Recently, a 'member of the public' has asked Essex County Council to explain why there are swastikas carved into the stonework on County Hall at Chelmsford, and describing them as "potentially offensive". Apparently, the potentially offensive Hakenkreutze were carved prior to the outbreak of WW2 in 1939, but quite why is not yet clear.
What is almost certain is that this is probably the first time that anyone's complained - and probably the first time anyone's noticed. It seems odd, too, that the complainant seems to require anonymity - almost as if he or she is expecting to be branded petty and nanny-ish. So - is it a storm in a tea-cup, caused by one of these serial moaners (you know, the type that deluges the local newspaper editor with letters that begin "Dear Sir, I note with concern............) - or is it time that these symbols were erased lest the public take offense? And if it is, then why has it not been mentioned before?
I very much suspect that the vast majority of people either (i) haven't noticed them, or (ii) couldn't care less anyway. There exists the possibility that both are true. My own view - and it is only a personal opinion, and therefore not necessarily right - is that it is the perpetrators of evil who used the swastika as a symbol that are offensive, and, as time passes, people ponder less and less on such matters. In any case, the Nazis did not invent the crooked cross, they simply borrowed it like they borrowed everything else - a sure sign of a cult that has no past, and not a lot of future, either. The Nazis and their borrowed history apart, the swastika has always been a symbol of peace, and, more especially, hope -a 'new awakening'. Of course, if you were one of those tragic people who ended up in a concentration camp, you are unlikely share this opinion or view the swastika with anything other than dread. I understand and respect that, but I also note that no such people appear to have complained to the council.
Here in Colchester, we have a council estate started in 1939, which was completed after the end of the war in Europe. The names of its roads commemorate that war, with Mulberry Way, Roosevelt Way etc. Quite astonishingly, it also boasts a Stalin Road! It's true, look it up, a road named after one of the biggest butchers in history - a man who murdered and tortured his fellow countryman - and anyone else who was handy - on a biblical scale. A man who was every bit as ruthless as Hitler and his thugs, and a man whose hands were drenched in the blood of the victims of his pogroms and purges. Have Essex County Council been asked to explain why it named a road after good 'ole 'Uncle Joe'? I don't think so, but now, of course, it's just a matter of time.
The thought occurs that a phobia for swastikas is not a healthy thing, for a phobia is, after all, a fear, and the scum that hid behind these crosses do not deserve fear. Better, I think, to do what everyone has obviously done for the past seventy-five years, which is ignore them.
Besides, if they're going to spend money on chiselling them all off, I'd rather they filled in some potholes.
Thursday, 27 February 2014
Saturday, 22 February 2014
Virginity Lost
It's true, I tell you! As of today, I am no longer a Virgin (customer), and there will be no further Virginity in this house. None. As for the other virginity - you know, the one you're all sniggering about - that went years ago, and so it should have, as neither of us ever found any particular use for it.
The Virgin I refer to is, of course, Virgin Media, which is, I believe, owned by that nice Mr Branson. I have suffered their utterly abysmal customer service and faulty billing department (I can't in all honesty give it the name 'Accounts' on account of the fact that they haven't a clue) since God was a boy - or so it seems. I started of with the late and unlamented NTL (Nasty, Testicular & Lacklustre), and and had high hopes that things would improve (they couldn't have got worse) when Tricky Dicky took over. To an extent, things did seem a little better, but sadly, it was not to last.
Having resisted several attempts by Virgin to bill me twice for the same month, I recently had cause to attempt to communicate with what they somewhat euphemistically term their 'Customer Service Department'. This was rather like Indiana Jones attempting to raid the Temple of Doom or such-like, with the difference that the splendid Mr Jones would, I'm sure, have been successful, whereas I was not. To say that I failed would be an understatement - it was a fiasco of biblical proportions.
Firstly, it would appear that there are two separate sets of 'operatives' - one set in Glasgow, and one in Mumbai or thereabouts. This results in one being spoken to by (i) someone who sounds like Rab C Nesbit on amphetamines, or (ii) someone who sounds like Ghandi chewing a sock. Of course, it's impossible to know who is calling from which country. Now I'm in no way being racist when I talk about accents - I suppose I'd sound strange to someone born in India, particularly if I attempted to speak Urdu, and I know we sound odd to Glaswegians, some of whom have referred to me as "a southern pansy" - but I do question the suitability of someone with a particularly heavy accent working in department that relies heavily on mutual understanding of the spoken word, and in particular, English.
It is, of course, something of an achievment to even reach anything approaching a humanoid life-form, as one reviewer described them, because Virgin has a wonderful automated call system which enables you to listen to awful, distorted, crap, music for hours on end, whilst at the same time ensuring that your call gets through to (i) the completely wrong person, (ii) to a choice you have not selected, (iii) to a choice you have selected but is absolutely inappropriate - but the choice you wanted wasn't there, or (iiii) no-one at all. Ever. Lost in the ether. Still - probably - ringing a dust-covered phone in some long-forgotten office which now contains only spiders, a long-dead pot-plant, and the ghostly whispers of unanswered calls.
"I'm sorry, but all our operators are busy right now, but your call is important to us (yeah, right), so please hold, and someone will be with you shortly". So claimed a lady with a lilting Scots accent. We have spoken before, but she always leaves me stranded. She is a recording, but she is a human voice in a lonely world of musak and strangulated Mozart, and,for a moment, I am comforted.
Days later - or so it seems - my reverie is interrupted by the staccato voice of a gentleman who claims his name is Edward, although in all probability it is Gupta. The dread is like ice down the back of the neck - the awful realisation that Glasgow has retired hurt and has dispatched my wracked soul to the Indian Sub-Continent. I can barely understand Edward - or Gupta either - and what is worse, it appears that I'm having the same effect on him! I cannot shout at him - I do not have the heart. He is doing his best - probably for very little money - and his knowledge of English is quite good, but the poor chap cannot make himself understood to me - an Englishman - and because I do not speak English with a heavy Indian accent, he cannot understand me.
I quietly thank 'Edward' for his time before we confuse each other further, and hang up. 'Tis over. 'Tis enough, and I am offski, pal. My announcement to leave Virgin is greeted with numerous phone calls asking me what they can do to make me stay. Well, nothing, really, and especially not when you tot up the minuses; non-existent customer service, a set-top box which still carries the legend 'NTL' - and a remote that has the same - a massive monthly bill, and a complete inability to understand or comply with the needs of the customer. Mediocre TV with poor buffering (but in fairness, only ever on the channels you really want to watch), and technical support which consists of the phrase "unplug you modem for ten seconds and see if that works"
I am amazed how this week has turned out, the transition to Sky has been seamless, their support and customer service enviable, and whether you like the Murdoch empire or not, this much is true: Sky are so very good at what they do that it seems that they can't be beaten, and Virgin look like rubbish beside them because - in my experience - that is what they are. You can't turn them off and start with a blank canvas, so how they can be improved is beyond me.
Now I've lost my Virginity, the Sky's the limit, which would be about the most naff joke in the world if it wasn't true.
The Virgin I refer to is, of course, Virgin Media, which is, I believe, owned by that nice Mr Branson. I have suffered their utterly abysmal customer service and faulty billing department (I can't in all honesty give it the name 'Accounts' on account of the fact that they haven't a clue) since God was a boy - or so it seems. I started of with the late and unlamented NTL (Nasty, Testicular & Lacklustre), and and had high hopes that things would improve (they couldn't have got worse) when Tricky Dicky took over. To an extent, things did seem a little better, but sadly, it was not to last.
Having resisted several attempts by Virgin to bill me twice for the same month, I recently had cause to attempt to communicate with what they somewhat euphemistically term their 'Customer Service Department'. This was rather like Indiana Jones attempting to raid the Temple of Doom or such-like, with the difference that the splendid Mr Jones would, I'm sure, have been successful, whereas I was not. To say that I failed would be an understatement - it was a fiasco of biblical proportions.
Firstly, it would appear that there are two separate sets of 'operatives' - one set in Glasgow, and one in Mumbai or thereabouts. This results in one being spoken to by (i) someone who sounds like Rab C Nesbit on amphetamines, or (ii) someone who sounds like Ghandi chewing a sock. Of course, it's impossible to know who is calling from which country. Now I'm in no way being racist when I talk about accents - I suppose I'd sound strange to someone born in India, particularly if I attempted to speak Urdu, and I know we sound odd to Glaswegians, some of whom have referred to me as "a southern pansy" - but I do question the suitability of someone with a particularly heavy accent working in department that relies heavily on mutual understanding of the spoken word, and in particular, English.
It is, of course, something of an achievment to even reach anything approaching a humanoid life-form, as one reviewer described them, because Virgin has a wonderful automated call system which enables you to listen to awful, distorted, crap, music for hours on end, whilst at the same time ensuring that your call gets through to (i) the completely wrong person, (ii) to a choice you have not selected, (iii) to a choice you have selected but is absolutely inappropriate - but the choice you wanted wasn't there, or (iiii) no-one at all. Ever. Lost in the ether. Still - probably - ringing a dust-covered phone in some long-forgotten office which now contains only spiders, a long-dead pot-plant, and the ghostly whispers of unanswered calls.
"I'm sorry, but all our operators are busy right now, but your call is important to us (yeah, right), so please hold, and someone will be with you shortly". So claimed a lady with a lilting Scots accent. We have spoken before, but she always leaves me stranded. She is a recording, but she is a human voice in a lonely world of musak and strangulated Mozart, and,for a moment, I am comforted.
Days later - or so it seems - my reverie is interrupted by the staccato voice of a gentleman who claims his name is Edward, although in all probability it is Gupta. The dread is like ice down the back of the neck - the awful realisation that Glasgow has retired hurt and has dispatched my wracked soul to the Indian Sub-Continent. I can barely understand Edward - or Gupta either - and what is worse, it appears that I'm having the same effect on him! I cannot shout at him - I do not have the heart. He is doing his best - probably for very little money - and his knowledge of English is quite good, but the poor chap cannot make himself understood to me - an Englishman - and because I do not speak English with a heavy Indian accent, he cannot understand me.
I quietly thank 'Edward' for his time before we confuse each other further, and hang up. 'Tis over. 'Tis enough, and I am offski, pal. My announcement to leave Virgin is greeted with numerous phone calls asking me what they can do to make me stay. Well, nothing, really, and especially not when you tot up the minuses; non-existent customer service, a set-top box which still carries the legend 'NTL' - and a remote that has the same - a massive monthly bill, and a complete inability to understand or comply with the needs of the customer. Mediocre TV with poor buffering (but in fairness, only ever on the channels you really want to watch), and technical support which consists of the phrase "unplug you modem for ten seconds and see if that works"
I am amazed how this week has turned out, the transition to Sky has been seamless, their support and customer service enviable, and whether you like the Murdoch empire or not, this much is true: Sky are so very good at what they do that it seems that they can't be beaten, and Virgin look like rubbish beside them because - in my experience - that is what they are. You can't turn them off and start with a blank canvas, so how they can be improved is beyond me.
Now I've lost my Virginity, the Sky's the limit, which would be about the most naff joke in the world if it wasn't true.
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