Smellmycheese's Blog

Being one of the most intolerant people I know, I find the whole process of shopping distressing from start to finish.

It starts with the bus. Ahh, the bus. As mentioned in a previous post, I can’t drive. I also don’t own my own house, in case anyone’s keeping notes. An eligible bachelor I would not make (thankfully the lack of cock renders this less of a concern than it might otherwise be).

Sometimes the bus driver likes to play a fun little game in which he pretends he’s not going to stop unless I stick my hand out. Because otherwise how could he possibly know I wanted to get on the bus. I mean, I could be just stood there, at the bus stop, looking at the approaching bus, for a multitude of reasons.

So for a few seconds, we become locked in battle of wills. Kind of like playing chicken but with less chance of death involved.

And the driver wins – I stick my arm out and he wins.

The next fun bit comes on the bus itself where I discover I’ve left my MP3 player at home (no, it’s not an iPod, pay attention). You can refer to my previous post regarding chavs on buses for why this is a particular joy.

Once I’ve arrived in town, irritation levels sufficiently aroused, the pedestrian rage kicks in.

Apparently I need to move out of everyone’s way or else risk decapitation by umbrella or bruised ribs from stray bags and arms. The best way to deal with this, I find, is head down, tunnel-vision, barge through with all the grim determination you can muster. If you can’t beat ‘em, etc.

Fast forward to the point where you’re in shop number five, after discovering the previous shops have only size 6 and 26 left in everything, and to the changing rooms.

What I particularly like about the changing room experience is the way the staff usually prefer not to look at you, or speak to you, or acknowledge your existence in any way other than to pass you a tag thingy. I don’t know what the tag thingys are actually called, but I do know where I could shove them to get said changing room attendants’ attention and tear them away from their very important discussion regarding the merits of backcombing your hair and wearing hippy hairbands round your forehead, for one. freaking. minute. Just so I feel like I actually exist and am not simply some figment of my own imagination.  

But I digress.

Another delightful aspect of the changing rooms is the way the lights and mirrors have been especially designed to subtly highlight each and every one of your flaws from every conceivable angle. I enjoy the added roundness the lights and mirrors give my stomach, the extra dimples they add to my thighs, the sallow quality they bring to my complexion and the way in which they really bring out the dark circles under my eyes.

What better way to put you in the mood for buying clothes?

And now they sell chocolates and sweets right by the tills, so you can get to work straight away on making everything look a little bit worse next time. Yay.

I hate her.

So you might think online shopping would be a great way to avoid all this stress and upset. So did I.

Not so however. At least, not if you use www.oli.co.uk. Never, ever, and I repeat once more, EVER, use Oli.co.uk. They are the shittest company I have ever had the misfortune to deal with and they have messed every single step of the shopping process up from start to finish.

It’s like someone just told them that the internet existed and they thought ‘ooh, why not, we’ll give it a bash’ which no real further thought than that.

I won’t bore you with the details of every way in which they’ve fucked up so far because it would take too long. But suffice to say, their multitude of fuck-ups include sending my parcel to the wrong address and then suggesting I “email the internet” when I called to resolve this matter (what I would have said to ‘the internet’ I’m not sure, a general enquiry as to its health perhaps?), arranging for a courier to collect a return from my business address and then informing me two days later that they don’t collect from business addresses, arranging for the courier to collect from my home address instead and then not turning up, only for the courier to turn up today. AT MY BUSINESS ADDRESS.

I mean, really. Please could you mess it up a little bit more just so I can be totally certain you really are the biggest bunch of inept bastards I’ve ever dealt with? As a suggestion, you could fail to refund me. That would polish off my experience with you nicely.

I’ve since learned that Oli are owned by the same people as Freemans and Grattan, traditional catalogue companies, which confirms my suspicion that these guys have just tried to tag on the online service without a dedicated customer service made up of staff who, at the very least, grasp the basic concept of the internet.

Their barf-inducing standard customer service email which I received after ordering my clothes, when I was still in a state of blissful ignorance and had no idea of the trials and tribulations to come, nauseatingly suggested I call a customer service number “with any questions, but we’re not so hot on algebra “. Oh piss off. And wipe that stupid winky smile off your face too, because apparently you’re not too hot on customer service either are you? Arseholes.

So yeah – Oli.co.uk are wank. Do not use them.

Also this week, I learnt I could potentially secure discounted hot beverages for life. However, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion I would be expected to offer my company in return. Which would essentially make me a prostitute, and a very cheap one at that, so I’m thinking I might pass.

Still, nice to know I’ve got another career path to consider if this copywriting malarkey goes tits up.