauce.
The first problem - the really big problem - was that this Macaroni Cheese didn't in fact contain any macaroni.
Now perhaps I am being unreasonable but I'm pretty sure that usually, Spaghetti Bolognese has some spaghetti in it. Mushroom Risotto usually contains some pieces of mushroom. Potato Lyonnaise more often than not contains some potato. Onion Bhajee isn't made out of turnips. There are exceptions of course - Shepherds Pie and Toad in the Hole spring to mind - but for the most part, the name of these prepared foods is generally a very good guide as to the principal ingredient.
So why in God's name is your Tesco Italian Macaroni Cheese actually Tesco Italian Penne in Cheese sauce? Do you not realise - there is a reason that Italians make Macaroni Cheese with macaroni and not with penne pasta? It is the sauce, you blithering idiots. The little hole in a piece of macaroni retains the sauce whereas the great big hole through the middle of a piece of penne pasta pours the cheese sauce straight down the front of whatever you happen to be wearing in much the same way that a gargoyle ejects water from a cathedral roof.
Have you ever tried to eat this stuff? By the time you have finished, you look like a three year old child after its first ice cream cornet!
So for the sake of accuracy, and to eliminate the blatant breach of the Trade Descriptions Act 1968 for which you could be prosecuted, can I suggest that you rename this product correctly. 'Tesco Italian Squirts Hot Cheese Sauce Down Your Front Penne Pasta with Bugger All Grated Cheese On Top' would seem to be about right.
Anthony.
God bless Tesco. They replied quickly and politely to my letter:
Well, I could hardly leave it there could I. They clearly weren't going to do anthing about the new name and there was that careless mention of 'consumer panels'!.........
Dean Warden Tesco Customer RelationsPO Box 73
Baird Avenue
Dryburgh Industrial Estate
Dundee
DD1 9NF
Dear Dean,
Tesco Italian Macaroni Cheese
Thank you for your letter dated 27th July and the Tesco Moneycard to the value of £10.00 which I shall give to a local charity. I shall recommend that they use it to buy several boxes of your Tesco Italian Macaroni Cheese so they can hold a sponsored cheese sauce squirting competition. I think it would prove very popular and raise lots of money. With the practice I have already had, I also stand a good chance of winning!
I was delighted to hear that you have contacted your supplier and have asked them to look into my complaint. I hope you will keep me informed of developments.
In the meantime, I was also intrigued to learn that you invite consumer panels to review product samples in your kitchens. That sounds like an opportunity too good to miss. Would I have to travel to Dundee or do you have kitchens elsewhere in the UK where such events take place? A customer panel event in the North of England would be ideal. Perhaps you could let me know when the next one is taking place.
Yours sincerely,
Anthony
PS. My gums are healing nicely and I am once again able to eat food with bits in.
Ibuprofen Liquid Capsules: Easy to Swallow? – Update
Oridinally posted in June, this is updated to include a very bland reply from Superdrug which has naturally encouraged me to have a second go:
Customer Relations Department
Superdrug Stores plc
118 Beddington LaneCroydon
Surrey
CR0 4TB
Dear Customer Relations,
Superdrug Ibuprofen 200mg Liquid Capsules
Twenty years ago, a very big horse ran up my back at full gallop.
My wife and I had been riding in the forests of the Morvan National Park in France - and very nice it was too. Nice that is until our mounts were spooked by a snake and we were both thrown out of our saddles. The big problem for me was that I was riding in the front. As a result, milliseconds after the pain of hitting the rocky ground at high speed, my wife’s horse ran straight over me at a velocity Red Rum would have been proud of. Unfortunately, one of its thundering hind hooves struck me squarely on my upper back, just inside my right shoulder blade. After that, the pain of the fall seemed utterly insignificant.
For some time afterwards, my Quasimodo impersonation was flawless. My hump was the size of a small French village and my right arm hung limp and useless at my side. I wouldn’t have been able to stand or lie straight if you had run over me with a steamroller. Gradually though, the pain and the swelling subsided, I eventually resumed an upright stance and life returned to normal.
Nonetheless, to this day, there is an area of damaged tissue in my shoulder – roughly the size of a horses hoof. Once in a while, it seems to flare up for no apparent reason and I develop an acute neuritis, causing excruciating referred pain down my arm and pins and needles in my right hand.
So, to finally get to the point of my letter, this is exactly what happened a few weeks ago.
It was the weekend and I was unable to see my GP straight away so you can imagine my relief when my wife handed me a box of Superdrug 200mg Ibuprofen Liquid Capsules. Just the job I thought. A painkiller and an anti-inflammatory. Perfect. What’s more, they were fast-acting and (best of all) “easy-to-swallow”!
At least that’s what it said on the box.
Easy to swallow? I suspect that it would have been easier to swallow the horse!
I know the capsules aren’t exactly tiny but I have certainly swallowed bigger tablets without difficulty (indeed, the 400mg ibuprofen tablets that I was eventually prescribed were much bigger than your capsules and looked like shocking-pink flying saucers but they slid down my throat like a good oyster).
No, size isn’t the issue, nor, I suspect, is the egg shape of the capsule. It is the gel of which the capsule is made that is the problem. It seems to react with saliva to form a highly efficient adhesive which firmly glues the capsule to the throat, just below the point where you can cough it back up again. No amount of drinking will dislodge the little blighter. The only way to get the capsule down far enough to do the ‘fast-acting’ bit is to eat - without chewing excessively so there are lots of ‘bits’ to dislodge the glued-on capsule. Salted peanuts work very well, I eventually discovered.
This all seemed like an awful lot of trouble to swallow an “easy-to-swallow” capsule. In fact, bearing in mind its shape, texture and general squishiness, it occurred to me that it may actually be a great deal easier to introduce the capsule into the gastro-intestinal tract from completely the opposite end! A quick dab of Vaseline and hey presto!
So before I buy a pair of rubber gloves, I thought I’d ask: Would they be just as effective as a fast-acting, “easy-to-shove-up-your-bum” suppository?
Yours faithfully,
Anthony
A few days later, I received the following standard letter back from Superdrug:
It was time for a second salvo:
8th August 2010 Miss S Berry Customer Relations Department Superdrug Stores plc 118 Beddington LaneCroydon
Surrey
CR0 4TB
Dear Miss Berry,
Thank you for your letter dated 22nd June. It was good of you to address it to me personally. Of course, I would have preferred that you had also taken the trouble write me a personal letter to go with the personal salutation. After all, I had taken the trouble to tell you all about my Quasimodo impersonation and to introduce a note of levity into my otherwise serious complaint.
Your disappointingly standard text informs me that my comments have been passed to your technical and buying departments. I was rather hoping that my letter may have been passed to your R&D department - the thought of your boffins experimenting with Vaseline and rubber gloves was rather entertaining. However, I now realise that this is because you do not in fact manufacture the offending capsules but simply buy them in like all your other products.
Perhaps you would be good enough to let me have the details of the manufacturer in this instance. I am sure that they will be concerned to hear that their capsules adhere so efficiently to the oesophagus. After all, whilst choking to death is probably a very effective method of pain relief in the long run, it is unlikely to be anything like as effective in PR terms.
Who knows, they may even become rather excited at the prospect of developing a highly effective and 'easy-to-insert' anti-inflammatory suppository.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Your etc,
Anthony
Naturally, I will post the reply when it lands.
Spread the Word about DCR
2,051 feed subscribersSite Security
DCR Pages
- About the Author…
- Some Rules, Privacy Policy and Other Dull Stuff
- The EasyJet Chronicles
- IKEA – Tales from the Big Blue Warehouse
- Best Ever Complaint Letters
- Virgin Atlantic: In-Flight Food
- Brittania Hotels: Probably the Worst Hotel in the World
- Always: Have a Happy Period!
- Vodaphone: a Communicational Conundrum
- NTL: Trying to Get Connected
- Lothian & Borders Police: Response Times
- Scary Duck: The Wreck
- AGL Australia: You May Want to Sit Down….
- Old Lady’s Revenge
- The Pubic Hair Encrusted Soap and the Flotation Tank
- Best Ever Silly Letters
- Contact Dear Customer Relations
Latest DCR Posts
- Apple: Let’s Piss Away a Billion Dollars Together
- Nestle: May the Spooge be With You
- Westin Gourmet: Bill’s Beef Beef
- All Quiet on the East Coast Front
- CrossCountry Trains: The 14:07 from Manchester to Hell
- M&S: Steak and Kidney Puddings
- All that Glitters is not Gold
- Glorious Foods – Oodles of Noodles?
- HMRC: The Taxman Does Have a Sense of Humour!
- Vegetarian Society: I Think I Swallowed an Owl!
- A Nasty Case of the Willy Wonkas
- Walkers Crinkles: A Crispy Atrocity
- Old McDonalds
- Goodness Gracious, Great Balls of Fire…
- Innocent Smoothie Turned Me into a Parrot!
- My Dearest EasyJet Idiots….
- Scary Duck Strikes Again: South West Trains
- Pantene: Disappearing Curls
- Focus DIY: The Dandruff-Eating Hobbit and the Pipe
- LIDL – The Wookiee at the Checkout
- Kingston Communications – Incomparable Incompetence
- West Murcia Police : Oppressing the Proletariat
- Dear Santa…
- iTunes – Stop Ignoring Me!!
- East Coast: The Cretin with the Trolley
Links
- 27b/6 Blog David Thorne’s brilliantly funny blog
- Dear Customer Relations on Facebook The DCR Facebook page: Upload your letters or just join in the complaining!
- Dioclese Very very funny blog. Some unparliamentary language
- I Hate EasyJet A site for those of us who think they shouldn’t get away with it
- Of Herbs and Altars The off-duty antics of the band known as Neon Midnight. Contains unparliamentary language
- Scary Duck Not Scary, Not a Duck – Alistair Coleman’s award winning blog
- The Dear Ferrero Blog Blog of the slightly crazy Thomas de Graaff who likes to send very silly letters to product maufacturers
- To Whom It May Concern… Hayden Edwards likes to write silly letters to all sorts of unsuspecting victims…