Train To Complain

Ofcom recently censured Channel 4 after a Hollyoaks episode aired, pre-watershed, that depicted a character dying after a fight. The character, Simon Walker, was left reeling by a kick that hit him like a train, before being hit by a train. Despite the intentionally distressing nature of the scene, only one complaint was received, the rest of the show’s audience no doubt struggling to notice the difference between the character before and after his death. I watched 12 minutes of one episode before I realised the TV was turned off. Ofcom have not, as yet, responded to my complaint that the remaining characters remain alive.

Of course, I’m being intentionally flippant. I couldn’t do what the actors of Hollyoaks do; read a Hollyoaks script aloud in front of people.

It’s hard to know when to complain and how to approach making a complaint. I worked as a waiter in a restaurant for a number of years, and I’ve been an avid consumer for as long as I’ve had money (I’m 29 now, so, let’s see… yes, three years...), so I know a thing or two about the giving and receiving of complaints.

And yet I can’t bring myself to actually make one. When my food is delivered to my placemat with all the pomp and ceremony befitting a beef burger with onion ring, bacon, cheese, relish and side of fries thin chips, only for it to be lukewarm; I sigh with the resigned air of a man powerless to stop his blood pressure rising without even taking a bite. I curse inwardly, but outwardly bemoan the burden under which the understaffed kitchen team had slaved in order to produce the meal, however substandard.

I’ve faced the banshee like objections of a woman who thought a sultana in her scone was a stone. I smiled, fawned and apologised. I refunded, distracted and withdrew. It was a slightly crispy sultana, and I acted like President Assad at a UN security council cocktail party. And even though I would likely get the same reaction, were I to complain myself, I still can’t bring myself to do it.

I have no idea what “compensation culture” could be. I’m probably the only person that could legitimately claim back on mis-sold payment protection insurance, but I’ll never know. By contrast, my girlfriend once complained to her energy supplier when she found a spider in the gas meter box, outside her house. They told her to call the RSPCA.

It could be the old-fashioned English reserve that Hugh Grant made so famous in his many films, and when picking up prostitutes, presumably. I have loads of that stereotypical reserve. I have huge reserves of reserve, like Africa, but where the antelope smoke carved wooden pipes with bemonocled cheetahs, and lions sip Earl Grey with zebras.

Perhaps I should practise. If you work in the retail industry in Bristol, beware the extremely pedantic consumer about to cross your path. At the merest sign of a less than

enthusiastic welcome, or service that would be more usually associated with a kebab shop, expect a drama more hard-hitting than a Hollyoaks omnibus.

If so, apologies. You can always complain.

You Gotta Do, What You Gotta Do

I found myself watching Katy Perry’s Part of Me. Not the part I’d hoped, instead, her life story up to her 29th year. The soaring heights of a sell-out tour and whirlwind romance with foul-thoughted, bo-ho lothario, Russell Brand, and the stifling lows of continuing on a sell-out tour while her marriage split, rather predictably, asunder. To say it was a rollercoaster ride, would seriously undermine Alton Towers’ marketing strategy. In her magnum opus, Firework, Perry asks us if we, “ever feel like a plastic bag, drifting through the wind, wanting to start again?”

No.

The next day, my girlfriend and I had planned to visit the site of the Bristol Balloon Fiesta, and by sheer coincidence, the darn thing was on at the same time. We left the house on Saturday evening, hoping to reach Ashton Court in time for the famous nightglow. For the uninitiated, the nightglow sees the illumination of barely coordinated bags of hot air for the purposes of entertainment, a bit like Prime Minister’s Questions. I didn’t want to go, but I had to out of some misguided sense of duty.

Today, I had a nosebleed that lasted for almost half an hour. I felt like a depressed celebrity, but with the life leaking out of my nose, while I hid in a toilet so nobody could see my secret shame. I usually have very good bodily control, I can count the times I’ve lost control of my urethral sphincter on two hands, my anal sphincter just once. I should make it clear I had eaten some dodgy mussels, it wasn’t like I’d just got sloppy. It was a grim day, I had to print new business cards.

That last example was truly tenuous, misleading even. But my point is, I very rarely, if ever, do something I don’t want to unless I have a good reason. Whether it’s because of my friends and family, out of some form of duty, or just because my body says it’s time, there is still a reason.

So, when a politician pushes green issues with one hand, and backs the relentless hunt for mainland gas supplies with the other, I mean, fracking hell Dave! I’m not necessarily for or against its use or extraction, it’s the two-faced hypocrisy.

Someone thought it was a good idea to have vans roam the home counties asking illegal immigrants to go home. Someone genuinely thinks this is the right thing to do. In my view, these vans could be better used. When I’m out, having had a few too many drinks, I could use a gentle reminder that a warm bed awaits me at home. “LEE, YOU’RE DRUNK,” the sign would patronise appropriately, “GO HOME BEFORE YOU DO SOMETHING YOU REGRET. AND NO, YOU DON’T WANT A KEBAB.”

When the government announced plans to effectively privatise the NHS, I could think of no positive outcome, no silver lining. I can’t even imagine that someone thinks there is a greater good in play here, this can only be icy cool, calculated greed. There is no, “Well I don’t want to do it, but in the end we’ll all be better off.” Borderline sociopathic.

It’s enough to give you a bad back, eh Dave?