Corporate Incompetence

Before Christmas, regular readers may recall that I was sorting out a small office unit for my company. The business park I was going to be using was the Cariocca Enterprise Park in Manchester, who were offering the units at a very decent price. Well, I now know why they were so cheap.

Since I paid out my deposit and so on, and did all the paperwork, I’ve had nothing but hassle and incompetence from them. Despite multiple phone calls, they never even managed to provide me with a set of keys for the unit I was renting – in other words, I’ve still never set foot in the unit I’d paid for. Apparently this was my fault, for not chasing them up – we’ll try to ignore the weekly calls (which then became twice a week) that I made after the first fortnight. I’m now involved in a fight with the Manchester City Council Business Rates Unit, because they insist that I was in the office unit, and that any claim to the contrary is obviously me trying to get out of paying rates, rather than that the business centre are conning inefficient complacent cocksuckers.

In the end, I cancelled the agreement, and wanted a refund. God, I’m so naïve. Because apparently it was all my fault that I hadn’t gone in and kicked the everloving shit out of the receptionist ’til she gave me the keys collected the keys (which allegedly had been in reception all the time, and supposedly I was told this on repeated occasions – again, I must be hallucinating, and of course I’d leave keys there rather than picking them up for a unit I was renting) I was still liable for the rent payments, which instead were taken out of the deposit I’d paid.

I finally got the cheque yesterday – made out to my own name, rather than the company name – and for about a third of what it should’ve been. No compliments slip, no breakdown of what I’ve been ripped off charged for, no anything. Useless bastards. I’ve called them up today, asking for a breakdown of the charges (no problem – so why the blazing frak wasn’t it done anyway) and a letter confirming that the agreement is now terminated.

Oooh, we don’t normally do that.
Well, frankly I hope that this isn’t a normal situation, and as such I’d like it done and sent to me, because the hassle I’m now going through is entirely due to Cariocca.
Well, I’ll see what I can do.

The words “organise” “pissup” and “brewery” keep on coming into my head for some reason…

Arseing Twat

Today I shall mainly be writing PHP pages for the bits I’d forgotten on a couple of sites. Mainly for error-checking, and ensuring that essential data is actually present, rather than simply expected. Yes, I’d fallen into the classic trap of thinking that making it bloody obvious on the data entry screens would be enough to get people to enter the data. I was wrong – Oh, so wrong. *sigh*

By ‘eck

I’d slacked off on the log-file analysis a bit recently, but did do a report last night. It’s only got about a third of yesterday’s hits, but the current total since May ’02 when d4d™ started now stands at just over 145,000 page views, and a princely 1.7million hits. Not bad going for a little old personal site/blog. *grin*

Of course, the blog is the main part of the site, and it’s birthday isn’t until August 9th, so really d4d™ is only 18months old, rather than approaching two years. Honest.

Cuentral Trains – Part Two

(Part the First is below) The return journey was even worse. As I’ve ranted about before, train companies do maintenance on weekends, and replace the normal train service. With Buses. Other than apoplexy, the other main result of this is that everything takes a shedload longer to do – and that’s assuming that there’s anything resembling competence/intelligence/common sense going into the planning of this. Instead, Heath Robinson would be proud.

The train runs fine from Nottingham to Sheffield. Again, it’s fucking rigid (another two-carriage job) aided and abetted by screaming hellspawn, snoring scallies, and a press of bodies that I’d previously thought outmoded since the Black Hole of Calcutta. The train gets into Sheffield, and everyone has to get off to “utilise road travel in order to facilitate the continuance of your onward journey” (thanks to the station announcer for that little gem)

There are no signs to say where the coaches are leaving from – it turns out to be outside the station, in a fenced-off bit of carpark. Two coaches appear – no signs to say where each is going. It’s only when people have got on them that they say “this one’s for Liverpool. If you’re going to Manchester you need the other coach”. Thanks very fucking much, you peanut-chomping retard offspring of the liaison between a rabid goat and a lust-crazed colobus. Thankfully, the driver of the other bus has managed to perform the same fuckup, so there are some spaces.

Now, if you were wedged like sardines travelling in a coach, wouldn’t you put your rigid, wheeled mini-suitcase in the luggage space under the coach? You know, those big cavernous spaces where suitcases are supposed to go? No, of course you bloody woudn’t, you halfwit daughter of a goatherd, you’d put the bloody thing on your lap. For two hours. And woe betide the poor cretin (yes, that’s Me) who has to sit next to you, with the wheels leaving what feel like permanent imprints in the gap between knee-cap and knee joint. Ah, the joys of that journey.

We eventually arrived in Manchester – again, an hour later than expected. I can honestly say that Snake Pass (or, for purists, the A57 ) is “interesting” at night, in an overloaded coach. The rest of the journey was fairly insignificant, as I was concentrating more on making sure my 6’4″ frame was still going to be mobile by the time I escaped got off the coach of Calcutta, ideally with both kneecaps intact, and no murder charge in my future.

Cuentral Trains – Part One

Ah, the joys of a weekend on the trains. Travel between Manchester and Nottingham on a train actually isn’t rocket science – there’s no need to change trains, it’s a direct service, and runs semi-regularly (approximately hourly, if for some strange reason you care about these things) but it does have one major problem. The service is run by Central Trains. Oh dear, what a calamity.

Friday’s journey to Nottingham should have been utterly uneventful – in fact, I’d go so far as to describe it as “a piece of piss”. Get on train. Sit down. Wait two hours. Get out at Nottingham. The problems start when you remember that a) you’re travelling on a Friday, and b) it’s 5.30pm. OK.

One of the idiosyncracies of Manchester travel is that there are two stations that the train stops at – Oxford Road, and Piccadilly. If you get on at Piccadilly, the service is ram-packed, and impossible to even get a seat. If you’re smart, you get on at Oxford Road, and you’re in with a head-start by the time the train gets to Piccadilly, and hordes want to get on/off. It’s well worth doing. And for once, I remembered to do it. Thank Christ.

The complete twadges who plan train availablilty for Cuentral Trains had decided that because it was a Friday rush-hour train, obviously no-one would want to travel. Two fucking carriages. Yes, Two. Even the normal train has three, or even four. But no, Friday, 17.30, Two carriages. So of course that’s going to be rigid. Getting on at Oxford Road was OKish – still plenty of keffwits with eight suitcases, as well as the people who see that the carriage is filled to the gills, but still stay sat down ’til the train pulls into Piccadilly. Already I’m beginning to wish we had less legislation on stun-guns. Luckily, though, I’ve at least got a seat.

By the time the train finally leaves Piccadilly, you could maybe get two more people on. Assuming they knew each other pretty well already. If they didn’t, they soon would. The train gets to Stockport, disgorges a few, rams a few more in. And waits… And waits… And waits…

Thirty minutes later, we’re told that one of the two power units on the train is now officially knackered, and that the people in one carriage are going to be travelling in the dark. Guess which carriage, folks? Yup, my one. Half an hour late, the train staggers out of the station, dangerously overcrowded, and totally underpowered. Sheffield involved another twenty minute wait while they tried to wind up the clockwork sort out the power unit (and failed) so we eventually collapsed into Nottingham over an hour late (on a two hour journey). At which point the guard apologised for the lateness that’d been caused by a) a fucked power-unit, and b) too many people on the train. So now it’s our fault. If people hadn’t been so pissed off, I think there’d have been a lynching on Nottingham Station.

One of those days

Another day, another email to a shithead debt recovery agency that couldn’t find it’s arse with both hands and a flashlight.

To whom it may concern,

I have just come off the phone following the most incredibly obstructive and unhelpful call in the history of mankind.

This morning I received a completely incomprehensible statement from Britannia, accompanied by a cover letter from Mary Carney at your office. When I called for an explanation of this statement, I was told Mary Carney doesn’t even answer calls “because she’s a manager”, and all she apparently does is sign letters.

Unfortunately I didn’t get the name of the person who took my call – I hope his name is listed on my customer record somewhere. The call operative took my details (including a very badly worded request for my details – yes, I can confirm my address, but that doesn’t mean I have to) at which point the shutters came down completely.

The statement from Britannia is littered with “returned goods” and items that I have never even ordered, let alone received. Your call operative refused to be of any help at all, and apparantly was incapable of even listing what I supposedly owe Britannia money for. I was told I should take the matter up with Britannia. When I explained that I’d already spoken to Britannia, and they had insisted it was no longer their problem, it should be dealt with via Robinson Way, he simply repeated that I should take it up with Britannia.

Finally, he also said that I should take it up in writing with Robinson Way, but refused to give me a contact name within Robinson Way. The only reason I asked for a contact name (and I will directly quote myself) was “because Mary Carney apparently does eff all except sign letters“. This is a precise quote – no swearing was involved at any time. However, this is apparently an offensive comment, at which point your call operative stated he was ending the call.

I am utterly furious with the way Robinson Way has handled this matter. I am trying to find out what I supposedly owe money for from Britannia, and have requested this information on several occasions. The only item that has been forthcoming has been this statement from Britannia, which I suspect might be understandable if I were Polish, or perhaps an employee of Britannia. As I am neither, it’s incomprehensible.

My request is simple – I want to know what I am supposed to have received that I owe money for. As soon as I find that out, I will happily pay whatever debt there is against those items. However, as I have had nothing from Britannia since before the 1st August 2003, and the statement lists multiple items since then, the entire account is in dispute, and currently remains so.

I would appreciate some contact from Robinson Way to let me know what is happening with this account. It is obviously an utter nightmare somewhere along the line, and the sooner I am shot of the problem, the happier I will be.

I am contactable all day on 077xx xxxxxx, or by reply to this email address.

Yours Sincerely

Lyle

On Track

Tomorrow I’ll write more about wanky Central Trains, and their utterly crap service. If I do it today, I’ll just end up swearing more than even an 18 certificate would allow, so I’m going to decompress for 12-24 hours first. I doubt it’ll be that much of an effective plan, but we’ll see…