I have always considered that it would be better to be bald than have curly hair - which is a good job as most of my hair migrated in a southerly direction many years ago and now makes only brief appearances on my ears, the bridge of my nose and various other parts of my anatomy.  Not so for Michael Scott Thomson.  He is immensly proud of his curly locks and was seriously miffed when his favorite shampoo for curly tops disappeared from the supermarket shelves - so he decided to appeal to the manufacturer:

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Dear Pantene,

I am writing because, comparatively recently, you manufactured, bottled and distributed what I can only describe as a veritable topically-applied ambrosia.  Or, if you like, an elixir of life which nourished, protected, moisturised, tamed and, without wishing to appear in the slightest way narcissistic you understand, elevated the status of my appearance to the slightly-more-lofty levels of 'not-bad' as opposed to its usual 'fair-to-middling'.

O Pantene, O brewer of enchanted follicular potion, it is the case that I have curly hair.  Yet you have stopped making "Perfect Curls".  That is, the shampoo, conditioner AND the 2-in-1 combined variety.

Why is this, pray tell?

I have one bottle of my last year's supply of shampoo left; there are about two inches of the stuff remaining.  Even a promotional stripe under the lid proclaims '25% Bigger Size'.  It's just as well, is it not, that you were generous enough to give away a quarter extra back then, otherwise it would have ran out long ago.  Maybe you considered you owed us curly-tops in lieu for the truly tragic moment in the then-future that you decided to unceremoniously whip it away from under our noses.  

I've been using it at a premium - the tiniest dollop for the most special of special occasions.  It's been far too valuable for humdrum day-to-day application.

Let's take a look at the back of the bottle.  I always admired your instructions, always so much more than mere "rinse, lather, repeat", inscribed in plain English:

"Do you have: Natural or permed curly hair?" 

My answer: Yes.  Natural though.  Never permed.  Funny, isn't it, how people with naturally curly hair often want to straighten it out, and those with straight hair often want perms?  Such folks, women usually, are often those who toy dangerously with those shocking white-hot pincer metal things, lethal gadgets like irons for one's hair, its merest touch against human skin enough to administer third degree burns.  A girl I know, in the process of curling her hair, once scolded her cheek with one of those things. The ensuing scar resembled a Cheesy Wotsit [1] glued to her face and there it stayed for the rest of the month, until her coffee break one bright morning when it peeled off by itself and floated, ever so gently, to the office floor.  Still, I guess it keeps you conglomorates in business.

"But you want: Beautifully defined, shiny, bouncy curls?" 

My answer: Yes please.  My hair is the only part of me which can and does, to a degree, bounce when I use that shampoo, so it's a welcome bonus to have the ability to do just that.  Another part of me once tried to bounce, but it went horribly wrong.  I won't go into that here and I'll leave you to guess which part. No, it's not that.

On the bottle you next stated "Pantene's 3 steps for beautifully defined, shiny, bouncy curls", which were, in truncated form here, to use 1) Perfect Curls Shampoo, 2) Perfect Curls Conditioner, and 3) Pantene Pro-V Style Perfect Curls defining mousse.

Well, I can only assume this stellar advice, implied by the crushing blank spaces on the supermarket shelves where these products once stood, now reads something akin to this: Get lost, corkscrew-bonce![2]

I understand, you are not the first and will by no means be the last conglomerate to discontinue a perennial favourite with a loyal fan base.  I'm still smarting over the disappearance of Lynx Apollo goodness knows how many years ago (that wasn't you as well, was it?), and the lack of Fuse Bars has only been marginally compensated by the reappearance of Wispas.  No, I've never tried to wash my hair with any of those things, but you know what I mean.

But really, nothing was quite like Perfect Curls.  Your worthy competitors never quite reached the same heights.  Sunsilk got the closest, although their bottles were never that big, and Herbal Essences weren't bad with their wittily-named "It's a Curl Thing" range (even though I assure everyone I'm every bit a man).  But even those items have gone from the shelves.  The only affordable option now is Naked Bounce, which, valiant effort though it is, just doesn't cut it for me.

I hear through various online sources that you suggest, for curly people, using a (new?) mousse now available.  I have to raise an exasperated chuckle at this.  Me, mousse? Firstly, I don't like putting sticky things in my hair.  Sellotape, blu-tack, lollypops; it's all bad.  That includes mousse for me, I'm afraid.  Besides, first thing in the morning when I am FAR from compos-mentis, fannying about with cloud-like goo is beyond the realms of my capabilities.  I once, by accident, brushed my teeth with Bonjela for crying out loud.  I spent the rest of the day looking like Ken Dodd and sounding like a Gumby.

 But all may be not lost, and there is a glimmer of hope on the horizon.  Last week I went to Spain for a relaxing holiday on the Costa Del Sol (I stayed in Coín - it's where they used to film Eldorado - sorry, I digress again).  The supermarkets there were generously equipped with 'Rizos Perfectos', and, since I have the benefit of being a fluent Spanish speaker, as well as having recognised the identical branding, knew the stuff at once.  Such a novelty it was to see it back on the shelves again I almost did one of those clicky-heel things in mid air. 

And, back at the apartment and under the shower, my hair, and indeed my nostrils, were treated to the most scintillating indulgence worthy of the highest spa in the land.  It wasn't only my hair which bounced for the rest of the day. 

I came back with eight bottles. It'll last me, ooh, three months maybe.  Then what? A shampoo pilgrimage to the set of failed soap operas?

So after all the above piffle, I guess I should get to the point, and that is: I am wondering - have you really just stopped making Pro-V Perfect Curls, or is it just that you consider us Brits unworthy?  Is there something about Spain and, potentially, the rest of Europe, which mean they are more deserving? 

Did I just luck out on that occasion? 

And if you have stopped it, is it really because people stopped buying it?

That could never be. Surely?

Yours in lots of hair, 

Mike Scott Thomson

---

[1] For our American readers, a ‘Cheesy Wotsit’ is a strangely popular cheese flavoured snack which looks like a bright orange owl turd.

[2] Again, for our American readers, “bonce” is British slang for the human head.  The original bonce was a large marble that featured in several children’s games of the nineteenth century. The English Dialect Dictionary suggests it’s a version of bounce, since such a marble was also called a bouncer and was “the large earthenware marble used for bouncing or playing with checks or cubes”.

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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”

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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…..?

However, I have to be fair to KC.  No sooner had I finished this letter than the notification of my refund dropped through the letterbox.  I was therefore unable to send it.

The style of the letter was inspired by B J Shone, whose pictorial letter to SouthWest Airlines was a stroke of genius.  Like BJ, I crave the indulgence of the copyright owners for the various pictures. 

Enjoy:

Now go and like the Dear Customer Relations Facebook page at: http://www.facebook.com/Dear.Customer.Relations 

This is the second letter submitted by Simon Cullen.  This time, he directs his pen towards the West Murcia Police, who apparently caught Simon exceeding a temporary speed limit on the M5 and offered him a 'Speed Awareness Workshop' as an alternative to a fine and an three penalty points.  As you will see, Simon was unimpressed:

West Mercia Police
PO Box 25
Droitwich Worcs
WR9 8UF

Dear Mrs Hartland,

I have recently received a fixed penalty notice through my door for speeding on junction 5-6 of the M5 on the 13th September 2011.

Let me just start by saying that I fully accept the possibility that I, and the large queue of traffic that I was following southbound, were doing 59mph as we travelled through the road works. This was at 15:05 so traffic was just starting to build up, I can only imagine several 10’s of thousands of people have received these fixed penalties. So firstly, yes, I may have been travelling at the speed indicated, and secondly, congratulations for raking in some cash for the police benevolence fund.

The Journey

What I DO NOT accept is that I was driving dangerously, or unsafely, or recklessly.  No more so than the majority of the fellow migrants that I encountered on my long journey home.  In the weekend that I committed this heinous crime, you see, I and my family (two small children, one regular sized wife) had travelled from South Wales, to Carlisle, to Fife, to Glasgow, and to Ardrossan in Ayrshire.  From Ardrossan, we had travelled down through Scotland and headed back to South Wales.

At no point in that journey did I come anywhere near endangering any other motorist’s life.  The most dangerous thing that happened on the entire 973 mile round trip, was some idiotic sewer dweller tailgating me in heavy traffic and flashing the lights of her Audi repeatedly to get me to pull out of her way.  As she passed, she took the time to have a short break in the conversation she was having on her mobile phone, to give me a filthy look.  I’m sure she drove all the way home, with not a point on her licence or a fine to her name, at about 90mph.

I, on the other hand, did my best to keep a fluid flow with the traffic, made sure I stayed at least two car lengths from the car in front and kept alert and aware at all times.  I pride myself on having an excellent ability to stay alert while driving, and have excellent perception of danger.

The Crime

So, firstly, let me examine the crime which is going to take £60 worth of food out of my children’s mouths, and cost me three points on a licence that has been clean for over 15 years.

I was doing 59mph, on a motorway, in a temporary 50 limit.  Now, firstly, as I have pointed out, the traffic was flowing, but heavy by 15:00 on a busy stretch of motorway.  I was following the mass of traffic in front, and being followed by the mass of traffic behind.  Several times that day the road had been slowed to 50, then to 60, then back down to 50 because of the terrible conditions of strong wind and heavy rain in the morning.  So if I was breaking the speed limit, I’d be quite interested to see the statistics of the number of other people caught during that 10 minute period of driving through that section of road works.

59mph in a 50mph limit, so, that’s 9mph over the temporary speed limit.  The speed of a casual jog.  Although, I am led to understand after some research, that the recommended tolerance for U.K. speed limit enforcement is 10% of the speed limit (+2mph).  So in a 50mph zone, that would be 10%*50(+2)=57mph.  In other words, what I was actually travelling at, was 2mph over the speed limit tolerance.  The speed of a crippled glacier.  I’ve moved quicker than that whilst asleep.

My Options

Still, 2mph, it’s a fair cop.  My options now are to travel all the way up to Worcester to plead my case (costing my probably £60 fuel) or to plead guilty to this terrible act of automotive anarchy, take the three points on my unblemished licence, and send you a cheque for £60 that you’ll presumably put to use oppressing the proletariat or something.

But hark!  What is this we have?  Another option?

Yes!  I can drive to Worcester (£60 fuel) and attend a course at a “Speed Awareness Workshop” – for which I‘ll be charged £80 – to be taught about speed awareness.  I was travelling at 9mph over the speed limit and 2 mph over your own set tolerance and you want to try to blackmail me into attending a speed awareness course?  That is the greatest act of condescension that I have been subjected to in my time on this earth.

Over 900 miles I travelled in 3 days on the road (in a hurricane) and I didn’t have one moment of danger.  Not a close call, barely even an angry glance.  I drove carefully and alertly, yet you want to drag me 80 miles to Worcester (a very lovely city though it is) to make me waste a day off work, and indeed a day of my precious time on this mortal plane, to have you tell me that I shouldn’t travel 2mph faster than the speed limit on a motorway!

My Response To Your Offer

I am aware of the impact my car will have if it hits a bag of toddlers at 59mph on the M5 thank you very much.  I am also aware that I could drive my car into my own toddler at 2mph and it probably wouldn’t even knock him over, and he’s none too steady on his feet.

I would like to point out that I do not participate in, or endorse, the running over of toddlers, before you send the Sweeny around to beat me with hoses.

I would like to respond to your insulting, condescending, pathetic offer of “Education” thusly:-  I would rather obtain the course fee (£80) in 50 pence coins, heat them all in a pan, and push them individually up my own backside than be talked down to on safety by West Mercia Constabulary.

Could you please send me photographic evidence of my abhorrent infraction so that I can ascertain my own guilt, before I incriminate myself unnecessarily by filling out the guilty plea.

I will then send off the £60 cheque and a copy of my (currently unblemished) driving license for endorsement.

In Conclusion

I am led to understand that the police do an incredibly difficult and admirable job.  After watching several episodes of Booze Britain, it’s certainly not a job I would relish doing at 3am in Manchester City Centre, for example.  However, it’s petty nonsense like this sort of administrative nitpickery that take money out of the pockets of average, law abiding citizens and unfortunately tarnish the good work that the police do in the eyes of the people who’s pockets you’re ransacking, thus losing respect in the public eye for decent, hard working police officers.

I feel treating a person like a naughty school boy, because they were doing 2mph over a temporary speed limit, is not the way to garnish public respect.  Especially in a time where every time I turn on my TV, I’m being told of plans to abolish the speed limit on motorways altogether.  I would hope that anyone who reads this would agree that the punishment most certainly doesn’t fit the “crime” and the whole thing is a bit of a joke.

Please respond to my letter promptly so that I am within my time limit to get the form back to you.

God forbid it should arrive on your doorstep 43 seconds late or something.

Yours faithfully

Simon Cullen

Dear Santa,

It’s a very long time since I last wrote to you.  I suspect my last letter was asking for a diving suit for my Action Man.  My spelling was probably a bit dodgy but I probably used my very best joined up writing.  You must have read it though because the diving suit showed up on Christmas morning.  You also ate the mince pie and drank the little glass of sherry (man, you must have been pissed when you got back to Lapland).  Rudolph even ate some of the carrot.

But you didn’t turn up again this year did you Santa?  It was just the same with the tooth fairy earlier this year when I had a wisdom tooth removed.  You mythical characters are a bunch of slackers!

No, Christmas isn’t what it used to be.

Nonetheless, my wife adores Christmas.  To be more accurate, my wife adores Christmas from February to November.  She spends December doing what you, Santa, are supposed to be doing (and bankrupting the household in the process).  In January, she gets counselling for post-traumatic stress disorder.

I hate Christmas.

Even as I began typing this, Santa, some warm-hearted pillock has just knocked and my door and separated me from another £2 of my hard-earned cash for a crappy snowman pin badge in aid of some hitherto unheard of charity caring for unspecified children suffering unspecified misfortunes in unspecified locations.  He's probably just screwed me and my money is going towards a mighty Christmas piss-up in the next village but in this season of goodwill to all men, I couldn't exactly tell him to shove his little snowman up his own private ice hole (tempting as that might have been). 

And now, to make matters worse, the Sellotape dispenser has gone missing again.  Little wonder when we have a spare bedroom dedicated to the art of industrial scale wrapping and known at this time of year as the ‘Wrapping Room’.  It’s not as if we have a huge family or hundreds of friends but it’s like the Amazon.com warehouse in there.  No wonder my beloved family can’t find the bloody Selloptape.  “Try aisle 36 – ‘Presents for Distant Relatives and Work Colleagues that Didn’t Piss Us Off This Year!!”, I shout helpfully.

God, I hate Christmas. 

People do such weird things at Christmas.

By way of example, my wife and daughter have erected in our living room an eight foot tall, largely plastic, replica of a pine tree, having first rearranged all the furniture to accommodate it.  They then covered said replica tree in shiny balls of glass and plastic following which they spent two hours untangling about 40 yards of lights and establishing which of the 400 little bulbs didn’t work.  Having finally located the broken bulb, they spent a further two hours locating the spare ones before they finally got the lights working.  They tell me that they enjoy this annual ritual. 

I hate the Christmas Tree Ritual.

The only time I enjoyed the Christmas Tree Ritual was when we chose a real pine tree and unbeknown to us, there was a bat asleep inside the tree.  Its peaceful hibernation was rudely interrupted when the 400 little lights were switched on and it began screeching[1] around the living room at 400 miles per hour, spraying bat droppings as it went.  Seeing my wife hit the floor in less than a nanosecond and attempting to lie as flat as a sheet of lasagne was one of the funniest things I have ever seen. 

Since we got the plastic tree, it just hasn’t been the same.

However, despite the undeniable artificiality of the tree, the cat now thinks that the living room is a garden.  In that the cat also thinks that a garden is a toilet, this is far from ideal.  As a result, the cat and I do not get on well at Christmas. 

That doesn’t stop the cat from getting a present from the Wrapping Room of course.

My wife buys the cat a little packet of Cat Nip.  In case you don’t know, Santa, Cat Nip is rather like a feline version of LSD – laced with Viagra.  I like to sprinkle the stuff around the cat’s scratching pole.  Watching the little fur ball trying to have sex with a roll of carpet is almost as funny as watching my wife avoiding a low-flying bat.

When you hate Christmas as much as I do, Santa, you have to find your amusement where you can. 

Because at Christmas, Santa, the world goes completely crazy.

For instance, why is it that at Christmas, we can never get enough satsumas?  At any other time of year, no one gives a stuff about these crappy, nondescript citrus fruits but at this time year, the entire country starts buying huge orange string bags full of the bloody things as if our very lives depend on it.  Why?

The same goes for mulled wine.  11 months of the year and we’re content to drink our plonk chilled or at room temperature.  December arrives and suddenly, we’re boiling it up and sticking cloves and cinnamon sticks in it.  And you know what?  It’s bloody disgusting.  It’s like drinking hot Pot Pourri.

And then there’s the Christmas turkey.  Why in God’s name do hundreds of millions of people eat this pug-ugly and completely tasteless bird on the same day each year?[2]  Why, for instance, don’t we eat penguins?  At least they would be in keeping with the snowy Christmas theme.  There are millions and millions of them.  David Attenborough said so.

Personally, I’d rather have a curry.  I hate Christmas dinner.

I hate Christmas cards too.  My wife sends Christmas cards to people we haven’t seen for thirty years!  Some of them are probably dead!  Most of those who are still alive have probably forgotten who we are.  My wife also puts Christmas cards on display.  We have them on window sills and shelves all over the house.  I open them and throw them away.  I figure if she thinks a few people haven’t sent us a card, it will save a few stamps next year.

Most of all though, I hate Christmas songs.  There is simply no escape from the mind-numbing, all-pervading crappiness emanating, it seems, from every single loud speaker in the world.  Every time I hear ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Bloody Reindeer’, I want to rip his antlers off and stab myself with them.

Do you know what I got for Christmas, Santa?  I got credit card debts, that’s what. 

Great big red-nosed credit card debts with bloody Jingle Bells on. 

All because you can’t be arsed to show up!

You lazy sod!

Yours,

Anthony.

PS.  Merry Christmas!

This is the first  of a series of letters kindly sent to DCR by Simon Cullen.  Simon is clearly a kindred spirit.  Unpleasant things keep happening to him and he knows that the best way to get over it is to write a virulent but cathartic rant. 

This first skirmish is with Apple iTunes.  Apparently, someone hacked into Simon's iTunes account and stole £190 from him.  In their wisdom, iTunes decided that the best way to help him was to ignore him completely....

To: Itunesstoresupport@apple.com
From: ******@hotmail.com
09 March 2011

Dear iTunes

This is a short summation of what this email is about so that the lovely people at Itunes can’t say I rambled on a bit and they didn’t read it:-

I, a “customer” of yours, have had my online account with you, where you hold ALL of my relevant financial details, hacked into, by a penis jockey of unknown origin, who bought himself 19 gift certificates, using my password as a name on January 19th 2011.

I have contacted what you call customer services (with no little irony) via email (because you have no PHONE NUMBER) and have received one reply, in which I was assured by “Katherine” on February 12th 2011, that I was “important” and would be dealt with asap.

That was one month ago.

Despite REPEATEDLY emailing “Katherine”, I have been avoided more readily than a leporous sex offender. I decided the only way forward was to re-start my iTunes grievance and bypass the wonderful Katie in the hope that I could get someone who could actually reach the keyboard and type a reply.

That was three days ago, iTunes.

Please respond to me.

My name is Simon Cullen, my account name is **************

Please!

I don’t hate you, not yet anyway. I’m moving rapidly in that direction though. I’ve had £190 stolen because I used your music program. Which, by the way, ISN’T EVEN ANY GOOD. It’s bloody awful in fact. I don’t want YOU to organise my music files. I want to do it. Why is your cockamany program trying to do it for me?? Why the crapping Christ do I want 3 copies of each song on each album lined up?

So, for instance, if I listen to AC/DC’s fine Powerage LP, I get Rock and Roll Damnation THREE times. Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s a great song, but when you listen to anything three times in a row, it starts to feel a LITTLE bit like you’re going mental.

Now, I know, Kate, that you’re probably sitting there, at your iTunes desk, tutting and shaking you’re wisoned head, saying to yourself “huh, you idiot, there’s an OPTION to turn that off. You just press apple/alt/ctrl/shift and four."
But, I’m not an idiot, no, I’m just lazy, and I don’t WANT to press any buttons, or fanny about with any drop down menu boxes.  I just want to listen to “Cannibal Corpse”.  Once, NOT three times.  If you listen to Cannibal Corpse three times, Kat, the Zombie Apocalypse definitely begins.

So I have to go through all my songs, and delete two in every three songs.  Then find that I deleted the working copy and NOT the one I want to listen to, so I have to purchase the LP again from Itunes....  oh no, sorry, I can’t, because you SUSPENDED MY FORNICATING ACCOUNT IN FEBRUARY!

I had money stolen from it.  So I was rightly punished, banished from my own iTunes account and ignored.  Ignored by YOU Katie.  And now you won’t even talk to me.

I’m sick of you.  I get better treatment than that from my wife.  And you’re not my wife Katherine.  You might think you are, with your cold, surly distance, but you’re not.

Stop stealing my money, and then ignoring me.  You’re not all that smart you know. You’re software is an abortion of a program.

Do you think I WANT to use that hideous clunky piece of crap? No, I HAVE to, because I bought an Iphone.

I STILL don’t know how to plug it in and charge it up, without it deleting all my aps and Podcasts.

“There’s an option.....” no Katherine, NO option. Just don’t DO it unless I ask you o.k.?

Just CHARGE UP. I didn’t ASK you to delete 4 pages of things that make my commute 10% less goddamn miserable. You JUST DID IT.

And now I can’t buy them again because you’ve suspended my account!

So, here’s the deal Katie-pie, I’ve had enough of your petulant ignorance, we’re over. We’re through o.k.?

Once I am emancipated, I’m taking my things, and moving out.  The new playstation phone is out in March, and it’s been seductively swelling its beautiful, rounded bosom in my direction recently.

I won’t lie, I want to hold it and touch it, and caress its shiny ass.

I’m sure it won’t require me to have a phd in cock-knockery just to put the things I want onto it, and I’m sure it won’t steal my money and then ignore me like a ginger-headed step-child.

I thank you for the good times, it’s been fun, but it’s also been a colossal pain in the crutch and your broken promises of “customer service” have been too much to take.

Your’s faithfully or whatever
Simon Cullen"

Don't you just hate it?  Our rail services are getting more and more expensive whilst the service gets worse and worse.  This week, I came across a particularly unhelpful member of the East Coast on-board team and so I just had to put pen to paper....

East Coast Customer Relations

Freepost RSRJ-LJCX-GHS

Plymouth

PL4 6AB

The Cretin and the Coffee Trolley

Dear Customer Relations,

Last week, I had the misfortune of travelling on the morning East Coast train to Kings Cross.  It is something I have to do roughly every two weeks. 

I must have done something really awful in a past life.

Not long after departure, I trotted along to see Mrs. Buffet for my regular bacon toastie and coffee.  I believe you call this a ‘Megadeal’ as both can be purchased for a mouth-watering £4.75.  Quite what is ‘Mega’ about paying £4.75 for a re-heated slice of dead pig and a cup of imitation coffee escapes me but I always seem to get peckish around that time and I imagine you might object if I set up a camping stove on my table back at my seat.

As it happens, this trip was arranged at short notice and so I was unable to buy a discount off peak super saver megadeal rail ticket and had in fact paid £195.00[1] for the dubious privilege of being on the train.  It seems to me that at that price, the bacon toastie, the coffee and a full body massage should be included in the price but alas, they are not.

So, £199.75 worse off, I bounced my way back along the train to my seat carrying my little paper bag containing my slice of dead pig, a sachet of ketchup, 8 sachets of sugar[2] and what I believed to be a cup of coffee.  Unfortunately, when I removed the lid from the cup, I did not find coffee, but a very pale, vaguely brown and very transparent liquid that neither smelled nor tasted remotely of any popular hot drink. What it did taste of was absolutely nothing at all.  The bottom of the cup could be clearly seen through the liquid.

As I was sat some distance from the buffet, I decided that I simply couldn’t be bothered to make a second journey to see Mrs. Buffet.  I replaced the lid on the liquid and resigned myself to doing without a drink.

Imagine my delight therefore when, just seconds later, Mr. Trolley trundled his merry way into my carriage!  “Excuse me!” I said as he squeaked towards me, “Could you help me with my coffee?  Something appears to have gone wrong with the machine in the buffet car”.

I showed him the almost clear liquid.

He explained that there isn’t a machine any more.  These days, Mrs. Buffet tears open a sachet of instant coffee, pours the contents in a cup and then adds hot[3] water.  He wearily waved a coffee sachet to illustrate his explanation.

“Oh” I said. “Could I possibly have another sachet then so that my coffee tastes of coffee?”

“No”, he said.

“Pardon?” I said.

“No.  I’ll sell you another cup if you like”

“No, I don’t like, because I have already paid for a cup of coffee and the second one might be as bad as this one anyway”

“Then take the one you’ve got back to the buffet”

“Thank you for being so unbelievably helpful” I said (sarcastically, and rather loudly so the rest of the carriage could hear).

And with that, Mr. Trolley wandered off to piss off some more passengers. 

Now I appreciate that working for an operator of last resort after their previous employer lost its franchise to operate the East Coast Main Line must be a tad depressing, especially as the staff once served excellent full English breakfasts and are now reduced to reheating slices of dead pig and tearing open sachets of excruciatingly crap coffee, but that is no excuse for being a miserable, unhelpful cretin.

So that you can identify the miserable, unhelpful cretin in question, the train was the [too much information is a bad thing] on Thursday 27^th October 2011.  He was the guy with the trolley.

You can then tell him that he should think of the consequences before he behaves like that towards a customer – especially when the customer was polite, and had a genuine problem.  That customer might:

a)       Write a letter of complaint

b)      Be the owner of a consumer website

c)       Publish the letter online

d)      Post it to Facebook pages with over a million users

You can tell him that some days; if you get out of bed on the wrong side, the best thing to do is to climb straight back between the sheets - and stay there.

Yours faithfully,

Anthony

PS  Could you also please ask your guards/train managers to stop beginning the “Thank you for putting up with East Coast” message on arrival at Kings Cross with the words: “On behalf of myself….”

It makes them sound like they’re suffering from schizophrenia.

We seem to be developing a bit of a cat theme this month so I had to feature this letter from www.mummybarrow.com  It seems that a friend of Mummy Barrow residing in the English town of Mansfield had been having a bit of a problem with cats using the back yard of her rented property as a giant cat litter tray.  It appears that the landlady was in state of denial. The tenant was at the end of her tether however - as you will see from this amazing rant. 

Needless to say, the names and addresses have been changed so I don't get sued.

Dear Ms Landlady,

Re: Public Health Hazard 8 Chipperfield Street, Macclesfield

  1. If your “not of the opinion” that the piles of excrement appearing nightly in my enclosed back yard are being produced by the cats I’ve seen jumping over the walls, what the hell kind of animal do you suggest is climbing the walls and defecating freely all around my back door?  Are you suggesting I’m using the yard as a toilet?  Because believe me, Ms Landlady, there have only been me and a load of cats in that back yard in the past 3 months.

Well, they look like cats. Maybe I’m wrong and they’re giraffes.

2. You say you’re “not of the opinion” that the piles of excrement appearing nightly in my back yard are being produced by the cats I’ve seen jumping over the walls – so bloody what?!  Do you think I’m bothered what kind of animal is crapping in my yard?  I don’t care if it’s cats, aardvarks, or bloody sugar-gliders:

There is CRAP in my yard, Ms Landlady – faeces, excrement, filth, poo.

It’s not just because I think it's cat shit that I’m leaving, it’s because it’s shit, full stop.  It’s not a question of discrimination – I don’t like any kind of faeces outside my kitchen.  I don’t like the flies or the smell or the fact that I’ve got to shovel shit every morning.

3. There is excrement in my yard. There is also an old hand shovel which someone left propped up against the wall where the majority of the faeces are left.  Hmm, strange.

4. You seem to have a problem understanding English, Miss Landlady.  Let me help you:

The back yard of 8 Chipperfield Street is full of bis.  I don’t like it, irrespective of whether it's cats or camels producing it.  Its offensive and it’s a health hazard. 

I am leaving 8 Chipperfield Street. I am terminating my tenancy as of 17th November. You can keep the security deposit -- that’s how filthy that bloody house is.

Your firm is a total disgrace.

Don’t bother sending anyone out to tell me it’s not cat dirt it’s actually an exotic kind of moss falling off the roof every night:  I don’t live there any more. 

And don’t you dare ever tell me I’m a liar when I say there’s cat crap in the back yard of that house because I’d be more than willing to send you a sample.  For now, I’ll just send you a gallery of photographs of the filth I’ve had to live in because of your firm.  You can indulge yourself making up what kind of animals you imagine have produced the various turds, and then try and explain to the new tenants why they should be pleased because – hey.....

....at least it’s not cat crap!

You stupid bloody woman!

The keys will be returned to you on 17th November.  If you still don’t understand why, get someone to read this letter to you v e r y  s l o w l y.

Enough is enough!

N Tenant.

I hadn't written any mischief letters for a while so I thought it was high time I did.  When the cat threw up all over the kitchen again this week, I had an idea....

Customer Relations Department
Mars Petcare UK
Registered Office
3D Dundee Road
Slough
Berkshire SL1 4LG

Dear Customer Relations,

Whiskas and Feline Eating Disorders

I have a cat called Nahla (I’d rather have a dog but cats bury their own poo in the garden – usually someone else’s - which is a lot better than picking up smelly poos and putting them in a bin). She’s named after the lioness in the Lion King. She doesn’t look much like a lion, in fact she looks like a tiger that shrank in the wash because she’s small and stripy, but she seems to like the name.

She also likes Whiskas ‘Oh So Meaty’ in Jelly. In fact, she likes Whiskas so much that she gets very stroppy when we give her crunchy cat food which the vet says we have to on account of her gum disease. Her favourite Whiskas is the poultry selection. She doesn’t like the ‘Oh So Fishy’ ones – probably because we live a long way from the sea.

Anyway, I am beginning to get a little worried about Nahla because she keeps being sick after she has eaten her Whiskas. Unfortunately, she seems to prefer to throw up in the house instead of in other people’s gardens. I don’t particularly like the look or smell of Whiskas when it’s fresh from the pouch. When it’s been inside a cat for ten minutes, it’s not nice at all!
I think she is displaying a lot of the classic symptoms of Bulimia.

I have looked up Bulimia on the NHS website and it says that low self esteem could be a major factor. Nahla is much smaller than all the other cats in the neighbourhood and her tummy is a bit ‘saggy’ since she had kittens when she was very young. I suspect that she is being bullied. She is also adopted (she was already over a year old when she came to us) so perhaps she is insecure.

As you are clearly very expert in the area of feline nutrition, I was hoping that you may be able to offer some advice.

Yours hopefully,

Anthony

Full marks to Mars Petcare, and in particular, to Susan Hendy from their Customer Care Team.  She was soon back to me with a very helpful reply:

Naturally, I'm obliged to serve another volley now that I know I have someone to play with....

Watch this space.