Archived entries for Sarcasm

So I went to a Spa…and then this happened

Photo 22-09-14 10 56 41

So it is that I find myself, along with my wife of 3 days, in a Thermal Spa in Grimbergen, a chance to relax following our exhilarating, amazing wedding weekend. I’d originally booked the spa as a birthday treat for Zoe, imagining that she would go with one of her girlfriends, so when she actually said she would prefer to go with me, that’s how I ended up with an appointment for a Mother’s Day Special pedicure.

Now, I don’t have the nicest feet in the world, if I’m really honest.

So after sitting in some hot water outside for a bit, then sitting in a hot room for a bit, plus a lunch including a glass of the local brew, it was time to go upstairs to give our feet a treat.

We had to sit in this pre-pedicure waiting room drinking herbal tea with our feet in a bowl of oil. We did this to the soundtrack of dolphins and pan-pipes (you know, from a compilation like “Deeply Chilled Tones Vol. 8″, supposed to be relaxing but which ought to come with a warning: “The record company cannot accept any responsibility for damaged audio equipment as a result of prolonged exposure to this music.”) until we were called in.

Why do I always get the bad-tempered member of staff?

We started off on the wrong foot, or should I say, feet. My feet, to be precise. My woman asked Zoe, as if I were not in the room,

“Madame, has he washed his feet?”

“Yes, don’t worry, he’s been soaking them in the oil. Of course.”

I mean, honestly. Then we go through to the room where we have to lie on these beds. It doesn’t seem to be going too badly at the start, but then about 5 minutes in I look around and see that the woman dealing with my feet has a look on her face of utter, utter disgust. She looks like she’d be marginally happier sorting through last week’s rubbish bins.

Then she leaves the room. Just like that. I wonder where she’s gone? Has she been so repulsed that she has to go and get some fresh air? I feel a bit humiliated, really, lying there by myself having been left high and dry by my masseuse. Though not as humiliated as when she walks back into the room. She’s come back wearing surgical gloves.

Zoe nearly falls off the bed laughing.

The customer is always…

Ah, customer service in Belgium. We meet again.

The first was trying to replace a faulty Blackberry. The man in the shop was all too happy to replace it…with a cheaper model.

“Not a problem, sir. I can give you a Blackberry 9360 instead. Free of charge.”
“…but that model is about 200 euros cheaper, with fewer features and no touchscreen.”
“It’s a very reliable device, sir, we’ve had to order some more of these models due to the big demand from our customers. It’s your lucky day, though, sir, because I’ve just got a new delivery in. Today, in fact.”
“…great, but it’s not the model I’m looking for. I’m actually looking for the one that’s the same as the Blackberry I’ve got at the moment.”
“Which model is that then, sir?”
“The 9790, as I said at the beginning of this phone call.”
“If you’d like to come into our shop sir, I can replace that model for you, no problem.”
“Thank you. Is three o’clock this afternoon convenient?”
“Perfect, sir. See you then!”
“Just to confirm…you do have the 9790 in stock?”
“Let me just check sir….no, sir, sorry, we’ve got none of those models left I’m afraid. I was expecting more to arrive, today, in fact. Can you call back next week?”

Picking up a parcel here can also be equally trying. I’d been left one of those “We Called In But You Were Out” pieces of paper, which instructed me to go to the post office after a certain time on a certain date and my post would be waiting. So off I went.

“I’m sorry, sir. Your parcel isn’t here.”
“But it says on this piece of paper that it will be ready to collect after 11am today.”
“Have you checked the date properly?”
“Well, my diary’s usually pretty spot-on at telling me the correct date. That’s it’s killer feature, you see. Never lets me down. So yes, that’s today’s date.”
“I’ll just check my calendar…yes, you’re right, it’s the fourteenth.”
“Well, I’m glad we’ve got our dates aligned. What about my post?”
“I have no idea. Maybe the postman forgot to drop it off this morning…it could be that, couldn’t it?”
“I don’t know! I don’t work here, you do!”
“Can you call in at the same time tomorrow?”

Need an authorised technician to fix your TV?

“Hi, is that the Sony Service Centre?”
“Yes.” (No immediate offer to help, then.)
“I’ve got a Sony flat screen TV which needs looking at, would it be possible to request an appointment with one of your engineers?”
“Yes.”
“…OK, thanks. Would he be able to come here on Friday morning, say ten o’clock?”
“We only carry out service repairs at the Service Centre.”
“So you don’t send technicians out to fix things? I have to bring the TV to you?”
“Yes.”
“Slight problem there…it’s massive, this TV. It’s not like I can just pick it up and waltz over with it.”
“We only carry out service repairs at the Service Centre.”
“OK, thanks for being so flexible. Goodbye.”

How about you? How’s the customer service where you live?

Towards the Eternal Conversation

Well, if 2008 was the Year of Facebook, it looks like 2009, judging by what everyone’s been talking about during the first few weeks, will become the Year of Twitter. As much as I like new technology, however, there are certain limits to what I consider to be the sort of useful applications which actually make life that little bit easier, or a bit more fun, which is why I haven’t really “got” the Twitter craze. It escapes me in much the same way that I never felt the need for mobile phone  ringtones. Why bother? You either pick up within two seconds, in which case it’s not so much a “ringtone” as just a “ringt-“. Let it play and by the time we’ve all appreciated your electronic, tinny-sounding rendition of a song that wasn’t much good to start with, the caller has lost patience and hung up. It’s the same thing with those little desktop gadgets you get which tell you what the weather is like; you can click on it to open a new window on your computer or you could, hang on…just open the real window and look outside!
For me, Twitter falls into the same category, into a drawer marked, ‘What’s The Point?’. The buzzword seems to be “microblogging“, the New Thing To Do, which is essentially about publishing short text updates about what’s going on in your life. Each entry is a “status update”, or ‘Tweet“, some of the new terms for telling everyone how you’re doing.

Why, though? Surely this will lead to us all becoming like that mad old man in the train station who mutters to himself about everything that he’s doing because he’s convinced that German spies are still listening in to his every word:

“I’m just sitting down on this bench now.”

“I had chip sandwiches for tea last night, you know.”

“Status code Red, Sergeant! Target seen purchasing a suspicous item, codename “Flapjack”. Ready to roll out the next phase of Operation Platform Three. Stand by, gentlemen.”

The point here is that that something like Twitter doesn’t offer you the sort of social feedback that you would get if you said these sort of sentences in real life, to real people. Without the human checks and balances that let you know when and whether something is worth saying, what’s left is simply a license to report everything that goes on, no madder how mundane or trivial, because it’s been marketed as What the World Wants To Know.

If you believe the hype, your old friends are eager to hear that you got to bed at 2am last night; your distant relatives are now back in touch, thanks to this marvel of modernity, and can rejoice in the news that you’re away right now in your third meeting this morning, “LOL”.

It seems like there’s a sort of dichotomy going on at the moment when it comes to people who are connected to the Internet. On the one hand, everyone seems to be so concerned about online privacy, and about just who has access their personal information, whether they can accept the content of their emails being monitored and so on.

Yet on the other, people are only too willing to divulge their personal lives, whether this is broadcasting information about themselves via their personal profiles on social networks, uploading and tagging their photos, their videos, or, most recently, reporting their every actions and thoughts at regular intervals, all day, every day. You could argue that this latter sharing is “controlled” by the people using the service, but it affects other people “outside the loop” as well. We’ve all, I’m sure, met people who have been told that they are “on” Facebook, even if they themselves have never signed up to the service, because they’ve been tagged in a photo, a video, or somewhere in the maze of all that user-generated content that makes up today’s online communities.

The sheer volume of information that we upload to these sites seems to me to be less about control and more about something opposite, an almost uncontrollable urge to communicate as many things about our lives to as many people as possible.

So what’s next, after “microblogging”? With the way things are going, my guess is that the next phase will be “Omniblogging”, in which users forget even the discreet pauses between updates, until what’s left is just a constant, unedited online stream of consciousness, from every device, all the time, about everything.

By the way, have you heard about that other resource they’ve been keeping quiet about all this time? It’s being used all around the world, by millions of people on a daily basis, and what’s more it’s also completely free to use: it’s called “Silence”.

Pillow talk

Personally, I don’t worry too much about pillows. However, I may be in a minority here,
judging by last weekend’s trip to IKEA to help a friend move into her new flat.

As we wandered around the vast warehouse, I wasn’t allowed to go and look at the kitchen knives until I had answered concerns regarding whether or not I thought a bright blue towel or a bright yellow one would go better in the bathroom; a 15-minute lecture on towels and their spiritual role in domestic life (or something) and I discovered that my opinions had to adopt a rather more substantial form than “It doesn’t matter.”

The matter of the towels was eventually settled after several hundred years deliberating the respective merits of the colours blue and yellow, and then choosing pink, and we moved to the pillow section. Now, I’m all in favour of a good selection to choose from, but this was the sort of confusing array of options that ensures that you might possibly leave with a pillow, but certainly with a headache and, if you really pay attention, perhaps the beginnings of a mild obsessive disorder.
What are you looking for in terms of “pillow height”?
What is your preferred shape and durability?
Do you want your pillow to retain its fluffiness after many washes?

I wish they’d explain the price difference, perhaps with one of the features written in bold being something like “The Gosa Krama: get to sleep a whole 30 minutes quicker.” This would help prevent those tedious discussions:
“Why is this one six euro more?”
“I don’t know. It’s a bit bigger?”
“No, no, look. Look here, the dimensions are the same.”
“Well…maybe it’s better material”
“They’re both filled with polyester. What’s going on?”
“I don’t have a clue. Pillow marketing isn’t actually on my Top Ten list of-”
“You don’t care, do you? You would if it was YOUR choice.”
“If it was my choice I’d live in a tent in the mountains.”
“You go and do that, Hippy Child. I’m going to find an assistant.”

You might think I’m exaggerating here, but IKEA even have an online version in which you are presented with a range of similar options in order to find your perfect quilt or pillow.

Ironically, though, you don’t actually need any of these pillows to get the good night’s sleep that they claim to provide. A quick trip round IKEA will soon see to that, pillow or no pillow.

Fringe benefits

It was time, on Friday, to get a haircut. My hair had grown to the point where it could have housed a small family of birds for the winter; something had to be done. So off I went to the nearest hairdressers, and thus the ordeal began…

“Bonjour, Monsieur. How would you like it cut?”

 (Remember this is in French and my vocab on hair terminology is somewhat limited…) “Well, it’s too thick, you see, so I’d like it thinner.”  

“Right. Do you want it layered?”

“Layered? Er…can I just have it cut?”

“Well what sort of style did you have in mind?”

 “I was hoping to go for the “Now I Have Less Hair Than When I Came In” look that seems to be-”

(Of course now she’s giving me a look that I do not want to see on someone grasping a pair of sharp scissors, so I stop talking. Sharpish.)

“You already have layers, Monsieur”

 “Of course I do! Silly me! You see, sometimes you forget, don’t you? Forget to take the rubbish out, forget to feed the cat, forget your hair is layered….”

“How much length do you want me to take off?”

“Well, actually, can I…sorry, please could you keep it quite long, if that’s alright?”

“I’ve got a better idea”

(Oh, Christ. Here it comes. Skinhead. Mohican. Just A Fringe.)

“Just let me cut it.”

 Well, it was a fantastic haircut, in the end. I wish all hairdressers could be like that from the beginning, instead of making me feel like I’m taking part in some sort of Hairdressers’ Mastermind.

Taking risks…

With Marta at the Commission press area

 

Security seems to be this week’s theme. I wrote an article about security at football matches for the briefing before the plenary session in Brussels, and in the report the committee called for the establishment of national football information centres, which would exchange personal information with the police about high-risk supporters, in accordance with domestic and international rules governing the exchange of information.

I also forgot my identity pass twice this week, the second time much to the amusement of the man on the security desk:
“Do you mean, you’ve lost your ID badge? So you need to get a new one?” asked the security guard, wearily.
“No, sorry…I’ve just forgotten it, that’s all.”
“Wait a minute…didn’t you forget it yesterday as well?” he inquired, a slight grin forming at the corners of his mouth as he savoured the moment.
“Yes” I replied, sheepishly.
“Hang on, so you’ve not lost it” he continued, “Just forgotten it again. Yesterday…and now today.”
“That’s right, yep. Sorry…” I said. “If you think about it, though, forgetting things makes life a bit more exciting, in a way…”
(Rule 1: Don’t try and be funny in another language.)
“What? I don’t understand. Forgetting things is exciting?” he asked, bewildered.
“No, what I meant was, if you got everything right all the time, wouldn’t life be so boring?”
(I should have just shut up.)
“Do you like getting things wrong? I don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t like getting things wrong, exactly, but solving problems like forgetting stuff…makes life a bit richer.”
“Problems make life richer? Are you crazy?”
“Probably, yes. Could I have a Visitor’s Pass now, please?”

It reminded me of my first day at the Parliament when I managed to get into the main building without first registering for my ID card. As I was walking away from the first introductory meeting, the lady who was showing us around asked me where my ID card was. I told her I hadn’t got it yet, and after a short, puzzled pause she asked me how I had managed to enter the building without an ID card. Was I escorted by another member of staff?
“Not exactly”, I replied. “I just walked in.”
Maybe this answer would have carried less of an impact had I been clean-shaven, and without my a large rucksack covered in environmental campaign badges…
(The football security article – I wrote the second half- can be read here.)

From Sitting in Seminars to Sipping Champagne

European Parliament

 

Quite a busy first few days of properly getting stuck into my traineeship! The general atmosphere at the moment is hectic, with a police presence everywhere because it is the first meeting this year of the European Council (the Heads of State/Government of the Member States) on the 8th-9th March.

 

I drafted, as my first task, an article from a 27-page report on corporate social responsibility, and I’ve also produced my first genuine piece of work, a summary about the (slightly lighter, 17-page) report about the role of local authorities in the development process. I’ve been to a couple of introductory meetings, and also to an equal opportunities award ceremony, then on Wednesday afternoon I went to a three-hour seminar for journalists on Women Politicians and the Media. Wednesday evening, there was a nice social gathering for all the new stagiaires (work experience people) at a bar near the Parliament, and it was a great to chat with people of the same age, from all over Europe (I was only there for a couple of hours but had a good talk – sometimes in French, sometime in English – with a couple of Italians, a German, a Spaniard and a man from Finland).

The multilingualism is something which is particularly noticeable in the canteen at lunchtime. If you stop for a while, and just listen to the general buzz of conversation going on around the room, it’s almost impossible to make out what any individual is saying; anyone who might want to try and get a snatch of Parliament gossip would have a pretty tough job.

Today was International Women’s Day, so after registering at the Parliament’s library this morning I joined a small gathering in our building, where we had champagne and bread with olives and tomatoes as our own little celebration of the event. My champagne glass kept getting re-filled as I was talking to people, so in the end I’d had about three or four glasses of champagne and was feeling much more light-headed than when I entered the room!

My supervisor clearly has my best interests at heart, and, perhaps having anticipated my eager acceptance of champagne before midday, had already thought of a cunning plan to bring me back down to earth.

“If you could proof-read this before this afternoon” he said, handing me the Briefing document for next week’s Plenary Session. It was 40 pages long.

 

(By the way….you can find my article here.)

iCame…iSaw…iConquered

Heard about Apple’s new iPhone? Hard to avoid it, really. How about the man behind it (and chief executive of Apple), Mr Steve Jobs?

If you don’t know anything about him, it certainly seems like certain newspapers are trying their best to make sure people know what a great person he is.

In the Guardian a few weeks ago I saw an article about him, and here are just a few of the phrases the author used:

“Yet it’s an amazing experience to take part in a briefing with Steve.”

(So a meeting with Mr Jobs is up there with Skydiving and tripping on Acid, then.)

“…customers’ reverence for him usually overwhelms any hostility”

(Replace “customers” with “followers” and hey, it could be Jesus.)

“When Steve enters a room, everything stops and attention turns to him.”

(What, does he walk in without a head? Hideously deformed? Also, note that everything stops, apparently. Time itself, it seems, cannot continue without his permission.)

“When he walks in you get the feeling that he has sucked all the other thoughts out of the room.”

(That’s not really a good thing, though, is it? I mean, what use is a board meeting with a group of human vegetables, no longer capable of original thought?)

I mean, fair enough, he’s made Mac a cool brand to own (though from my experience a Mac is a bit like having a shiny silver toothbrush with no bristles…) and, of course, I’m sure the Korubo tribe of the Amazon own iPods by now…but all this emotive talk is a bit too flattering for just one person.

Happy to Help

At some point I’m going to have to do it. I can’t put it off for much longer. Everyone else is involved and I’ll get dragged along with the crowd sooner or later…

Christmas shopping.

Someone with superior organisational skills than my own would have saved all the hassle of actually going into real shops by harnessing the power of IT now that all our computers are so nicely joined up in the Digital Daisy Chain. Thanks to Amazon, eBay and so on, it’s easy. “Click and It Shall be Given Unto You”.
I have, however, left it too late yet again, so this means I’m going to have to go shopping. I really, really don’t like shopping.

I seem to attract the generally suspicious type of shop assistant, one that won’t leave me alone until I’ve either made a purchase or left the shop.

It is in shops selling expensive goods, like mobile phones, designer clothes or watches, that I tend to attract suspicion. I admit that it might have something to do with the fact that I’m a bit scruffy, and given the festive panic I will probably enter the shop quietly muttering dark sentiments that wouldn’t look out of place in a Dickens novel.
I enter the shop and Carol, or Tracy, will fix me with A Look. These people are in customer service, although it seems that “the customer is always right” could do with a footnote: “and remember, only human like you.”
A split-second judgement is all it takes. Of course I’m going to steal something, I’ve got two days’ worth of stubble. Goodbye Scotland Yard, hello H Samuel Hit Squad. I am followed over every square inch, pestered with pointless questions such as “What sort of style did you have in mind?” Heck, if I could answer that one, I’d be in and out of here like a shot. I don’t have a clue, and which is precisely why I’m wandering around aimlessly.
I try as politely as possible to hint that making a decision is that little bit more difficult when you can hear the “assistant” breathing through her nose. Coming from two feet away, Carol’s perfume makes my eyes water. Pick anything up for inspection, and the free audio commentary begins: “Those chocolates are twenty pounds. The gold box above you is a bit more, it’s ninety-nine ninety-nine.” Thanks for that. I’d have thought the absence of white stick and dog would be enough to reveal that I’m not, in fact, blind.

Eventually the pressure gets to much, I buy a Terry’s Chocolate Orange for the fifth year running and make a swift exit. It’s the thought that counts.

Feelin’ that Feline vibe…

I have in front of me an advert from Monday’s Daily Mail, a newspaper which I like to skim through in the same way that other people like to peer in at the windows of the local lunatic asylum; we observe, fascinated, as we wonder what on earth goes on in the minds of those on the inside.
Anyway, the advert caught my attention so I thought I’d share it with you. It is entitled:

HOW TO TALK TO YOUR CAT

and the advert concerns, as you might have guessed, a book on how to do exactly that. The theme of lunacy will, I’m afraid, feature quite strongly in this post; check out the first line of the article:

“Listen! You cat is talking to you – your cat is telling you how much she loves you.”

Next stop, schizophrenia.

Imagine, if you will, a lonely man in his fifties, living with Tubbs, his only friend who also happens to be his cat. If I were that lonely man, without the regular checks on my sanity provided by a social life or regular family contact, I might very well believe the above sentence. I’d be encouraged by an advert which then went on, in a warm, reassuring manner, to inform me that

“…the special friend who shares your life has so much to say to you.”

I mean, put like that, who needs conversations with people?

There’s scientific evidence, of course. After all, you’d expect only the greatest scientific minds at work on a book that claims answers to such profound riddles as “Why your cat blinks”.

The promoted book, Your Talking Cat, introduces the reader to a “celebrated cat-assisted therapist”, who has, according to the advert, documented hundreds of experiences of cat-human interaction, which will help you “discover the true depth and strength of the bonds of affection that exist between you and your cat” for a “deeper, more loving relationship”.

I don’t really want to dwell on all the possible ways the above sentence could be interpreted, for who knows where this book could lead to when combined with a strong drink and an even stronger imagination on a cold, lonely Friday night…



Copyright Matt Williams© 2006–2014. All rights reserved.

RSS Feed. This blog is proudly powered by Wordpress and uses Modern Clix, a theme by Rodrigo Galindez.