Below is a copy of a letter that won a competition in UK as complaint letter of the year…have a laugh and read on.

The British do have a way with words. This is a real-life customer complaint letter sent to NTL (to their complaints dept …)

————————————————————–

Dear Cretins,

I have been an NTL customer since 9th July 2001, when I signed up for your 3-in-one deal for cable TV, cable modem, and telephone.

During this three-month period I have encountered inadequacy of service which I had not previously considered possible, as well as ignorance and stupidity of monolithic proportions. Please allow me to provide specific details, so that you can either pursue your professional prerogative, and seek to rectify these difficulties – or more likely (I suspect) so that you can have some entertaining reading material as you while away the working day smoking B&H and drinking vendor-coffee on the bog in your office:

My initial installation was cancelled without warning, resulting in my spending an entire Saturday sitting on my fat arse waiting for your technician to arrive. When he did not arrive, I spent a further

57 minutes listening to your infuriating hold music, and the even more annoying Scottish robot woman telling me to look at your helpful website….HOW?

I alleviated the boredom by playing with my testicles for a few minutes – an activity at which you are no-doubt both familiar and highly adept. The rescheduled installation then took place some two weeks later, although the technician did forget to bring a number of vital tools – such as a drill-bit, and his cerebrum. Two weeks later, my cable modem had still not arrived. After 15 telephone calls over 4 weeks my modem arrived… six weeks after I had requested it, and begun to pay for it.

I estimate your internet server’s downtime is roughly 35%… hours between about 6pm -midnight, Mon-Fri, and most of the weekend. I am still waiting for my telephone connection. I have made 9 calls on my mobile to your no-help line, and have been unhelpfully transferred to a variety of disinterested individuals, who are it seems also highly skilled bollock jugglers.

I have been informed that a telephone line is available (and someone will call me back); that no telephone line is available (and someone will call me back); that I will be transferred to someone who knows whether or not a telephone line is available (and then been cut off); that I will be transferred to someone (and then been redirected to an answer machine informing me that your office is closed); that I will be transferred to someone and then been redirected to the irritating Scottish robot woman…and several other variations on this theme.

Doubtless you are no longer reading this letter, as you have at least a thousand other dissatisfied customers to ignore, and also another one of those crucially important testicle-moments to attend to. Frankly I don’t care, it’s far more satisfying as a customer to voice my frustration’s in print than to shout them at your unending hold music. Forgive me, therefore, if I continue.

I thought BT were shit, that they had attained the holy piss-pot of god-awful customer relations, that no-one, anywhere, ever, could be more disinterested, less helpful or more obstructive to delivering service to their customers. That’s why I chose NTL, and because, well, there isn’t anyone else is there? How surprised I therefore was, when I discovered to my considerable dissatisfaction and disappointment what a useless shower of bastards you truly are. You are sputum-filled pieces of distended rectum incompetents of the highest order.

British Telecom – wankers though they are – shine like brilliant beacons of success, in the filthy puss-filled mire of your seemingly limitless inadequacy. Suffice to say that I have now given up on my futile and foolhardy quest to receive any kind of service from you.

I suggest that you cease any potential future attempts to extort payment from me for the services which you have so pointedly and catastrophically failed to deliver – any such activity will be greeted initially with hilarity and disbelief quickly be replaced by derision, and even perhaps bemused rage. I enclose two small deposits, selected with great care from my cats litter tray, as an expression of my utter and complete contempt for both you and your pointless company. I sincerely hope that they have not become desiccated during transit – they were satisfyingly moist at the time of posting, and I would feel considerable disappointment if you did not experience both their rich aroma and delicate texture. Consider them the very embodiment of my feelings towards NTL, and its worthless employees.

Have a nice day – may it be the last in you miserable short life, you irritatingly incompetent and infuriatingly unhelpful bunch of twats.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned them here before, but I have several mannequins – Clarissa, Genevieve, Peg, and The Kid. Plus a few mannequin heads, some with names and some without.

Now, I’m a blue jeans and t-shirt kind of girl…nothing fancy for me. I can’t walk in heels without hurting myself (I don’t even try anymore), and if I wear something I love I will probably spill coffee on it. I rarely wear dresses because I can’t get the whole ensemble together – even if I find the perfect dress, I won’t have pantyhose or shoes or a coat or a purse (I keep all my “stuff” in my pockets). I just can’t get my shit together enough to wear a dress, you know what I mean?

But I do love some of those feminine things that mystify and elude me, those girly-girl accessories that girly-girls wear so effortlessly, those grown-up lady shoes and dresses and lingerie. I just feel faintly ridiculous in them. Hence, the mannequins….they wear all this stuff I wouldn’t be caught dead in.

So the biggest day of the year for my girls is the Ottawa Vintage Clothing Show, held at the most opulent of hotels, the Chateau Laurier. Every year I get there early and line up with the crowds, and then the doors open and there’s a feverish crush of women unleashed into the pure decadence of this incredible, delicious, delectable smorgasborg of historical textiles and fashions and jewelry and accessories.

Meanwhile, the mannequins wait at home with baited breath, eager to see what I’ll bring them. A fur stole? A beaded flapper dress? Stiletto heels? A cocky litle hat? Something demure and Victorian, or a see-through go-go girl outfit? Another mannequin? Ya just never know. So here are the treasures I unearthed this year:

This is a fabulous find, a dress, or a mantle, or a combination dress/mantle thing, which comes from Belgrade! It’s made of black wool, with fine hand-done petit-point adornment. The photo of Clarissa modeling it simply does not do it justice, so I’ve included a couple of photos with better lighting.

It actually fits me too, but only if I wear heels, so I just know I’ll never wear it. Still, it’s nice to know I could wear it, if only I could.

Everybody got something except Genevieve and the Kid. This is Genevieve, wearing the stunning dress I bought her last year at the same event. It’s black fringe with a silk lining, and it clings to her form as if it were custom-made just for her. She looks exquisite, no? This dress is why she didn’t get anything this year…she is divine just the way she is. The picture just doesn’t do that dress justice…if anybody knows how to photograph black, please tell me!

Here’s Clarissa again, modeling a lovely little dress, which I have to admit is far too ordinary to be in their wardrobe, but somehow it made more of an impression yesterday than today. Oh well. No adult human being is small enough to wear it, so it must have been made for mannequins.

That’s The Kid in the background. I wanted to get him a Davy Crocket hat, but I didn’t find one. Poor kid, he’s been wearing the same clothes so long the back is fading. Peg loves her white rabbit-fur jacket. It fits me too, but she has already told me I can’t borrow it because I’m likely to slop coffee down the front of it. I only bought it because it’s sooooo incredibly soft. Poor little bunny though.