What happened to Broadband?

You may have noticed it has been a little while since I have reflected on life’s meanderings. Since my last post I have relocated from the slightly lethargic surroundings of Chadwell Heath to the cosmopolitan hellway that is home to the 2012 Olympics, namely Stratford.

Now, you would have thought that with the impending arrival of the world (and their sniffer dogs) in under two years that attention would have been paid to technological infrastructure in the surrounding area. Unfortunately this is not the case, and even more worrying is Virgin’s inability to tell whether or not a property will support broadband.

So, thank you Virgin, for sending two men to drill a hole in my wall; for telling me that the engineer will fix the problem with 48 hours; for asking if I can take time off work for the engineer to come around 72 hours after the original date; for the engineer who arrived, one hour after the agreed window had elapsed only to tell me they should never had installed the broadband unit in the first place due to being in an unsupported area; and finally to the wonderful customer service staff who didn’t seem in the slightest bit interested in losing a customer during a time of severe economic instability.

I have resorted to a damn dongle and frankly snail mail is quicker in some circumstances.

Virgin?

Definitely, because all you do is blow…

Hot, Ripe. Summer in the Shitty.

…and here’s the deal, London stinks. Not metaphorically, not in an analogous sense. It genuinely smells. Smells bad.

I leave my house at 5:30am and am almost immediately confronted with some kind of food waste wagon that carries an aroma not too dissimilar to both rotting vegetables and consciences.

Less than half a mile further I am greeted with that wonderful pungency of dog excrement, although I suspect it isn’t dog. Possibly something restricted to two legs, at least during the hours of daylight.

It’s bad gentle viewers, I mean bordering on stomach churning bad. Fortunately my trusty steed takes me away in record time until…

More crap; this time general London commuter shit. Did you know that London commuters smell before they’ve even entered the office? Cars, buses, BO from red-light running cyclists (not me I hasten to add). It’s awful and it’s here to stay. Ladies, gentlemen, small strange beings from Alpha Centuri: please shower before leaving the house. This city is ripe enough without you adding to it.

The Rat Race.

I went for a walk on my lunch break today. I’ve been meaning to look at Tobacco Dock in Wapping for a little while so out I strode, only to discover this potential tourist attraction effectively boarded up. If any one wants to open a shop they’re more than welcome; plenty of space, and employee overheads are currently at a minimum. Only one “security guard” to keep the tourists away.

Unbeaten I decided to search further afield. I discovered hidden waterside apartments, black lagoons (okay, Shadwell Basin, but the water was very black), and even some fauna that was not restricted to bi-pedal movements. Had it been a sunnier day it may have been a very pleasant walk.

Here it is…

But. It’s very noisy. Very noisy. There is a noise that sounds like a wheezing emphysema sufferer thumping their lungs metronomically against a brick wall in a futile attempt to undo all those hard years in servitude to the cause of their ailment. I wish it had been that sufferer because the truth became as troubling as if I’d landed on the Golgafrincham ‘B’ Ark.

The cause? Joggers. Joggers, more joggers, and yet even more joggers. Clearly all out out on their own respective lunch breaks. An hour away from the cubicle-cells to the exercise yard (that just happens to be someone’s home) that is, at any other time of day, a peaceful residential area.

Now, I might sound a little Prole-ier than thou in saying this but I was timely reminded of the film scene where Brian of Nazareth vainly attempts to convince the multitudes that they’re all individuals and yes, they’re all different.

I stopped feeling sorry for the home-owners and pitied (albeit briefly) the repetitive strain of corporate identity.

X & Y

Chromosomally speaking I possess both.  I am however an X generationally speaking, and am at a loss to understand how possession of a Y turns you into an idiot, at least according to TV.

Allow me to explain. There has been a trend developing as our younger, happy-go-lucky Generation Y-ers go about their business and look for new entertaining shiny things with which to distract and amuse. Maybe that should be a-muse (as in without thought)?

Take the new and improved (yes, I’m aware it can’t be both) working of Dr. Who. The Doctor is so young that he makes Dr. Dorian (Scrubs) look like a walnut. He’s been getting younger during this new run as well (Ecclestone ’64, Tennant ’71, Smith ’82). What is it about older people? Are we no longer marketable? Are we not buying and therefore should not be sold too? Perhaps it’s because anyone over the age of thirty-five becomes so twisted and cynical that it’s impossible for them to be lied to anymore. That can’t be true either, I know some of them and their heads are well and truly in the sand.

Back to the XX. Have you also noticed that with few exceptions, the one notable being Bernard Cribbins, all the companions have been strong independent-minded women? Not only that but they always seem to have a wet, stupid boyfriend in tow.

I don’t get it. Why are girls being told that all men are stupid (unless they’re a handsome Time-Lord who, I hasten to add, is not human)? Why are we constantly portrayed in television-land as retarded man-children?

This is no country for old men…

The Fever.

Do you have the fever? Yes, Summer Fever struck the U.K. with a vengeance this weekend sending millions of Britons into a frenzy of Bar-B-Qs and ridiculously pink tan-lines. Yes, I’m aware that it should be “barbecue”, sadly most of East London does not.

So I indulged my own rising body temperature and ventured to the local Sainsbury. I have fortunately never witnessed a plague of locusts devour a field of crops with insatiable lust but I have seen Summer Fever and it cannot be far removed from the former. The masses, charging their respective trolleys up and down the fresh meat aisles, clearing shelves as if  it had been announced all meat came from Iceland and a new volcanic plume had threatened its supply, were doing their best to out-Locust the Locusts.

Madness.

I attended a barbecue a couple of weeks ago. It was requested I bring meat. Did I rush to the nearest shop and buy every steak on the shelf? You’re ahead of me aren’t you? Of course I didn’t. I reached into my freezer and pulled out half a pig in sausages. All reduced for quick sale, all quality stock. Why run around as if your life depends upon lighting a bag of charcoal briquettes when you can take advantage of all year round sales and produce the goodies when the need rises?

East London – Mostly Harmless.

I name this ship…

…The World According to Nirgal.  That’s me by the way, Nirgal. Twenty percent papillon; seventy percent human; ten percent unknown. I have been described as,

He has an unfazed pair of eyes that wouldn’t raise much of an eyebrow to space machines landing.
He seemed to regard the unfolding [situation] with matter-of-factness, like a part of lifes great tapestry.
Not quite a giant, but something of a jolly beanstalk all the same with a frame that could probably withstand a pounding.
Always ready with a joke or turn-of-phrase, crude or polished, it made no difference to the Nirgster who emulated something of a cosmic, Monty Python-esque jester.

To be fair he’d only just met me, he’ll learn soon enough…

So, this shall be an account of travails and observations. It might not be pretty; could be a little esoteric; should be me.

It is all personal opinion and should not be regarded as absolute fact.