Masters Of The Universe: Review

Some films are the true stuff of legend. Others reside in the bargain bins of life (usually staring Steven Seagal or Mr Van Damme). However back in the late 80’s, a film was created to truly test those tried and tested theories.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, He-Man & the Masters of the Universe! TADA!!

Ok let’s cut the crap. This film blows. But it’s so bad, it’s really good.

Die Another Day: Review

Have you ever been the witness of something terrible? A car crash? Train side mutilation, where some poor fuckers head has caught the side of the first carriage and popped like a ripe zit? Or someone eating human shit? It’s the most disgusting thing, but you still watch, you still cannot remove your eyes from it and you know it’s doing you irreparable psychological damage but still you look.

Best Complaint Letter #5

Dear Mr Addison,

I am writing to you to express our thanks for your more than prompt reply to our latest communication, and also to answer some of the points you raise.

I will address them, as ever, in order.

Firstly, I must take issue with your description of our last as a "begging letter". It might perhaps more properly be referred to as a "tax demand". This is how we, at the Inland Revenue have always, for reasons of accuracy; traditionally referred to such documents.

Secondly, your frustration at our adding to the "endless stream of crapulent whining and panhandling vomited daily through the letterbox on to the doormat" has been noted. However, whilst I have naturally not seen the other letters to which you refer I would cautiously suggest that their being from "pauper councils, Lombardy pirate banking houses and pissant gas-mongerers" might indicate that your decision to "file them next to the toilet in case of emergencies is at best a little ill-advised.

In common with my own organisation, it is unlikely that the senders of these letters do see you as a "lackwit bumpkin or, come to that, a "sodding charity". More likely they see you as a citizen of Great Britain, with a responsibility to contribute to the upkeep of the nation as a whole.

Which brings me to my next point. Whilst there may be some spirit of truth in your assertion that the taxes you pay "go to shore up the canker-blighted, toppling folly that is the Public Services", a moment's rudimentary calculation ought to disabuse you of the notion that the government in any way expects you to "stump up for the whole damned party" yourself. The estimates you provide for the Chancellor's disbursement of the funds levied by taxation, whilst colourful, are, in fairness, a little off the mark. Less than you seem to imagine is spent on "junkets for Bunterish lickspittles" and "dancing whores" whilst far more than you have accounted for is allocated to, for example, "that box-ticking facade of a university system."

A couple of technical points arising from direct queries:
1. The reason we don't simply write "Muggins" on the envelope has to do with the vagaries of the postal system;
2. You can rest assured that "sucking the very marrows of those with nothing else to give" has never been considered as a practice because even if the Personal Allowance didn't render it irrelevant, the sheer medical logistics involved would make it financially unviable.

I trust this has helped. In the meantime, whilst I would not in any way wish to influence your decision one way or the other, I ought to point out that even if you did choose to "give the whole foul jamboree up and go and live in India" you would still owe us the money. Please forward it by Friday.

Yours Sincerely,
H J Lee Customer Relations

Best Complaint Letter #4

Dear Mr Branson

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008 Flying Club number obscured

I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit. Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at the hands of your corporation.

Look at this Richard. Just look at it:

I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, Which one is the starter, which one is the desert? You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in:

I know it looks like a baaji but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn’t custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.

Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.

I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about. Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this:

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashedpotato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird. Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard. Jesus Christ.

By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation:

It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.

I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point. Once cleared. I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on:

I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel:

Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.

My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations:

Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff. Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.

So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.

As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.

Yours Sincererly

Oliver Beale

Best Complaint Letter #3

Tax Credit Complaint

I am writing to inform you that thanks to the incompetence and sheer bloody mindedness of your staff Christmas in my household was cancelled. Just 4 days before Christmas I discovered that my weekly tax credit of £136.90 was reduced to £36.09. Did I discover this by receiving a letter from your department…no I had to find out for myself when trying to access my bank account. Still it is hardly surprising that no letter was received as judging by your staff’s Cro-Magnon intellect they have yet to master the art of fire and are still scratching pictograms on the cave, that they are hopefully locked up in, wall with sticks and berries.

I expect you are about to put this letter in the bin, where I suspect most documentation ends up, but please hear me out…oh and if any of the words I am using are too big for you Collins do a very concise children’s Dictionary and Thesaurus set which I am sure will be of use.

On the 05th December 2005 my stepson moved out of our home. I informed you of this on the 09th December 2005. I was told that we would be receiving a new claim form shortly…yeah right I am still waiting. Then last week I received a payment into my bank of £37.01 I had no idea who it was from but I guess from subsequent events it was from yourselves. On the 21st December I went to our bank to withdraw the monies paid in by yourselves expecting it to be slightly reduced from the £136.90 we had been receiving only to find it was £100 less than I expected.
So I then made the first of many telephone calls to your offices. I say offices because for reasons that until now I could not fathom you have numerous offices and it is like a game of roulette which one you will get through to and when and if you do get through the staff in one office are either unable or I suspect unwilling to transfer you to the person that has been dealing with your claim. I now understand why you do this you have learnt a fundamental lesson of government “Plausible Denial” as in “I can only apologise but whoever it was that told you that shouldn’t have” in fact if you were to record that one phrase you could dispense with half your staff overnight.
In that first phone call to a girl whom I suspect had one of her two brain cells surgically removed before entering civil service I was informed that the reason for the huge reduction in my Tax Credit was that your department had over-paid me in excess of £780 this year and that from now until April I would only be receiving £36 per week. I could not understand how this over-payment could have occurred so my wife spoke to the girl and was told that it is common for such overpayments to occur at the start of the year and it was normal practise for you to claw it back at the end of the year. This made no sense to me at all so I telephoned again and spoke to , probably the only member of your staff who has advanced beyond the stone age, a manager called “Sam” of Team 67 in your Newcastle office. He listened to me and could not explain the massive drop either and told me he would ring me back with an explanation that same day. I must admit I viewed this promise with incredulity as “the same day” in civil service speak often translates as the same day next month. But true to his word Sam rang me back within 15 minutes with said explanation. He said that unfortunately when my stepson had been removed from our claim they had also inadvertently removed the date that he started full time education thus the computer showing that we were overpaid was in effect correct.
He told me that he would correct this error and re enter the missing date and would forward our claim for re-processing overnight. Sam apologised profusely for the error and the fact that the shortfall probably would not hit our bank account until after Christmas. I informed Sam that I would contact the Social Fund as that missing money was for our Christmas Dinner.

Unfortunately the Social Fund is populated by brain dead morons as well and because we had had an income of more than £15 per day this week we were not entitled to a loan.

So back on the phone I spoke to another man in one of your offices, he could not or would not transfer me to Sam, but after explaining all that had occurred he told me that he would put notes on our file explaining the error was yours and that I should go to my local Tax Office who at their discretion could make me a payment of the shortfall. I must admit I was full of admiration for this man he had come up with a common sense solution to a problem…All By Himself. So I drove to the Tax Office with joy in my heart in the knowledge that the problems I was experiencing were nearing an end only to be shot down in flames when I was confronted by yet another cave dweller at the Tax Office. I was told that your department should not have told me they can make discretionary payments because they cannot and that no such amendments were made to our claim in fact the local offices computer still showed an overpayment..

Yet another phone call to yourselves was made and after being transferred by a supervisor I was told that indeed no such notes were on our file and that although she could see we were indeed owed money we would not get it until after Christmas. When I told her that money was for our Christmas dinner and asked what I could do it was suggested I go without.

So as I started this letter thanks to the testical juggling staff in your department my families Christmas was cancelled this year. It is good to know that Ebenezer Scroodge is alive and well and working in the Tax Credits Office. I would have said how amazed at the Three Stooges like professionalism and competence displayed by all but one of your staff but I’m not. All but one of your staff are in fact the puss filled boil on the arse of humanity although said staff could not find either said boil or arse with two hands a torch and SatNav. With the exception of Sam in Newcastle I hope that you all had a rotten a Christmas as I did and that the testicals of your male staff and the breasts of your female staff turn square and fester in the corners. Finally there must be a special mention for the miserly supervisor who suggested I forgo Christmas dinner I must I feel recommend her promotion to a position that will give her ample access to both sex and travel. Not that I think for one moment you have the grey matter to understand that last comment but I am sure if you find somebody outside of the civil service they will be able to explain it.

Yours faithfully

Andrew MacLeod

Best Complaint Letter #2

Dear Cretins:

I have been an NTL customer since 9th July 2001, when I signed up for your four-in-one deal for cable TV, cable modem, telephone, and alarm monitoring. During this three-month period I have encountered inadequacy of service
which I had not previously considered possible, as well as ignorance and stupidity of monolithic proportions. Please allow me to provide specific
details, so that you can either pursue your professional prerogative and seek to rectify these difficulties -- or more likely (I suspect) so that you can have some entertaining reading material as you while away the working day smoking B&H and drinking vendor-coffee on the bog in your office.

My initial installation was cancelled without warning, resulting in my spending an entire Saturday sitting on my fat arse waiting for your
technician to arrive. When he did not arrive, I spent a further 57 minutes listening to your infuriating hold music, and the even more annoying Scottish robot woman telling me to look at your helpful website. HOW?

I alleviated the boredom by playing with my testicles for a few minutes -- an activity at which you are no doubt both familiar and highly adept. The rescheduled installation then took place some two weeks later, although the technician did forget to bring a number of vital tools -- such as a
drill-bit and his cerebrum.

Two weeks later, my cable modem had still not arrived. After 15 telephone calls over four weeks my modem arrived, six weeks after I had requested it -- and begun to pay for it. I estimate your internet server's downtime is roughly 35% -- the hours between about 6 pm and midnight, Monday through Friday and most of the weekend. I am still waiting for my telephone connection.

I have made nine calls on my mobile to your no-help line and have been unhelpfully transferred to a variety of disinterested individuals who are, it seems, also highly skilled bollock jugglers. I have been informed that a
telephone line is available (and someone will call me back); that I will be transferred to someone who knows whether or not a telephone line is
available (and then been cut off); that I will be transferred to someone (and then been redirected to an answering machine informing me that your
office is closed); that I will be transferred to someone and then been redirected to the irritating Scottish robot woman. And several other
variations on this theme.

Doubtless you are no longer reading this letter, as you have at least a thousand other dissatisfied customers to ignore and also another one of
those crucially important testicle moments to attend to. Frankly I don't care. It's far more satisfying as a customer to voice my frustrations in print than to shout them at your unending hold music. Forgive me, therefore, if I continue.

I thought British Telecom was crap; that they had attained the holy piss-pot of god-awful customer relations; and that no one, anywhere, ever,
could be more disinterested, less helpful or more obstructive to delivering service to their customers. That's why I chose NT and because, well, there isn't anyone else is there?

How surprised I therefore was when I discovered to my considerable dissatisfaction and disappointment what a useless shower of bastards you truly are. You are sputum-filled pieces of distended rectum, incompetents of the highest order. BT -- wankers though they are -- shine like brilliant beacons of success in the filthy mire of your seemingly limitless inadequacy.

Suffice to say that I have now given up on my futile and foolhardy quest to receive any kind of service from you. I suggest that you cease any
potential future attempts to extort payment from me for the services which you have so pointedly and catastrophically failed to deliver. Any such
activity will be greeted initially with hilarity and disbelief and will quickly be replaced by derision and even perhaps bemused rage.

I enclose two small deposits, selected with great care from my cat's litter tray, as an expression of my utter and complete contempt for both you
and your pointless company. I sincerely hope that they have not become desiccated during transit -- they were satisfyingly moist at the time of
posting, and I would feel considerable disappointment if you did not experience both their rich aroma and delicate texture. Consider them the very embodiment of my feelings towards NTL and its worthless employees.

Have a nice day. May it be the last in your miserable short lives, you irritatingly incompetent and infuriatingly unhelpful bunch of twits.

May you rot in Hell,

Robert Stokes

Best Complaint Letter #1

Dear Sir/madam/automated telephone answering service

Having spent the past twenty minutes waiting for someone at Leith police station to pick up a telephone I have decided to abandon the idea and try e-mailing you instead. Perhaps you would be so kind as to pass this meassage on to your colleagues in Leith by means of smoke signal, carrier pigeon or ouji board.

As I'm writing this e-mail there are eleven failed medical experiments (I think you call them youths) in West Cromwell Street which is just off Commercial Street in Leith. Six of them seem happy enough to play a game which involves kicking a football against an iron gate with the force of a meteorite. This causes an earth shattering CLANG! which rings throughout the entire building. This game is now in it's third week and as I am unsure how the scoring sytem works, I have no idea if it will end any time soon.

The remaining five walking abortions are happily rummaging through several bags of rubbish and items of furniture that someone has so thoughtfully dumped beside the wheelie bins. One of them has found a saw and is setting about a discarded chair like a beaver on speed. I fear that it's only a matter of time before they turn their limited attention to the bottle of calor gas that is lying on it's side between the two bins. If they could be relied on to only blow their own arms and legs off then I would happily leave them to it. I would even go so far as to lend them the matches. Unfortuneatly they are far more likely to blow up half the street with them and I've just finished decorating the kitchen.

What I suggest is this. after replying to this e-mail with worthless assurances that the matter is being looked into and will be dealt with, why not leave it until the one night of the year (probably bath night) when there are no mutants around then drive up the street in a panda car before doing a three point turn and disappearing again. This will of course serve no other purpose than to remind us what policemen actually look like.

I trust that when I take a clawhammer to the skull of one of these throwbacks you'll do me the same courtesy of giving me a four month head start before coming to arrest me.

I remain sir, your obedient servant

?????????



Mr ??????,

I have read your e-mail and understand you frustration at the problems caused by youth playing in the area and the problems you have encountered in trying to contact the police.

As the Community Beat Officer for your street I would like to extend an offer of discussing the matter fully with you.

Should you wish to discuss the matter, please provide contact details (address / telephone number) and when may be suitable.

Regards


PC ???

?????????????

Community Beat Officer






Dear PC ?????

First of all I would like to thank you for the speedy response to my original e-mail. 16 hours and 38 minutes must be a personal record for Leith Police station and rest assured that I will forward these details to Norris McWhirter for inclusion in his next book.

Secondly I was delighted to hear that our street has it's own community beat officer. May I be the first to congratulate you on your covert skills. In the five or so years I have lived in West Cromwell Street, I have never seen you. Do you hide up a tree or have you gone deep undercover and infiltrated the gang itself? Are you the one with the acne and the moustache on his forehead or the one with a chin like a wash hand basin? It's surely only a matter of time before you are headhunted by MI5.

Whilst I realise that there may be far more serious crimes taking place in Leith such as smoking in a public place or being Muslim without due care and attention, is it too much to ask for a policeman to explain (using words of no more than two syllables at a time) to these twats that they might want to play their strange football game elsewhere. The pitch behind the Citadel or the one at DKs are both within spitting distance as is the bottom of the Albert Dock.

Should you wish to discuss these matters further you should feel free to contact me on ??? ????. If after 25 minutes I have still failed to answer, I'll buy you a large one in the Compass Bar.

Regards

???????


P.S If you think that this is sarcasm, think yourself lucky that you don't work for the cleansing department.