Dear Turkeys of the Grand Prix,
Speaking as a denizen of Albert Park, the week has been an almost unbearable joy. Not only were we blessed by our proximity to your hallowed motor event, but treated to the protracted (and awful) preparations! Living year-long beside a quiet, aesthetically verdant park would be an unlevened tedium comparable to bashing through The Genealogy of Trout in the original Russian; but with your stirling help, that possibility seems in no immediate danger of eventuating. Why, indeed, would anyone want access to the bike path, lake, tennis courts, gym, playground equipment, sporting fields or ovals at any time - what right, sirs, have we to expect such freehold at all? The monotony of grass being so constantly, drably green would, I'm sure, weigh heavily on our collective optic nerves, but thanks to the necessity of ripping up the turf and replacing it with asphalt, rubble, gorgeous white pebbles and vomit for what essentially becomes six months of every twelve, such affront has never been offered throughout our residency in the suburb.
This is to say nothing of the white-and-orange roadblocks, which, apart from soundly frustrating local traffic, have contributed further danger to a perilous six-way, thirteen-lane intersection. I was particularly impressed by the bus service promising a direct route from the Grand Prix to Crown Casino - a classy advertisment utterly in keeping with the calibre of the event, and one which at least afforded a laugh.
I could waste further wordage discussing the sonics - background noise reminiscent of the largest mosquito known to man being cracked back and forth on the end of a whip - but here, at least, my argument is hampered by genuine delight at the FA18 jets. Despite their ability two years running to set off every car alarm in the street, frighten our cats into hours of terrified hiding and generally make the entire neighbourhood bleed from the ears, there is just a tiny thrill in watching them fly overhead.
Perhaps, then, in organising next year's event, you might consider scrapping all land-based motoring entirely. Leave the park alone: scientifically-minded bystanders are curious to see whether or not, in the absence of a major annual reconstruction and demolition, the grass might turn some other colour than brown. You might get on the bell to the airforce and ask for a jet or three - everything would be over in 15 minutes, nobody would have to pay for seating, and the state might possibly not make a loss. Again.
Or you could crash a handful of overheated, shark-shaped, suspension-free cars into concrete blocks and insure against Death By Fireball.
Yours insincerely,
The SheGeek
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Vodafone
Dear Turkeys At Vodafone,
Thank you for making your customer hotline such an impenetrable labryinth of misinformation! Not only have you successfuly produced an internet product which doesn't work on Windows XP, but you've also managed to avoid any mention of this fact during purchase and set-up. After three conescutive error messages informed me that the failed install was due to my lack of administrator privileges for a different version of XP than the one I was, in fact, running, I was forced to call your technical services number. What a pleasure it was to hear your automated voice system introduce itself as Lara - and a further joy, ten minutes later, to be given three obscure options, none of which related to my product! I was truly impressed by the need to navigate a five-minute spiel of detailed, irrelevant talking (ironically prompted by the "more information" request) before the correct option was, begrudgingly, offered.
Vodafone Turkeys, you had already satisfied my expectations of corporate customer service, so believe me when I say that the two hours of excruciating difficulty which followed were a genuine bonus. When the first call centre employee I spoke with informed me that the solution was freely available via download from our other computer, my suspicions should have been raised. Alas, the promised Version 7 of your installation software (as opposed to Version 9.1, which came on the CD) was not to be found on your website, a treachery foretold by the Book of Daniel. Instead, I had to call back - a process which, in and of itself, took 40 minutes, as Lara cheerfully informed me no less than three consecutive times that your actual helpline was experiencing technical difficulties, difficulties apparently so severe that I was instructed to hang up (or, if I stayed on the line, was forcibly hung up on) and re-navigate your treacherous voice prompt system.
Your second employee - if, indeed, he was not an altogether more fiendish variety of name-touting, AI obfuscation - told me that Version 7 had, in fact, been removed from your website the day before, and that Version 9.2, which had been uploaded in its place, would do the trick. Oh, my foolishness on hanging up that phone! The almost unbearable optimisim, nay, naivete, which lead me to discount past experience as a means of gauging future action! For, as you may have guessed, Version 9.2 did not install your software on my computer, and another forty minutes was lost trying to re-establish contact with a human being, Lara having proved, by this point, a fairly aggravating substitute, her chirpy tones insufficient to the task of conveying your continued technological turmoil.
When, foaming at the mouth during the self-administration of a rabies shot, I finally reached a third employee and was treated to an encore rendition of The Magical Version 7, my tone became uncustomarily stern. I informed the young lady in question that, much like unicorns or an honest politician, her panacea of choice did not exist; and that, like John Cleese's infamous parrot, assuming it had ever existed in the first place, it had by now ceased to be. Through gritted teeth, I coaxed her to stay on the line while verifying my tale of woe, at which point - bludgeoned into apology by the Giant Foam Bat of Truth - she took down my number and promised to call me back.
Half an hour passed. To the third employee's credit, Vodafone Turkeys (though certainly not yours) she did call back. I had two options, it became clear: either download the installer in German from the one site still offering it, or buy a new computer. All things considered, I hung up the phone, punched the wall for several minutes, cast some runes, and opted for the latter. I now have a shiny new laptop, which - true to your ancient legends - installed the software without a hitch. Birthday present or not, however, I believe that $1,470 is just a wee bit steep for an install fix.
Yours most insincerrely,
The SheGeek
Thank you for making your customer hotline such an impenetrable labryinth of misinformation! Not only have you successfuly produced an internet product which doesn't work on Windows XP, but you've also managed to avoid any mention of this fact during purchase and set-up. After three conescutive error messages informed me that the failed install was due to my lack of administrator privileges for a different version of XP than the one I was, in fact, running, I was forced to call your technical services number. What a pleasure it was to hear your automated voice system introduce itself as Lara - and a further joy, ten minutes later, to be given three obscure options, none of which related to my product! I was truly impressed by the need to navigate a five-minute spiel of detailed, irrelevant talking (ironically prompted by the "more information" request) before the correct option was, begrudgingly, offered.
Vodafone Turkeys, you had already satisfied my expectations of corporate customer service, so believe me when I say that the two hours of excruciating difficulty which followed were a genuine bonus. When the first call centre employee I spoke with informed me that the solution was freely available via download from our other computer, my suspicions should have been raised. Alas, the promised Version 7 of your installation software (as opposed to Version 9.1, which came on the CD) was not to be found on your website, a treachery foretold by the Book of Daniel. Instead, I had to call back - a process which, in and of itself, took 40 minutes, as Lara cheerfully informed me no less than three consecutive times that your actual helpline was experiencing technical difficulties, difficulties apparently so severe that I was instructed to hang up (or, if I stayed on the line, was forcibly hung up on) and re-navigate your treacherous voice prompt system.
Your second employee - if, indeed, he was not an altogether more fiendish variety of name-touting, AI obfuscation - told me that Version 7 had, in fact, been removed from your website the day before, and that Version 9.2, which had been uploaded in its place, would do the trick. Oh, my foolishness on hanging up that phone! The almost unbearable optimisim, nay, naivete, which lead me to discount past experience as a means of gauging future action! For, as you may have guessed, Version 9.2 did not install your software on my computer, and another forty minutes was lost trying to re-establish contact with a human being, Lara having proved, by this point, a fairly aggravating substitute, her chirpy tones insufficient to the task of conveying your continued technological turmoil.
When, foaming at the mouth during the self-administration of a rabies shot, I finally reached a third employee and was treated to an encore rendition of The Magical Version 7, my tone became uncustomarily stern. I informed the young lady in question that, much like unicorns or an honest politician, her panacea of choice did not exist; and that, like John Cleese's infamous parrot, assuming it had ever existed in the first place, it had by now ceased to be. Through gritted teeth, I coaxed her to stay on the line while verifying my tale of woe, at which point - bludgeoned into apology by the Giant Foam Bat of Truth - she took down my number and promised to call me back.
Half an hour passed. To the third employee's credit, Vodafone Turkeys (though certainly not yours) she did call back. I had two options, it became clear: either download the installer in German from the one site still offering it, or buy a new computer. All things considered, I hung up the phone, punched the wall for several minutes, cast some runes, and opted for the latter. I now have a shiny new laptop, which - true to your ancient legends - installed the software without a hitch. Birthday present or not, however, I believe that $1,470 is just a wee bit steep for an install fix.
Yours most insincerrely,
The SheGeek
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