Now, before I start with my views, I think it important to clarify my particular stance on the subject of the BNP.

First of all, I despise everything the bunch of nasty little shits stand for. Secondly, I’d not lose a minute of sleep if they boarded a plane that mysteriously disappeared over the Bermuda Triangle. I’m not that bothered about their welfare. Thirdly, I think it’s important that I’m allowed to call them a “bunch of nasty little shits” without fear of reprisal.

We kid ourselves that we live in a free society, and we – quite naturally – get very upset when something happens to upset the status quo, particularly when we’ve been relatively content with how quo the status has been.

When the BNP (I can’t bring myself to type out the party’s full name more than once in this entry – I find it offensive that they use the word “British” in their title, as if they represent those of us born or nationalised here)… I’ll start again, as that was far too much of an aside to be easily read: when the BNP won two European Parliamentary seats earlier on this year, I felt ashamed. Not only to be living in the general area where they were elected (“the north”) but also ashamed that nearly a million people in the UK felt that this group of fascist idiots offered more than the other parties running for election. Seriously – how low must the public opinion be of the Tories and Labour, if they’d prefer to allow this bunch of cretinous bigots to represent us in the European parliament!

Now there is outrage that the BNP have been invited to appear on Question Time on the BBC. It is the opinion of many (including a number of close friends of mine) that they should be banned from the programme, as to appear would lend them the appearance of respectability and implied acceptance.

There is a lot of truth in this argument, but the fact remains that the party are a democratically elected body, and if the BBC were to ignore them, just because their policies are offensive to many (not to all, of course – they were elected, after all), or because the BBC has been pressured by other political parties, then this would be tantamount to censorship. It would be the Comics Code all over again – “we don’t mind what you say, as long as we agree with it”. And yes – it’s not art, it’s politics, and it’s an over-simplification, perhaps, but there is truth there.

I hate the BNP with a passion, but if a line is drawn, and they are not allowed the right of free speech, how long before the line is drawn a little closer, and a little closer, until our own opinions are subject to approval before we are allowed to express them? Or we’re not allowed to express them at all?

The BNP are fascists of the lowest order, but as legally, democratically elected members of a legitimate political body, they have a right to express their opinions on the same stage as their competitor parties. I abhor what they say, but as long as no laws are broken, I’ll defend their right to say it.

I live in York. It’s a beautiful city, and I’m lucky enough to live in a particularly nice part of it. The only time I don’t actively relish living here, though, is on race day. York has a quite famous racecourse, and my house lies firmly on the route from racecourse to town centre, which means that every drunken yob that attends the race meeting is pretty much guaranteed to pass behind my house.

Oh, to be sure, there are some very respectable people that go to York races. I think they must get taxis into town, though. In general (and it is in general), the type of person that walks past on his way from pub to pub, having squandered his hard-earned dole money on the gee-gees, is the sort of person that thinks that wearing a short-sleeved shirt constitutes “dressing up for the races”. That, or the suit that is only ever otherwise seen by magistrates.

There is a small alley that leads from this migratory path, alongside my cluster of houses, and it is generally this alley that these ridiculously out-of-control twats use to piss in (about 30 feet from the local primary school). It’s not completely out of character for them to do it in a group, or for one to decide that pissing isn’t quite enough, and are there any dock leaves handy?

So, this weekend the local council arranged for a row of 5 portaloos to be installed temporarily. Oh, the hilarity when these got knocked over (every 5 fucking minutes), the laughter and the joy from the idiots that believe it’s ok to force a temporary building to the ground just because they can. And oh! How much more fun when there’s someone actually inside one. I mean, what a bunch of cunts.

Don’t get me wrong – statistically-speaking, the person inside is also likely to be a Gareth Hunt, but just put yourself in their place. You’re so desperate for a wee (or more) that you subject yourself to the indignity of using a portaloo that is situated on the flight path of the common-or-garden-twat. You settle yourself down inside a room so small that your stomach could touch the door if you breathed in too deeply, and you arrange your feet so that your trousers – once lowered – don’t trail in too much of someone else’s urine or vomit. You then find yourself falling backwards as the whole building falls over, piss, shit and vomit swirling around your feet, and then your back and arms. Twats.

But now for the cunt de resistance…

We overlook my daughter’s school and playground. It is easily the best primary school in York and arguably one of the best in the country. On Thursday, a 5-year-old from my daughter’s class was almost abducted. It was after school, and most of her friends were in the playground. Her mother was there, too, sitting on the bench, breastfeeding her baby. MDF (my daughter’s friend) needed to go to the toilet, and like 5-yr-olds everywhere, she couldn’t wait until she got home, so her mother (like parents of 5-yr-olds everywhere) told her to go behind a tree. The tree in question was maybe 150yards away, and she was within sight of her mother at all times.

A man approached her, and said that if she went with him, he’d give her a motorbike. First of all, cunt. Secondly, a motorbike? Jesus! Know your target audience, cunt! That might work on a lad, but what a stupid lure for a 5-yr-old girl! So, he was evidently not a particularly bright cunt, but a cunt nonetheless.

MDF played her part brilliantly. She didn’t say anything to the man, but ran straight back to her mother and told her everything. She even gave (for a 5-yr-old) a pretty good description to the police. We’re told they took someone in for questioning the following day, but we’ve no news other than that.

This girl could have been murdered. Worse, she could have been abused before she was murdered. If that sounds like an exaggeration, think about what the man wanted, why he attempted to lure this girl away from her mother and friends in broad daylight. I’m pretty damn certain a motorbike wasn’t really in the offing.

So now everyone is on red alert. Parents are being extra vigilant, and children are being reminded about stranger danger. There has been a bigger police presence near the school (two men, caught videoing the school, ran away when approached by police), and everyone is more aware of the danger that cunts like this pose to unsuspecting children, who would never in their lives get over the ordeal these scumbags would put them through – if they lived through it, that is.

On a smaller scale, innocence is being eroded across the board, and children are being molly-coddled even more. My own daughter, who usually gets collected by a friend and taken to the playground, is now being brought home straight after school, as the friend has her two children to look after, and – understandably – does not want the added risk and responsibility of looking after someone else’s child for half and hour when she is now having to watch her own children even more closely than she was before. I’d probably do the same, in her shoes.

It’s difficult to know what I would do if I managed to accost someone who was behaving in a suspicious manner outside the school, or who started talking to a child near the school – near my home! It’s sad, because every man becomes a suspect. I love kids, and my natural inclination when out and about, is to smile at a child my daughter’s age, if they’re with their parents. I now hold myself in check. My own innocence has also been lost, and I suspect it is the same for other men, everywhere. We can’t give smiles any more. And children can’t receive them.

Way to read an email, guys!

Yesterday I had need to change a ticket booking due to a sick child. Rather than simply drive to the train station, I thought I’d call National Rail enquiries. After all, why waste a trip?

“Hello,” I said, “I wonder if you can help me.” And wonder, I did. “I need to change the outward date of an Advance ticket. Can you tell me what I need to do?”

“Yes,” came the positive, if somewhat disinterested voice at the other end, “you need to visit your local ticket office.”

“Ok, thank you.”

So visit it, I did, only to be told that in order to change the ticket I must first get a refund, and then buy a new one. The refund can only be obtained from the place where it was purchased. Therefore I should check the “how to” instructions online.

For various reasons, I decided not to do this. “How about if I just buy another single, instead? The return is £38. How much is it one way?”

“£37.”

Ah.

“What if I travel at a different time?”

“Well, then it goes down to £15.”

“I’ll have one of those, then, please.”

“There you are, sir. For future reference, you might want to take anything National Rail Enquiries tells you witha pinch of salt. They’re not actually National Rail staff – it’s a BT call centre and they’re always getting things wrong.”

“Right. Thank you.”

And fuck you once again, National Rail. You are a bloody disgrace.

BUT

Onto some news about good customer service…

I have an Acer Aspire One netbook. I’ve had it since about a week after they came out, and love it love it love it! It goes everywhere, Acer and me. Wherever I go, it goes, too. There’s always it and me.

Imagine how devastated I was then, when it refused to boot last week. Devastated, I tell you.

I’m pretty IT-literate, and I quickly determined it was not due to a dead battery, or my inability to recite the Lords Prayer in Welsh while tap-dancing on a trained mule.

I logged onto the Acer website and reported the fault online (luckily I had previously registered the machine, and it remembered all my details). I received clear isntructions on what to do, so I followed them, and the following day (last Friday) my machine was collected from my house by a courier.

I received an email when the machine arrived at Acer Accident and Emergency, and another when it was dispatched back to me. Acer will have received it Monday. It arrived back with me today (Wednesday), safe and sound, and feeling better after its little adventure.

See, National Rail – that’s customer fucking service!

Buy Acer – they’ll do right by you.

No, no – I know what you’re thinking, but this isn’t false modesty on my part, this is a statement of fact – and before some of you suggest it, this confession is not further proof of my perfection. We’re not in Life of Brian land, here.

I’ve made a few mistakes over the years, and several train-related ones over the last couple of weeks. It’s the train-related ones I want to talk about, here. This is a rant, pure and simple. A written transcript of a conversation I have had with myself (and several rail personnel), and a rail (pun not intended) against the extraordinarily low level of customer service we have come to expect, and accept in this country.

Yes, it’s one of those blog entries…

As part of my current job I do a lot of travelling by train – it’s a 3 hour journey to the office, door-to-door (though only just over half of that is actually sat on trains). I generally catch the 6.30 to Grantham, then change and catch the 7.58 to Nottingham. I use a season ticket, as this saves money.

Generally, the trains run more or less on time, and I have no grievance against the journey itself. It’s when things stray slightly from the norm that problems arise.

A couple of weeks ago, one of my darling daughters decided it would be the funniest thing if she took Daddy’s season ticket from his bag (yes, I carry a bag to work – get over it) and hid it. Of course, said  daughter didn’t mention this to daddy, so the first thing daddy knows about it is when the train conductor asks to see it. Daddy decided that this was about the time to stop talking about himself in the third person, so I did.

I couldn’t find the pass, so of course I bought a ticket. A £38 ticket.

When I got to the office I checked on the National Rail website and discovered that season ticket holders could claim a refund up to twice a year if they inadvertantly leave their season ticket at home, and have to buy a daily one. Hoorah!

So, the next day, season ticket and yesterday’s ticket in hand, I went to work. When I arrived at Nottingham (where the season ticket was purchased), I headed for Information, and explained what I wanted to do. Much to-ing and fro-ing later, with staff heading into the back office, and back again, I was asked where I bought the ticket.

“On the train”, I replied. “I didn’t have my season ticket with me, and didn’t know this until I got on the train. Daughter, funny, blah, blah, blah…”

“You see, the problem is…” Oh-oh, this wasn’t going to be good, “… the problem is that the train was bought on the first leg of your journey, so you paid National Express for your ticket. National Express don’t run through Nottingham. It’d be easier if you arranged the refund at the York end.”

Oh. That wasn’t quite as bad as I was anticipating. I was going back to York in the afternoon, anyway. I’d do it then. So, I thanked the helpful (if not entirely effective) young lady and went to work.

When I got back to York station I went to Information and again outlined my plight.

“No problem, sir. If you’d like to fill in the form and sign here, we’ll sort that out for you. Could I just take a copy of your season ticket?”

Yes, of course he could. So, I filled in the refund form while he went and photocopied my ticket.

He came back just as I was signing.

“I’m afraid there’s a bit of a complication, sir.” Hmmmm… “You see, although we sold you the ticket, the season ticket was bought at Nottingham, so they have all your details, not us. You’ll need to get your refund from them.”

Networking not having reached National Express yet, then.

I explained I had already tried that, and the reasons they sent me back to York. Much to-ing and fro-ing later, the manager at York station kindly wrote me a note fro the staff at Nottingham, explaining why Nottingham needed to process the refund. He stamped the letter, and inlcluded the page number in the railway “How Not To Fuck Up” guide, for their reference.

I wasn’t in the office for anotehr 5 days, but when I got to Nottingham I explained the situation from start to finish.

“Oh, if only it were that easy, sir.”

Easy? EASY?

I handed the note across and a manager was called. He looked at the note, listened to the story, and agree to give me my refund, telling his staff member to staple the note to the refund form, just in case.

So, I got my refund, and only 3 conversations with 5 members of staff was necessary!

Now would be a good time to grab a cup of coffee, or a doughnut, or something, as there is another rail-related tale to tell. By my long, grey beard, there is.

I went to London last week on work business. I bought a train ticket online;  the cheapest one I could get – I’m all about value for money for my firm, you know.

I got to London easily enough. My journey was on a “Grand Central” train, rather than National Express. It was ok, but no wifi, no plug socket (which meant my laptop battery didn’t survive the journey) and the seats were a bit grubby. The bacon sarnie from the buffet car was surprisingly ok, though.

So, work done up in that there London Town, and slight panic on the tube, as it was touch and go whether I would make it back for my desired train.

I didn’t. I missed it. By less than a minute.

Damn, blast, and other terribly British expletives.

Not to worry, it wasn’t even 5.00pm yet – there’ll be plenty of other trains back to York.

Oh, ho ho! But there weren’t. Well, that were, but in a very real sense, there weren’t, either. The 4-something train I was going to catch was the last Grand Central train back to York, and my ticket was only valid on Grand Central services. I’d have to either stay overnight, or catch a National Express train.

How much is the National Express ticket, please? “Fifty five pounds, sir, but you can’t buy it from me – you’ll need to head into the ticket office, yonder.” (He didn’t actually say “yonder”, but I’ve always liked the word, and try to use it wherever possible).

So, I head out to the cashpoint, withdraw some money and go back into the ticket office.

Single York, please. “Certainly, sir. That’ll be £93.” Cough, splutter. But the man in the information booth told me it was £55. Is there a later one that’s £55? I’ll wait? “No, sir. £55 is the cost of a Grand Central train.” I already have a Grand Central ticket. “So, why do you need another, sir?” Because there’re no Grand Central trains left! Is there a cheaper way for me to get to York?

TAP-TAP-TAPPETY-TAP

“No, sir.”

So, I went away to have a little think. I could pay £93, or I could stay overnight at a hotel that would cost less than this, and travel back the following day on my existing ticket.

A thought struck me, as these things sometimes do. It was entirely possible that the gentleman behind the ticket desk was incorrect in his tappety-tapping. I went to a ticket machine and asked it how much a ticket to Doncaster would be, and from there, a ticket to York.

Armed with this information, I went back to the man at the ticket desk.

So, how much would this be? “Forty six pounds, sir.” Forty six pounds. Not £93. When I asked earlier if there was a cheaper way to get to York, would it perhaps not have been appropriate to tell me to travel to Doncaster and change there? I’ll have those tickets, please, and please write down the train times.

So, he sold me the tickets. There was only an 8 minute window between trains, but that was ok – the trains were usually pretty good.

So, I get into Doncaster, the train only 6 minutes late. I have 2 minutes to find the train and the right platform. I check the info board, and notice a train due to leave at the time I am due to be on it. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice that there were 2 trains due to leave at this time. Guess which one I caught…

So, I got on the wrong train, and ended up in Leeds (having stopped at every train stop and, I think, bus stop on the way) and waited 30 minutes for the connection to York.

I ended up getting home 3.5 hours late, due to missing the original train by 1 minute.

Now is the time to remind you that at the beginning of this missive, I mentioned that I sometimes make mistakes. I fully appreciate that it was my fault I missed the train, and my fault I didn’t check the return ticket closely enough to see it was only valid with a certain carrier (to be honest – it never crossed my mind that such a ticket existed).

What I expect (yes, even now – optimistic fool that I am), is that when something goes wrong, staff in positions of “Customer Service” take that title seriously, and actually attempt to give service to their customers, rather than view each person that approaches them as something to be moved along as quickly as possible so they can get to the next person-to-be-moved-along.

This is all due to privatisation, of course. I couldn’t “upgrade” my ticket to travel later that afternoon/evening, as my ticket was not valid on a train run by a rival company. The problems with the refund earlier on in this increasingly lengthy rant were caused because systems run by two different operators were incompatible with each other.

I’d write more, but my train is due in 10 minutes, and I don’t want to miss it, for obvious reasons.

Arse.