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» Waste of money

Motorcycle insurance
A bit of background: I have a motorcycle, it's shit. Good when it works but constantly falls apart/breaks/fucks up and I've spent more repairing it than the - admittedly, cheap - £600 I spent on it in the past 18 months or so.

So when it came to the time of insurance renewal, I decided not to get any more insurance and just sell the fucker. Insurance automatically renewed, lots of kerfuffle resulting in me having to pay the best part of a hundred quid to cancel a policy I didn't want in the first place.

I wrote a letter.


======================================================================

Dear Sir/Madam

Find enclosed a cheque for the amount of £96.75 which is now apparently a debt that I owe to your company, *** insurance. If you recall, my insurance policy for a silver Honda CB600F (1998 model, registration S*** ***) expired on August 19. I had no intention of renewing my policy for several reasons; I could not afford the upkeep of the vehicle and the extensive repairs that had to be made to the radiator. My plan was to keep the motorcycle off-road until I could sell it and thus I did not need to be insured for driving.

However, you saw fit to automatically renew my insurance policy – I understand that this must be terribly convenient for those short-sighted individuals who wish to blindly carry on insuring their vehicle under the same policy without searching for a better deal every twelve months. Unfortunately I am not one of those individuals and even if I had intended to continue making use of my motorcycle and renewing an insurance policy I would be using the wonderful world of price comparison websites in order to find a better deal – if one exists – than offered by *** insurance.

To rub salt in the wound you then decided that in order to cancel my insurance policy – if you cannot remember the last paragraph please note that I did not want the policy renewed in the first place – I would have to pay you £60.00. According to one of your phone staff, a letter and e-mail were sent stating that you would renew my insurance automatically unless I said otherwise. I received no such letter and was informed that the e-mail may have ended up in my (automatically deleted) spam/junk mail folder. I hope that you use my £96.75 in order to hire someone who can better construct your e-mails so they bear less resemblance to advertisements for Viagra, Trojan horse viruses, penis extensions and hot girls from my area.

Your insistence that unless I tell you not to do something, you are allowed to do it, has stunning implications in the legal world for date rape cases especially. Please don’t think I’m being facetious; this is actually an accurate analogy – you are raping my bank account and since my cries of “NO GOD PLEASE STOP OH NO STOP ARGH” cannot be heard by your deaf ears, it is consensual in your eyes. Trust me, I’m very good at metaphors and this one really works.

When I complained about this you offered me the deceptively good deal of being able to reduce my next policy with *** by £60.00 and thus break even on the debacle. I use the phrase “deceptively” because this so-called solution involves me once again taking out an insurance policy with your company which seems like a terrible idea given the utter ineptitude and lack of sympathy you have displayed towards the situation in question. Since then, you have decided to add a payment of £36.75 for no stated reason to bring the total amount owed to £96.75, which you will find in the enclosed cheque.

Please ignore the drawings of penises and repeated curse words written on the cheque – you will find that these do not affect your ability to cash the tender but it will provide me amusement to imagine one of your incompetent and idiotic employees attempting to do so.

Regards,


Matthew Perry


P.S. : I write this extensive letter in the small hope that an *** employee with half a brain will read it and realise that this £96.75 (which represents almost a quarter of my next paycheque) is an unnecessary and borderline criminal charge before removing the charges and returning the phallus-filled cheque.

P.P.S. : I am a journalist and I work for several publications and websites. Should this letter and/or the story of your abusive cheating policy regarding insurance renewal somehow find its way to print or online publication the resulting fallout could potentially cost *** more than £96.75. This may be worth considering.


(Fri 1st Oct 2010, 16:21, More)

» Pet Peeves

Here's some actual stuff
There are several issues I would like to address but I don’t have strong enough views on them each to fill a post and make it interesting, so I’ll consolidate all my existing complaints into one outstanding rant.

Americans, please stop with this sickening and overt patriotism. Your country has done fairly well for itself economically but please stop acting like Vietnam never happened and you’re all walking around with bald eagles tattooed on your star-spangled twelve-inch cocks. It is my personal opinion that Britain is in fact the best country in the world, however I don’t feel the need to go bragging about it- I can sit silently smug in a land of good food, strong currency and well-observed tradition without having to compensate for my insecurities by storming into random third-world countries, shitting all over them then pulling out around the time they start wondering how the fuck they’re going to sort out that mess. ... ... Well, yes, point taken, but we only did it because you did!

Religious people, you’re all quite clearly a bunch of raving lunatics. If I had my way religion would be banned and the world would be a nicer place- the World Trade Centres would still be standing, psychotic fundamentalists wouldn’t shout at me from podiums on the street and Hitler would have a far better historical reputation. The fact that you continue to argue against sound scientific reasoning with half-assed arguments and illogical bullshit simply furthers the notion that you’re barking mad. If someone hears aliens in their teeth they get locked up, but if several million people talk to their imaginary friend the Jewish zombie who was his own father in order to remove an evil from their soul that’s there because the rib-woman ate a magic apple, that’s perfectly normal- encouraged, even. Clearly, there’s not only safety but sanity in numbers.

Old people, I appreciate that in your twilight years you deserve a degree of respect and priority but please don’t act like it’s your God-given right to claim seats on buses, barge ahead in queues and just generally act like total wankers. At the end of the day it’s my choice whether or not I would like to give up a seat for you on the bus and you have no authority whatsoever to get pissy with me if you can’t sit down for a pathetic little journey you probably could have walked in the time it took to wait for a bus.

People who do unnecessary things, I must insist you stop this immediately. Doing so slows down the efficiency of everything around you and therefore the world. The man who comes daily into my coffee shop and asks for “a cup of fresh orange juice” would save around six minutes a year if he simply asked for orange juice. I’m not going to serve it to him inside a hollowed out oxen scrotum six weeks out of date so he doesn’t need to specify freshness nor mode of containment. And people who wait at bus stops where there is only one bus that services that particular stop- don’t bother flagging the bus. Despite the fact that the driver probably came into this country curled up in the back of a lorry he has intelligence enough to work out why you are standing at a bus stop.

People too easily offended- piss off, cunts. Get off that high horse of yours and realise that a simple four letter word or a flash of thigh before seven p.m. will not cause your children to grow up into slavering sex-fiends who steal women’s underwear before masturbating in their bras and strangling them during coitus. They turn out like that because you probably bathed them until they were fifteen, you possessive old cow. I think the world would be a better place if there were no “bleeps” or censorship on TV. If the programme is called Katy’s Wild Nipple Tassel Orgy and the warning beforehand says that the show contains sexual scenes, strong language and scenes of drug use then don’t watch it. If you do, don’t be surprised when your delicate sensibilities are offended the minute a couple are shown in the same bed or the image of a family eating without saying grace is broadcast. Oh yes, this post contains frequent swearing and strong points of view that may clash with your mid-century, Church of England, English-not-British, “tea is served at seven, Charles” view. So fuck off if you don’t like it.

Anti-Iraq protestors, please give it up. Yes, the US went in on a bunch of lies and yes, they’ve totally ballsed it up over there, but let’s take the Magnus Magnusson approach, shall we? We’ve started so we’ll finish. Even if your stoned, liberal hippie brains can’t accept this then please don’t go down London waving your hand-made, green, organic signs like they’ll make a difference. The following conversation will never take place at 10 Downing Street:

“Prime Minister, there appear to be a few dozen unwashed students outside asking you to pull out of Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“Och aye tha noo! We’d best be doin’ that then, crivens!”

People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals- you’re all a bunch of fucking nutcases. Veganism is impractical and nutritionally unsound, animals are not equal to humans and the natural, Darwinist order of the food chain demands we eat them. And they taste fucking good too, and yes, a lot of them also make excellent clothes.

St. Maddy lovers*- she is one little girl who went missing. It’s tragic, and it should have been a one-week story. But the tabloids have pounced on this like rapists on a nun and they’re sodomising and face-fucking the life out of it. Ashia Jabbi, aged 2; Ying Lee, aged 4; Benjamin Marsh, aged 3; Dorothy Powell, aged 9… Oh, sorry. They’re just a few of the children who have gone missing since May and not been widely reported. OK, for Ashia and Ying that would be normal in Western media but Benjamin and Dorothy are white!

*This was originally written for my blog in September 2007 at the height of the furore.
(Thu 1st May 2008, 22:17, More)

» Pet Peeves

People posting "first"
and nothing else.
(Thu 1st May 2008, 22:14, More)

» Festivals

Reading Festival, baked as a kite
Time, alcohol, marijuana and the similarly awesome experience of the past four years have dulled my ol’ noggin and I can’t remember which year this occurred at. I want to say 2006.

In what has become a tradition for me at Reading festival, I took some time on the first night to get completely lost around the campsites when I was pissed and befriend some randoms. If you’re there this year and some tall cunt in glasses called Matt sits with you and shoots the shit, give me a beer. Cheers.

Anyway, I sat with some randoms, none of whom I can now remember, and we drank and talked and listened to music and laughed, as you do at Reading. After some time a dreadlocked individual came bearing gifts – Marijuana Cookies, £2 each or £5 for three. He assured me that they were made with über-strong skunk.

“Bollocks,” thought I, handing him a fiver. Aided by beer munchies I devoured the lot and had half of someone else’s. Having said my goodbyes, I left about 30 minutes after this and figured, not feeling high at all, that I’d been conned. Ah well, I’ve lost a fiver on worse things. I met up with my mates and Iain revealed that he, too, had bought and eaten three cookies from this guy. Small world, thought I. “Fancy a burger,” slurred I.

So Iain and I, beers in hand, meandered off, pissed as farts. A glorious row of food vans were available to us and we happened to go before the first to get a burger and chips. Easy enough, no?

Now, the thing is with eating Mary J – it’s very different to a smoke. When you smoke it you get the hit pretty instantly. When you eat it, it takes about an hour or more but it hits about four times harder. Iain and I were unaware of this fact and were really only just starting our experience of illicit herbs – we were lightweights.

Iain attempted his order: “Alright mate. Can I get a… haha, sorry. Can I get a cheeseburger an- hahahaha, hahaha. Fuck, hahaha, sorry, can I get that and hahahahahahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Between gales of laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks, he waved me on to take his place in the queue as he held his sides and struggled to stand through hysterical belly laughs. I was already laughing at this when it struck me.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Can you get me a cheeseburger with chips and HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

For a good few minutes the patient burger vendor attempted to retrieve this information from our drug-addled brains but every time we went to speak, nothing emerged but the laugh. It was the hardest I have ever laughed. Occasionally Iain would calm down and attempt to order for both of us before the sight of me creasing up would set him off again and vice versa.

Eventually we gave up and took a breather. We calmed down and went to the next vendor – no fucking way were we going back to the guy we’d just died in front of.

“Hi mate, I’d like a hot dog and a oh haha fuck hahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

We spent an hour making our way down every single food van with breathers in between. Every time we thought we’d conquered it, the laugh attacked again. Eventually it turned into “hi mat-HAHAHAHAHA, haha, hahahaha just forget it, hahahahaHAHAHAHA!”

When it wore off we each got a giant Yorkshire Pudding. It were mint.
(Fri 5th Jun 2009, 0:37, More)

» School Days

The Battle of Northwood Fields
History remembers many great and terrible days. These specks of sand in the hourglass of time and space are highlighted by bloodshed and pain; jubilation and victory. They are the great battles of our time.

The January of 2005 had wrapped its frosty claws around Northwood High School. The breath of students hung in the air before dissipating into the icy winds. A sheen of cold covered every exposed surface, and heavy snow had fallen upon the school fields.

One fateful day in January, the bell sounded its ringing cry across the grounds, signalling the start of lunch. Little did anyone know that today the bell was not a timekeeper; it was a signal of war.

You may have seen snowball fights, oh yes. But this… this was a snowball battle of epic proportions. Veterans of the day, now at University or in full-time jobs, will wake up screaming with cold sweat soaking their shaking bones. You don’t know, man. You don’t know because you weren’t there!

It began innocently enough. Myself and my fellows, now in our tenth year of education, were confident of waging a campaign to be reckoned with. There were plenty of chavs in the years below that we’d relish striking down with a compacted ball of arctic fury – and so it began.

Iain led the first charge, directly at a particularly loathsome specimen of happy-slapping, train-tagging, Lambrini-drinking inbred little pissweasel. At the head of a mighty arrow, he struck. Direct hit! Next came myself, Petley and Martin. Three further strikes on the thuggish cretin. Bringing up the rear were Egghead and James, and two more blows rained hell upon him.

Suffice to say, it escalated. No sooner was our merry band of six happily running amok through playing schoolchildren than we found ourselves the head of a vast army. We were joined by dozens of others throughout Year 10 as we literally took on the school.

A stroll through the battlefield on our side would tell you the extent of the war effort. At the front lines, Iain and others would lead sorties into the chav army (who numbered now in their hundreds). In the middle the long range throwers and the pinpoint snipers would be providing covering fire, and at the rear the girls were gathering snow and constructing some truly monstrous snowballs.

As for the individual conflicts within the battle, there are too many tales to tell. Perhaps the epic defence of Tom Gibb’s mother, who was brazenly insulted by a chav before the aforementioned boy was pelted with snowballs behind enemy lines. We surged forth to free our beleaguered comrade and defend the honour of Mrs Gibb.

Or there was the point where James saved my life. Fresh from a sortie, I retreated from no mans’ land to our lines. As I turned to observe the left flank all I saw was a snowball explode less than an inch from my nose as James leapt forward to punch it from the air. We looked at each other, nodded, then returned to battle.

At one point, Iain was struck from behind by the very same chav we first bombarded. As his rage built he let out a great bellow and a rather racist expletive. Fighting ceased. The armies came forth and opened a circle from whence the chav leader, a hulking great brute of a boy with the combined IQ of a sprout and a cabbage, stepped forward. Iain met him as the once-warring armies watched. A truce was called, an apology was made, and the men backed off. Then, to war once more.

I remember the end most of all. Striding through the battlefield, once white with a sheet of snow, it had been raped for ammunition until barely the sludge remained. All sides were exhausted as we stood on the field, a full ten minutes after the end of lunch. I turned to Martin, observing that no-one had eaten.
“Matt,” he said to me sagely. “In war, there is no lunch. Only the bitter taste of defeat.”
I observed the field. Our army was back to the core group plus some loyal soldiers – less than a dozen. Meanwhile, over thirty chavs stood off, throwing missiles of mud and sludge and ice. I went to Iain: “We have to end this,” I said. And that was when we took our glory.

“CHARGE!” Iain cried, and our motley band of followers ran toward the chav army, bending down and scooping up anything you could throw. I remember clearly the nervous ripple in their ranks as they realised “fucking hell, these crazy cunts are going to run us down!”

They broke and scattered. One of my fondest memories is of us charging them down, pure ecstasy on our faces as they ran for dear life. Scrambling over their stumbled comrades to escape, they fled up the stairs and into the building like rats from a sinking ship.

It was fucking beautiful.
(Fri 30th Jan 2009, 2:17, More)
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