My excuse.........
Posted: Thu Apr 16, 2009 6:34 am
Some of the more intellectualy aware dwellers in the belly of the beast that is FG may have noticed – no doubt with great delight – that I have been conspicuously not here lately. This was due to my computer dying last month. Now, this death of a computer was not of the normal sort, there was no crashing involved. The bloody thing just wouldn't switch on. No lights, no funny noises no nothing.
Now Iwas just about to take the bloody thing (herein after referred to as TBT) outside and introduce it to my favourite gardening implement - a 10lb lumphammer when it hit me in a blaze of light, I remembered TBT was still under warranty!! (Is that allowed?)
As TBT was thusly rendered (maybe) fixable at no cost to myself and my pronounced lack of financial health, I gave up on my planned dismemberisation of the aforesaid computer and retired to phone the supplier of TBT. Whereupon myself entered upon a campaign of terror waged against the telephonic support of a certain manufracturers of computers. This campaign was long-lasting, frustrating and required the ingestion of beaucoup vin d'Ecosse (appellation côntrollée).
After much effort and extertion against the automated “telephone menu, consisting of much elevator “musicenlivened with little breaks for announcements of the usual type, you know, “Your custom is valuable to us (insert imprecation of choice) and “Our agents are fully engaged at the moment (engaged in what exactly?). Myself fought my way through to the really irritating If you wish to inquire about our products, Press 1, “If you wish to (insert wish), Press 2, right up to “If you wish to speak to a real live human being, Press 666 (and wait for the maniacal laughter) bit.
With the expenditure of much time, energy and swearies, myself eventually reached the dizzying heights of that magical and mythological holy of holies – the legendary “Help Desk. That which is manned (personed? minioned?) by acolytes of the tribes of PC. Those who follow the teachings of the anti-christ which is called by the name of Bill Gates. Going by the time it took to be reaching the aforesaid holy of holies, that place was somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy or maybe the Crab Nebula. To this real live (I think) acolyte, myself described the symptoms of the dead computer (i.e. no bloody workin) agreement was reached that TBT would be collected ASAP (it actually took six days), but collected it was.
It was agreed between myself and the possibly live acolyte that TBT would be returned to the manufracturer to be fixed and returned within the present millenium.
Next time I'm getting a bloody Mac.
Now Iwas just about to take the bloody thing (herein after referred to as TBT) outside and introduce it to my favourite gardening implement - a 10lb lumphammer when it hit me in a blaze of light, I remembered TBT was still under warranty!! (Is that allowed?)
As TBT was thusly rendered (maybe) fixable at no cost to myself and my pronounced lack of financial health, I gave up on my planned dismemberisation of the aforesaid computer and retired to phone the supplier of TBT. Whereupon myself entered upon a campaign of terror waged against the telephonic support of a certain manufracturers of computers. This campaign was long-lasting, frustrating and required the ingestion of beaucoup vin d'Ecosse (appellation côntrollée).
After much effort and extertion against the automated “telephone menu, consisting of much elevator “musicenlivened with little breaks for announcements of the usual type, you know, “Your custom is valuable to us (insert imprecation of choice) and “Our agents are fully engaged at the moment (engaged in what exactly?). Myself fought my way through to the really irritating If you wish to inquire about our products, Press 1, “If you wish to (insert wish), Press 2, right up to “If you wish to speak to a real live human being, Press 666 (and wait for the maniacal laughter) bit.
With the expenditure of much time, energy and swearies, myself eventually reached the dizzying heights of that magical and mythological holy of holies – the legendary “Help Desk. That which is manned (personed? minioned?) by acolytes of the tribes of PC. Those who follow the teachings of the anti-christ which is called by the name of Bill Gates. Going by the time it took to be reaching the aforesaid holy of holies, that place was somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy or maybe the Crab Nebula. To this real live (I think) acolyte, myself described the symptoms of the dead computer (i.e. no bloody workin) agreement was reached that TBT would be collected ASAP (it actually took six days), but collected it was.
It was agreed between myself and the possibly live acolyte that TBT would be returned to the manufracturer to be fixed and returned within the present millenium.
Next time I'm getting a bloody Mac.
