By the time you’re reading this we will be once again connected to the world wide Intraweb, but not before our provider has taken his sweet time getting here. You would be forgotten for thinking with that kind of delay I must live out in the wop wops somewhere, or in a third world even. But I don’t. J Town might be a shithole (and it is) but it’s hardly war torn Mogadishu, no one has to run the gauntlet of AK47 fire to get here. I actually live so close to my provider that I could drive there and back quicker than it took me to log the fault.
The problem, I figured, lied with our modem. I believe the technical term is ‘that it’s fucked’, something I deduced very early on. I’m no Stephen Hawking but I do know the odd tid bit about computers, on account of me having worked on a technical Help Desk for the last five years. It might not be Pointdexter HQ, my work, but I’ve picked up enough nous in my time to usually work out where the fault lies.
But in this instance it’s actually the provider’s policy on modem replacements that is really at fault. I didn’t know before hand but they appear to adhere to the strip bar model of engagement; you may look and enjoy the feeling that the modem brings i.e. the Internet, but you must never touchy touchy the modem. Never.
The problem was, as I conveyed to the guy on the phone (Terry), who was trying desperately hard to work out what I already knew, was that not only had I fondled the modem, but I had swapped it with the one we have that runs the cable through the TV. Now, in his eyes, not only had I touched the titty, I had spilt my drink all over it.
So seeing as we were both in agreement that the thing was on the dole (not working), could he courier me another I asked? No. No and no. ‘The technician would have to come and swap it out because only the technician is allowed to touch it’. The technician it would seem, is the bouncer of the titty bar, who can touchy touchy the boob whenever he wants and indeed does so, right in front of you, after having just thrown you out on your arse because you went all maternal on that nunga.
Naturally by this stage I was getting quite miffed at the complete lack of customer friendly service I was receiving. I won’t lie to you, up until that moment I was prepared to not mention the fact that I had been put on hold several, lengthy times, all of which had only led me to wonder if Terry was the kind of guy who genuinely wonders if getting married means you have to show your wife your penis. I don’t mean to whack on about it but I have worked in ICT help long enough to know that if you’re putting someone on hold that many times for that long then you probably have no fucking clue as to what you’re doing.
Terry, despite his rugged good looks, was not one to be easily talked round to reason (but then the slow never are) and so reluctantly I awaited the technician who was scheduled to arrive five days (three working) after my titty, I mean modem, stopped producing the goods. Not that his arrival was any sure thing either, Terry gave me a three hour window in which he might arrive, because turning up on time it would seem, as scheduled, really would be too fucking much to ask.
No surprise then that even that didn’t go smoothly. I arrived home on Tuesday to find a calling card advising me that the tech had been, a whole day earlier than scheduled and could I call to arrange another suitable time? Yes. Yes I could and when I did I was none to cordial either. I’m not a violent man and I loathe being a prick on the phone but some companies are just gagging to be talked dirty to I find.
Luckily, this particular fairytale has a happy ending and not just because the Net is back on and the porn is a streaming. A nice Asian man rocked up today, early too and has hooked his Caucasian brother back up.
Incidentally it turns out it wasn’t the modem at fault, but rather a junction plug in the box on the wall outside. Luckily they didn’t send me a new modem because that would have just annoyed me even more......
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