You blew it. All of you. You did. And you. And you. You as well. Not to mention you. Especially you. I gave you a chance and you shagged it up with all the grace of a ski-jumping cow. I hope you're happy.
It seems that practically ever interaction I've had with another human being over the past few weeks has been a shamefully tragi-comic episode of bum-witted incompetence and weapons grade ignorance. My faith in humanity as nature's last word, which was always shaky at best, has now been utterly wiped from the face of the Earth. I now hold you all in the same regard that a whale has for krill.
For example, I've had a front row seat for my girlfriend's recent battle to get her insurance company to pay-out for her car that got written off in a crash on the M6. In this situation, as I'm sure most of you know, the insurers- who you have to dilligently pay money to every month becuase a) you want to guarantee that you always have a mode of transport and b) it's the law- decide on the value of the car, give you the money for it, then you go and buy yourself a nice new motor. It's a bit like the Cosa Nostra, only enshrined in an Act of Parliament and with nicer letterheads.
Well to cut a long story short, the last two months has seen Amy's insurers not only get the value of the car spectacularly wrong when making their first three offers- which is kind of par for the course as they have an engrained policy of trying to rip you off- but they also managed to accidentally steal her car from the accident recovery firm before losing all the contents of said vehicle apart from an ice scraper in the shape of a penguin, and then in a magnificent coup-de-grace of maverick idiocy they failed to successfully send a single letter to our flat in five attempts but instead removed the stereo from the car and posted that to Amy instead. At the end of the bemused phone call Amy made in order to ask why she was now in receipt of the car stereo but no official paperwork she was asked if she was interested in any of the company's personal finance deals- as if the credit crunch would be aided by having loans doled by the sort of people who can't tell the difference between pieces of paper and a CD player. This made us mad.
The insurance company in question is AA Insurance and I can state that you should avoid them like a plague chutney. They are staffed exclusively by cock-wits. I can confidently say that because, on past form, if they try to sue me, the whole process will stretch out for aeons and eventually all I'll end up with is no legal documentation whatsoever and a new radio for my Saxo in the post.
While all this was taking place, I was busy relaising that Blackburn College have failed to pay me for any of the work I did for them since my PGCE course finished and have in fact failed to keep any record of my existence within the institution. Luckily, they have professionally responded to my requests to know what is going on by blaming each other. calling me a fantasist and a liar and then studiously ignoring my e-mails and phone calls. While the fuckwit who caused this mess is probably on their summer holidays somewhere, luxuriating on golden sands with paddling pool sized cocktails while chatting up Amazonian locals of Olympian sexual prowess, I as the innocent party am out cash and accruing bank charges left right and centre. This makes me mad.
The fucker in question works for Blackburn College's Payroll Department, which is populated entirely by chuff-flaps of the highest order. I can confidently say that because, if they try to sue me, the worst that'll happen is that they'll forget entirely to send the writ out in the post, then tell me I never said these things in the first place and then claim I don't even exist.
To get away from all this trouble with colleges and insurers, Amy's parents kindly took the two of us to York for a weekend- whereupon we discovered a beautiful city over-run with tourists getting completely lost (hint: there's TWO rivers running through the city), bar staff who couldn't remember orders greater than 2 drinks, a night porter who didn't tkae breakfast orders off the fill-in-your-own hanging door-signs because he was asleep and 17 year-old 'actors' who deliver their performances as various gruesome characters from York's history with all the jaded, listless emotional intensity of two Koala bears having a can't-be-fucking-arsed contest. This made me mad.
I came to the conclusion that every last person in the city of York is an incompetent yokel of no confirmed ability. I can confidently say that because, if they try to sue me, they'll probably lose their way to their solicitors, only be able to remember two of things I accused the people of their city had done, then fall asleep in the meeting before finding themselves completely un-arsed to turn up to court.
Amy's parents gave us a lift home from York to their house where I'd parked my car at the start of the weekend. I was seething for the enitre journey- my eyes burning with pure white hatred for the sheer shitness of my fellow man (and woman). The people I'd encountered over the previous couple of months had skewed my outlook so much I genuinely believed that every single person on the planet apart from me was a diamond-strength fuck-clump for whom getting out of bed without serious injury was an achievement on par with building the Pyramids. You're all idiots, I thought.
Then I realised I'd lost my car keys.
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