Amazon.co.uk #fail

I got my Dad two brilliant books for Father’s Day. He’ll love them, if amazon.co.uk and their “premium” courier company, ShittyLink, ever actually get around to delivering them.

The story so far = two failed delivery attempts + a wasted day + a stinking email complaint + a grovelling reply.

But still no books.

Bring forth the sarcasm and the crying child: 

Thanks for your last email. I was consoled. 

Briefly. 

However, my father has had to continually ring Citylink and (having stayed in all day as he said he would) has now found out that the parcel has been in Rotherham all day. Poor parcel. But that’s beside the point. 

So – you (or rather your courier) didn’t manage to leave a note when they allegedly came to deliver the parcel on Saturday, didn’t fulfill their obligation to deliver after 10:30am on Monday and have failed to show up at all today despite my Dad wasting his entire day at home. 

In summary, it’s not great, is it? 

You know, I actually have no problem when things sometimes go awry. It happens to all of us from time to time. I used to work in a hospital lab and once almost killed a patient by mistake. (She got better). But when a company has one task – namely to courier goods from one place to another, not anything as taxing as therapeutic drug monitoring (which is really difficult and can easily go wrong) – and they mess it up time and time and time again, it annoys me. When they repeatedly waste the time and effort of their customers, that annoys me more. And when they claim to be offering this as a “premium service” – well, it’s just like some sort of sick joke, isn’t it?
I want to laugh, but I can’t. I hurt too much.

Truly, it probably doesn’t even matter when this order turns up now. You’ve ruined Father’s Day for my Dad; you’ve wasted an entire day of his life today and you’ve wasted his money in having to chase your “premium” courier company all over South Yorkshire on the phone. 

My 3 year old son keeps asking why Granddad hasn’t said thank you for his books. I told him that the useless company I ordered them from couldn’t get their arses into gear to organise a simple delivery. He cried. Copiously.
I reckon that’s basically a whole lifetime of potential orders you’ve lost – and who can blame him? 

I look forward to hearing how you plan to sort this out.

It’s raining here in Cape Town, I’m off to the rugby this evening and have plans for tomorrow as well, so I’d appreciate some sort of solution preferably within 48 minutes and not the 48 hours you promised in your last email. 

Yours, in foolishly optimistic anticipation,

6k.

I’m actually really disappointed. I’ve only used amazon.co.uk three times over the past year or so and this is the second time that they’ve let me down. Suffice to say, it’s going to take a lot to get me to use them again.

Tomorrow: my next letter to them, because the books blatantly aren’t going to arrive plus a report on what could be the muddiest game of rugby ever. It’s been raining HEAVILY for 24 hours all over Newlands. Handling errors deluxe.

Why I heart technology

So today is the big day when the red half of Sheffield and the claret and blue whole of Burnley descend on Wembley Stadium in London for the Championship play-off final – a match worth anything up to £60 million to the winners.
I did want to go, I did look at flights, I did not think I could afford it. So I’m watching on TV.

My dad and my brother are going though. Lucky bar-stewards – they’re almost through Nottinghamshire on the M1 already.

The plan was for them to park at Watford and catch the metropolitan line through to Wembley Park. Which would have been great, except for the Bank Holiday engineering work which means that line is closed.
Cue a mildly concerned sms from my Dad and cue me swinging into action.

First, check the reports of engineering work on the real-time interactive tfl tube map. They’re true. Moor Park is utterly buggered.
Then, use the regular tube map to choose an alternative route.

Use Skype to  call Dad on his cellphone and suggest Hillingdon as an alternative. He asks for a postcode for the station, which I google and find, then sms him via Skype as we chat. He types it into the satnav and they have instant directions.

5 minutes from that first sms: sorted. All from 6,000 miles away. I heart technology.

Now, COME ON YOU RED AND WHITE WIZZZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAARDS!

Tears…

One part joy, two parts relief.
Well done, boys!

More tomorrow…

It’s tomorrow, and here’s the match report, featuring some sporting words from Preston manager Alan Irvine:

I can’t speak for previous play-offs and it wasn’t down to luck this time in any case.
Sheffield United were better than us in both games and deserved to go through overall.

Compare and contrast that with Didier Drogba…

Written on my Sony Ericsson XPERIA X1 after one of the most nerve-wracking 45 minutes of my football-watching life.

You fill up my senses…

Today’s the day.

At 1315 BST, Sheffield United will kick off their game at Crystal Palace and about several miles away, Reading will kick off against Birmingham City. Between them, the results of these two games will determine who will be promoted into the Premiership.
This might not have a huge impact on your day, but it is already having a huge effect on mine. I can’t eat anything (apart from bagels for breakfast and a satsuma), I can’t drink anything (although, if I’m fair, I have managed a couple of cups of coffee) and I can’t sleep. But that’s because I have a teething daughter.

A touch of spice is added by the fact that the manager of Crystal Palace is a lifelong Sheffield United fan and therefore wants Palace to win (as it’s his job) and United to win (because of his emotional ties).
And before anyone says – “Well, how about a draw, then?”, that won’t be good enough for United. 

So – all to play for and it is thus, I sing the Oath of Allegiance:

You fill up my senses…
Like a gallon of Magnet.
Like a packet of Woodbines.
Like a good pinch of snuff.
Like a night out in Sheffield.
Like a greasy chip butty.
Like Sheffield United.
Come fill me again.

And now I must go, because my daughter is hitting herself repeatedly over the head with an orange  plastic cricket bat. That’s the influence of the IPL.