The Angry Making Thing

Hey you. Do you like getting angry? Or are you a more patient human being than I could ever hope to be? Well lets put that patience to the absolute limits or make you get so angry you punch your own face, with my newly discovered ‘most angry making thing ever.’ What I’m about to tell you, wasted an hour and 20 minutes of my life yesterday and brought me to levels of frustration where I had shouted so much at nothing that I just gave up and had to sit down for 15 minutes being sad. I’ve been having problems with the internet all week. Not the sort of problems you might expect with it such as pop ups, getting an error 404 message or that I don’t yet have a wikipedia page that states that I am indeed a small deity. No I mean proper, will not connect to anything every 15 minutes or so type problems. So I did what anyone without a clue would do and freaked out a bit as suddenly all my possibilities of both communication and procrastination had died. Eventually after running around and contemplating phoning people or writing letters to them and possibly then reading a book, I called my broadband providers, the ever helpful O2. I’d like to point out at this point in the blog, that none of what follows is their fault. No, sadly, its all my own or my flat’s undoing. So I chatted to a man with a very strong Glaswegian accent for some time. Admittedly, for longer than I should have done as his accent was so strong I had to get him to repeat many things as it just sounded like he was shouting a lot. Turns out he was shouting a bit as I was being stupid. Eventually he told me to unscrew the phone socket in the wall to use the ‘test socket’ or something like that to plug my router in. Yes I know, blah blah techy blah. I made the man wait on the phone for ages as I had no clue where are screwdrivers were to do such things. His repeated sighing down the phone made me think that at this point he had deemed me completely useless. What sort of a man doesn’t know where his screwdrivers are? A non-man, that’s who. A real one, proper man man, would always know where all his tools are. Just incase, you know for example, the world is attacked by flat pack furniture, or a series of puzzles involving different screws and holes to put those screws in. Maybe thanks to the ozone layer falling over the whole world starts to tilt and only a proper man with a spirit level can sort things out.

Eventually I found our screwdrivers. They were where Layla had put them. I felt weak, I apologised to the man from O2 who wanted nothing more than for me to just give up. He talked me through it, I unscrewed the phone socket and as I did I had completely forgotten I was using the landline that was plugged into the same socket and I got cut off. I am a stupid stupid fool. I spent 20 minutes on hold trying to call back using my mobile and the phone was answered by another Scottish person but luckily one that could speak words and was less angry. We both laughed at my idiocy from the previous call and he assured me I was not the only one who had done that. What he didn’t say was that they probably make a list in the office of exactly who does that and what level of mega-div they all are. So we talked through the process again he told me to go to the router and as I carried my mobile over to where it is I felt like it would all be ok and my day could continue. But no, for I was foiled again as the part of our flat where the router is (the left hand corner of our bedroom) is also the exact area where my mobile has absolutely no reception at all. So, like some sort of really horrible sick sick joke I was cut off again. I’m sure that this sort of trick will be played on an unsuspecting victim in the next Saw film. Pulling a key out of your own eye is nothing compared to this sort of hell. This merry game continued another 3 times as I would call up using one phone or another and neither of them would let me stay on the line long enough to fix the internet. Its at times like these I truly believe that somewhere out there, there is a higher power. A higher wise being who is responsible for this sort of shit. A god called Sod, and his law is evident. Unlike other gods, whose miracles and beards are dubious, Sod’s abilities happen on regular occasion. Americans call him Murphy’s, because they think he looks like an Irish bitter. He doesn’t. He looks like an arsehole.

Eventually I gave up. Robert The Bruce may have tried tried and tried again, but it no doubt made him really bloody angry and that’s why his descendant was shitty to me on the phone. No more trying for me as I knew self harm would just come next, or I’d drop kick one of the cats. So it was best to accept defeat and leave it be. Oddly today, after almost smashing up my own kitchen yesterday and kicking in my phone system, the internet seems to be working fine today. Ha bloody ha. I wonder if this is O2’s special little ‘play a trick on T’ day where, as they control my mobile reception and internet, they would band about control over both to make me go insane as payment for the amount of times I call them up confused about things. Or more possibly for those annoying emails I sent saying things like ‘I really like O2, but I never got to see the prequel O1. Could you tell me how to get hold of it on Blu-Ray?’ and so forth.

Last night’s We Need Answers was another good one, although a tad stressful at times because Aggie McKenzie is a loon. FACT. The WNA team dealt with her very well though and I gave a man a pumpkin so I enjoyed myself. And no, that’s not a euphemism. It was an actual pumpkin. Which is also a type of squash as I learnt yesterday. So there you go.