Tag Archives: complaining

I Hate Henry….

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He’s such a smug little bastard…

I have this real feeling of hatred for my hoover. I’m not sure whether this is normal, or whether it’s a sign of a very slow mental decline. But honestly, the bloody thing is the bane of my life. He’s old and knackered and there is just something about him that freaks me out– with his inane grinning face and large staring eyes.

I mean, who honestly thought putting a face on hoover was such a great idea? It doesn’t improve suction (as I’m sure many a teenage boy will confirm) and it certainly doesn’t make it go around corners any better. Instead, it just stands there in my hall with its red fat shiny belly, smiling stupidly at me, its wide eyes following me around the room. Smug little bastard!

I wouldn’t mind if it did the job I wanted it do, but It’s like a useless work experience kid. One tug and it falls over pathetically, its bloody wheels spinning hopelessly in the air, like the fuckwit it is. Lying there like a stranded red whale on my carpet, making a wheezing similar to my Dad when he gets up too quickly from his chair.
He bumps into the corners (the hoover, not my Dad – although come to think of it….) and he refuses to suck up the smallest of crumbs. Yet he is quite happy to gobble up my earring and look bloody pleased about it too, leaving me for hours, searching in his sooty guts to retrieve it. Bastard.

And even more annoying, his bloody nose has fallen off more times than Michael Jackson’s. He has gaffer tape around it now, so he looks even more freaky (the hoover not Michael Jackson, although come to think of it…)

I long to trade in this old bugger for something newer. Or something more slim-line and zippier. Maybe something that doesn’t come complete with a moronic smiling face.

But I can’t. Why? Because my kids love him. They treat him like part of the family. It would be like getting rid of the cats, and believe me I’ve tried that. Twice.

So for now, I’m stuck with him.

Smug little bastard

These boots are made for….bugger all!

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ARGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

There is no other word, sound or utterance that will be able to explain how I felt today as I stood in a certain shoe shop that will remain unnamed (but it ryhmes with POO) holding a pair of £100 boots that I had had for 4 months. I will repeat with a calm breath – 4 months.

I will also repeat that I spent £100, actually over £100 on these sh***ty wastes of footwear, these f*****g lazy examples of what boots should be. These god awful creations that the devil himself would be appalled at.

What was wrong with these evil specimens that I have had for only 4 MONTHS? Was it a small tear? A rip in the uppers? A hole developing in the sole?

Oh no, no ,no – none of these petty things. My beautiful boots were obviously NOT DESIGNED FOR FU******G WALKING Because after 4 months (did I tell you thats how long I had had them), a great big split, the size of the Grand Canyon had develped in one of them.

You turn the left boot over and the sole breaks in two, almost like it’s given up on life – the b*****y useless b*******d.

So here I was standing in this said shop, that ryhmes with Poo, showing my patheitic boot to a small boy – who on first glance I had thought had drifted in from the local Scout Club. Apparently he was the Deputy Manager….

“Now I no longer have the receipt…” I began patiently. “But this boot is faulty. And last time this happened (yes believe it or not I have brought s**t boots there before, also for a crazy price) you looked up my card on your system and found my date of purchase.”

“We can’t do that anymore. Company Policy” He retorted, a little bit of dribble escaping from his slimy lips

“But you did that last time. I can tell you I brought them the first week in December.”

“We can no longer do that. Company Policy. We need a receipt.” The pool of salvia was now gathering in the corner of his mouth. I was beginning to feel sick.

“But I don’t get paper statements – surely you can look this up here and now…”

“Company policy..” He said again, and smirked.

I took a deep breath, I could feel rage burning. 10 years of Clarks shoe shop training (yes I know – but you don’t forget it) was lodged inside me. This was no way to treat customers.

This was no pi***y way to make or sell shoes.

I wanted to wedge my flapping boot into his wet, squid-like mouth….I bit my lip (hard)

“If I bring my statement in (once I’ve tralled through all the bloody pages of it online) will you then offer an exchange.”

“It’s company policy not to tell you anything until we have seen proof of purchase…”

I left quickly because I fear if I didn’t there may have been bloodshed.

I am returning tomorrow, and will find that bloody statement if it kills me…

I look forward to us meeting again…….