As promised, here are my thoughts surrounding our current predicament with the “service” you are meant to be providing for myself and my two amigos at my residence in Redfern. With this open letter I hope two things come of it.
Firstly, that you respond to it and take the appropriate action.
Secondly, I hope that people share this cautionary tale and consider alternatives before being metaphorically held under the water whilst receiving a full cavity search, right to the back of the gums.
I have no problem paying for stuff and in most cases I actually love receiving products and services, permitting they perform to expectation. It makes busting my keeshter at work every day totally worth it. As I will illustrate, through unnecessarily long, lengthy metaphors and similes, how disappointed I am with your company and its levels of service right across the board. Before I get into the nitty gritty of who said what, indulge me for a moment.
Do you remember those lazy, hazy hormone fuelled days when you and most of your friends probably lied about how much sex you were having and, for us boys, just how big your manhood was? “Like a Walrus’,” I often heard getting thrown around the playground, mainly about my friend Ben Wesley, who is part Walrus I believe. As a 13 year old boy I certainly wasn’t as interested in the afore mentioned as I was in say, playing rugby, playing countless hours of Golden Eye at Olly Reed’s house, listening to Wu-Tang clan records and drinking his Mum’s ‘Advocaat.’
Yet I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the fact that I knew there were these extra-terrestrial beings called, ‘Girls,’ and that from time-to-time a chemical reaction would go off in my body that would flag a fondness for the opposite sex. As any heterosexual male would know, at that age the only solution to such a problem was the old faithful, ‘Belt Tuck’ technique. Not only was it a staple manoeuvre at that age, but it also felt pretty good too.
At this stage of any teenager’s life, there are always a handful of comely lasses that are somewhat… “over developed” for their age. These, at my humble little school in Worcestershire at least, were always the ‘IT’ girls that every young lad desired and pined to be with. We didn’t really have a clue what we were going to do once with them of course, but all we knew was that boobs were like Chilean Miners and it was up to us to set them free. There were often rumours about what these girls did and with whom. It wasn’t long before our young imaginations had us believing that these young ladies were everything we ever wanted; the would-be porn queens of our teens. Biding my time until we were due to break up for the summer holidays (to allow for ample time to pass should the rejection be crippling) and building the courage to face a certain temptresses, the young buck Rob tried his luck with…. (Hmm, perhaps I won’t mention names as she’ll probably get wind of this somehow). I asked her sheepishly, “Would you like to come over and watch a movie at mine this summer?” After what felt like an eternity of silence, blushes, sideways glancing and much giggling came, “Ok, give me a ring over the Summer.” I strutted away like I was auditioning for the Chantry High School re-enactment of ‘Saturday Night Fever’ and as a way to prepare for the role I had drank some of John Travolta’s blood. This, I thought, was the start of something big.
My summers were usually pretty packed out with fun activities. A family holiday to Sri-Lanka or another detonation of equal tropical deliciousness and then the latter half of the Summer being a general nuance to my father as he helped create and craft the ‘Reading Music Festival.’ However, in the middle of all this came my special friend. I won’t bore you with the details but skip forward to me, Robert, and the playground temptress sitting on my bed and after discussions about the movie we’d just watched, what subjects I’d be taking next year and if I liked the new Five single “If Ya Getting’ Down” (I did, and I still do), the “heavy petting” started… There were several lumps in several places.
Hands start to move in a clockwise and then counter clockwise direction. There was no manual, so I just thought about how windows liked to be attended to. As tongue’s flailed around like dying hydras, I had pretty much parked myself on top of this young lady like a surf board on the roof of a car. To my utter surprise the words, “No stop!” were softly spoken, quickly followed up by “I think we should just be friends,” (insert record screech here). “What do you mean stop?” I implore. “I’ve, never done this before. Is it my technique? I can improve, I’m a fast learner.”
I was so close. So close to lifting the Premiership trophy, so close to all those inevitable back slaps in the locker room and, above all, so close to losing the ‘V’ plates that plague every adolescent’s younger years. All those dreams, all those fantasies were quashed and squandered, and quickly turned into lies and sadness.
So, where I am going with all this? The happy, prolonged days of my childhood summer are not dissimilar to the joyous feelings I get when watching many of the programs I have grown to adore on Foxtel. ‘Game of Thrones’ being a particular favourite. However, the utter disappointment of being rejected by my dream girl is felt with every day that I don’t have my Foxtel television service returned. In fact, worse. The girl may have destroyed and crushed my dreams ONCE. You, on the other hand, have broken my heart on numerous occasions. Here’s a somewhat lengthy account of what has happened.
On the 26th of May (doesn’t that feel like a long time ago?!) my service disappeared. I thought that, like service interruptions in the past, would be over at the very least in the next 24 hours. After a week had gone by I called you. On Monday June 3rd, I spoke to a lady that took me through the standard box reset procedure and then informed me that an engineer would need to be called out to assess the problem. Fine, no worries. I was not able to see the technician on the allocated date of Friday June 7th, so made it very clear that they would be meeting my flat mate Paul whom would be taking a day off work to accommodate. They took Paul’s number and promised me that I wouldn’t need to call back. On Friday, I received a phone call from my flatmate informing me that the engineer tasked with fixing the problem had failed to turn up in the allocated time slot between 10am and 2pm. I then proceeded to have the lengthiest, most frustrating conversation with a customer service team I have ever indulged in, during my 28 years as an insignificant spec of carbon on this Earth. I got passed between 6 different operators, none of whom seemed to have the foggiest as to what I was asking, where there technician was and how soon normal service would resume. Finally, I was told that the technician had been trying to call the non-existent land line, even after strict instruction to call Paul had been flagged, and that it was an entire grid failure, so we weren’t the only ones with this trouble!
As you can imagine at this stage I was pretty annoyed. Not only had you failed to tell us before days off were booked, but despite clear and simple interactions my flatmate, who has a tough enough time looking like an egg, was not called and subsequently wasted a day off. Equally frustrating was the fact that someone wouldn’t be around to fix the problem until the 19th – another two weeks!
I buried my frustrations, had a slice of fruitcake and on Wednesday June 19th I skipped home from work, quite literally, excitedly looking forward to catching up on some much needed QT with my TV. A gentle push of the remote and the LG flickered back into life. LG had done their part, they were in the clear. Then came the Foxtel Box… I flicked the power switch on and held my breath. Sadly within moments the, ‘No Satellite Signal is Being Received.’ message was burning itself into my retinas.
Back to customer service then I guess…
After calling you on the evening of the 19th, I was informed that you hadn’t bothered to send someone out and that the problem wouldn’t be fixed for a further two weeks. WHAT!!!! At this point I was ready to march up to North Ryde and give Richard J. Freudenstein a personal lap dance and, should he require it, a opportunity to ride me around his office like a squealing piggy. ANYTHING to get the service I used to love so much back into my life.
Honestly, it’s not about the money. I have the premium package and you couldn’t have picked a worse time to cheat me of it. My household loves sport and the current Lions tour and NBA finals were completely missed much to our dismay. We’ve also had to go and get really drunk at the pub, rather than staying comfortable in our underwear, which incurs heavier hangovers and larger dents in the wallets of my friends. I’m holding you entirely responsible for this.
Today (June 26th) is the day that you said the problem would be amended. I can only hope that when I return home, get into my Dinosaur onsie and fire up the entertainment system you have come good on your contractual agreement to provide me with a service in exchange for money.
So, what do I want from you?
I trust that you will receive this note with open arms. Don’t be afraid of it. Think of this as the chance to do something about the terrible experience I have had and maybe others won’t have to suffer like I did. Social Media is a pretty powerful tool these days, so please don’t just hide the problem.
I don’t like ending on a downer, so here’s a camel laughing like Peter Griffin from ‘Family Guy.’
Thanks for listening and I look forward to hearing form you soon.