Smellmycheese's Blog

Posts Tagged ‘mobile phones

Hello campers.

Someone said today that I should write for my blog more often, so I thought I’d sit down and start typing and just sort of see what happened. I hadn’t factored in ‘accidentally’ drinking lots of hot mulled wine beforehand however, so who knows how this post will turn out or what the hell it’ll be about…

Think of it as an adventure!  But rather than anticipating one of those fun adventures that leave you feeling invigorated and exhilarated, it would probably be better if you thought of it as one of those adventures that leave you feeling empty, cold, and a little bit dead inside.

As well as being inspired by one person flattering my huge and yet frighteningly fragile ego, I decided to blog this snowy evening because my laptop has come back from the laptop doctor, i.e. my mate Dave (everyone’s got a mate Dave, and I’m no exception) and finally appears to work, after months of sporadically turning itself off at the most inopportune of moments, i.e. at the climactic point of a really good bit of po…ttery.

And no one wants to be cut off at the crucial moment in a vase making scene. It’s just cruel.

So yeah, my laptop seems to work again now. The technical diagnosis? Dust. Yes, ‘dust’. (I can only hope this isn’t a euphemism for ‘crap loads of pottery downloads’.)

Check out the jugs on THAT.

I’ve got a history of being horrendously shit with my belongings as it happens.  A sophisticated lady like you?! (I hear you cry) I literally do NOT believe it. I know, I know. But it is sadly true.

New mobile phone? I’ll throw that in the toilet and then leave the replacement in a bar. iPod? I’ll leave that on a plane on the way to Turkey then put the next one through a warm colour spin. Laptop? I’ll use it as a handy dinner plate and then shove dust into it (apparently).

It’s not just items of a technical nature I have a particular knack with however, I’m also pretty good with clothes. Take my favourite daytime dress, for example, which I ‘lost’ for a good month. I texted my friends, family, friends’ friends and friends’ friends’ pets’ babysitters, all on the off chance I had left said garment somewhere and forgotten.

To no avail!

Unsurprising really, considering it was in my (not at all large) wardrobe the whole time. In my defence though, it had cunningly disguised itself behind a small cardigan.

Well I’m not bloody Columbo am I? Jesus.

These things I do with such startling consistency often make me wonder how I function from day to day. I find myself looking for my mobile phone when I’m ON my mobile phone, for example, with frightening frequency. Something which would be acceptable if I was on the wrong side of my 70s, as opposed to the wrong side of my 20s.
There are a million and one more examples of my apparent inability to function as a real life working human being that I could list, but the mulled wine is kicking in and, quite frankly, that pottery’s not going to watch itself.
Over and out kids, and remember, put something on the end of it.

Before we begin the ‘fun’ I should make it clear that the title of this blog post is a purposely misleading lie. I didn’t. If that’s why you’re here, you should probably leave now as there will be no love involved. Only bitterness and resentment.

Anyway. Phones. Phones are good aren’t they? These days they can do all sorts: go on the internet, take photos, play music, make you cups of tea, wash your feet, cut your toe nails.

All of these things are great and much appreciated, of course. But it would be really great if they made phone calls and sent texts with some degree of reliability too. Just for a laugh like.

Because, let’s face it: I’ve got a computer, I’ve got a camera, I’ve got an MP3 player, I’ve got a kettle, I’ve got a flannel and I’ve got nail scissors. However, I haven’t got anything else that can call people or send text messages; that’s what I got a phone for.

The latest pile of Sony Ericsson-branded crap, masquerading as a mobile phone, that I have in my possession is the sixth I’ve had on this contract alone. Granted, once or twice I may have dropped my mobile phone somewhere like down a pub toilet, but on all other occasions my phone simply rendered itself useless due to massive Sony Ericsson and Orange FAIL.

The first Sony Ericsson started turning itself off at randomised intervals after a few months of being in my ownership.

(I should come clean at this point and admit that I chose it mainly because it was pink. The people at Orange assured me that it was also very high tech and top-of-the-range, however. “Oh good”, I said, “how marvellous”. “Just to clarify once more, is it pink?” “Yes”, they said, and sent me my high tech, top-of-the-range and, most importantly, PINK, phone.)

I didn’t think to ask whether it would actually work, however. SILLY ME.


It didn’t of course. Not after a few months, anyway. And so began the long and torturous process of dealing with Orange. The future may be bright, Orange staff are not.

(That’s not necessarilly true actually. The staff I dealt with over my several hundred calls to Orange customer ‘care’ were of moderate intelligence for the most part. I just wanted to make a joke using the word ‘bright’. Well worth it. )

And so, the cycle began:

Orange: “Hello. Customer care! Can I take your name, password, address, date of birth, dog’s breath type, favourite pasty filling and the circumference of your left toe (the third one in from the middle)?”

Me: “Don’t you need to know what’s wrong so you can put me through to the right department first?”

Orange: “No. Please answer all the questions.”

Me: “Oh, okay, my mistake. Me, Barry Chuckle is my Dad, Leeds, the eighties, don’t have one, jam, two and a half.”

Orange: “Lovely. Now how can we help you?”

Me: “My phone’s not working. It keeps switching itself off”

Orange:” Oh dear, that’s no good. I’ll just pass you through to the right department. BYE BYE.”

Repeat questions & answers once more.

Orange: “Right, we’re going to run a high tech and very specialist DIAGNOSTIC now. Don’t worry, we don’t expect you to understand, you haven’t been specially trained to do DIAGNOSTICS like we have.

“Now. Switch your phone on and off again.”

“Done that? “

Me: “Yes.”

Orange: “Is it working now?”

Me: “No.”

Orange: “Yeah, it’s broken. We’ll send you another one.”

Me: “But you’ve sent me this model four times now and I’ve had the exact same problem each time.”

Orange: “Yes, this model of Sony Ericsson has had a lot of problems unfortunately. But you can’t get a different model until we enter the same DIAGNOSTIC code five consectutive times in a row”

Me: “So, can’t you tell me what the code is and I’ll make sure I tell the next person to enter it next time my phone inevitably has the same problem and I call for a replacement”

Orange: “No. We don’t know it. It’s automatically generated based on the answers you give us during the DIAGNOSTIC and then the computer says yes or no to a new model.”

Me: “So you’re telling me the computer says no?”

Orange: “Yes. Bye now!”

On the fifth instance of my phone messing up, I got sent a different Sony Ericsson model. Which has now stopped working for the second time.


Mercifully, I’m due an upgrade.

So I can look forward to locking myself into another relentless 18 month round of phone calls to Orange customer care, many, many diagnostics and a phone that promises the world and yet fails to deliver those most basic of phone-related human needs: to text and to call.

Hip hip hoo freaking ray.

I took a trip to the cinema recently and it reminded me why I hate people.

When I say ‘people’, I don’t mean me. And I don’t mean you, if I like you. (If I don’t like you, I definitely do mean you). No, I mean the ‘general public’.

Before we get into why people are rubbish however, I’d like to address the issue of why cinemas themselves are rubbish. Beginning with the fact that there is nothing to drink for under £2.50. Nothing, that is, other than tap water from the urine stained toilets or cartons of juice, which are about £1.80 and, on this occasion, had sold out. Naturally.

The only other place to get a drink from at this time was the Starbucks across the road, which, as we all know, charges approximately eighteen pounds for some Kenco tarted up with syrup and served by alternative student types who are smiley and ‘happy’, presumably in some sort of an ironic fashion.

The handy thing was that it was around thirty five degrees Celsius in the cinema, seemingly in order to speed up the spreading of as many different types of cough and cold virus as possible. As a result, I was forced to buy an overpriced drink. But you can’t beat me that easily. I purchased a small Diet Coke, with no ice. Thus maximising liquid to cash ratio. Hell yeah, sticking it to the man.

After all that slowly sipped small Diet Coke, the inevitable happened: I instantly needed the toilet. Which were located a corridor and two flights of stairs away. How convenient. Seriously, can these places not cater for those, such as myself, who are cursed with the bladder capacity of a pensioner? And indeed, pensioners themselves! Although, you never really see old dears at the flicks do you? Why is that? Maybe it all went downhill once ‘talkies’ were introduced.

Actually, after seeing The Ugly Truth not so long ago, I’m almost inclined to agree.

The Ugly Truth is a Gerard Butler/Katherine Heigl film and literally one of the worst things I have ever done with my eyes. Buy it on DVD for someone you really hate or watch it if you’re bored of your brain and want to kill it slowly with terrible acting, shit stereotypes, crap clichés and horrendous dialogue.

The Ugly Truth about this film is that it will make you wish you had been born without eyes, ears, a brain or nose (just in case you can smell how shit it is).

Anyway, I digress. Back to why I hate some other stuff.

Oh yes: very overweight child eating various packets of noisy food ALL the way through the film. What a marvellous way to occupy your obese infant; give him several packets of junk food to ‘keep him going’ for a strenuous two hours of sitting.

I’m being terribly judgemental of course. For all I know, they could have been off to a badminton class afterwards. Or KFC.

The man three seats away from me was a particular joy too. The way his phone kept lighting up like a fun little torch when he checked it for texts every fifteen minutes really added to the plot of the film and enhanced my viewing experience no end.

His too, I would imagine. What better way to really get involved in a film that you’ve paid nine pounds, yes, that’s NINE English pounds, to see, than by texting your friends all the way through it?

All of these factors conspired to bring me to the realisation that the cinema has the potential to be a very stressful place for a person like me. If someone so much as touches my chair or whispers too loudly, that’s it.  I’m then on edge, waiting for them to do it again, totally distracted  from the film.

Quite what the answer to this is, I don’t know. I could watch DVDs from now on and never go to the cinema again. Or I could not let other people bother me…

Obviously what I’ll actually do is carry on getting very annoyed at people and life and let all the irritation build up inside like a healthy volcano of rage until I explode and suffocate someone with their own Haribo Tangfastics.


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