What kind of drooling shit-brained fuckwad lets off fireworks during the fucking day?
What kind of drooling shit-brained fuckwad lets off fireworks during the fucking day?
Somewhere between Sunday night and Monday morning my Virgin Media broadband, cable television and phone service died.
On Monday evening the first Virgin Media phonecock I spoke to told me there were no engineers in my area until Friday, and forgot to book the appointment anyway; then on Tuesday morning an engineer turned up while I was out and fixed the phone service. On Tuesday evening another Virgin Media phonespaz told me categorically that there were no engineers available until the following Monday evening, 8 days after the fault occurred.
Today (Wednesday — 5 days early) an engineer turned up to say he’d had a rummage around in the junction box down the street and fixed the TV and broadband. Left hand, meet right hand. No? Okay then.
And, because Virgin Media likes to give the gift of raging incompetence, the set-top box has come back to life with most of its channels missing because of another fault in the area.
In summary, then: commtards.
Client (to colleague): “The work you do in here is brilliant.”
Colleague: “Well, it’s all of us, really.”
Client (in full earshot of everyone): “Oh nononononono.”
Get fucked.
