2012 Opening Cere-moan-y

Or, Why I feel Completely and Totally Justified in Dreading/Boycotting the London 2012 Olympics.

Before I go into my (completely justified, research-backed) good old-fashioned bitch-and-moan against the games, I'd like to make one thing clear: I love my city, and I love a good party. I love having excuses to party in my city. Which is why I love my birthday, and Christmas, and New Year's, and Halloween, and even flipping Guy Fawkes night, even though I don't really know what it's celebrating (something about Parliament not getting blown up?)... but you'll notice, all these parties have something in common-- they don't send the entire nation into a debt spiral from which only the rich and powerful can escape unscathed while the rest of us attempt to shove ourselves onto hopelessly overcrowded tube cars with hoards of sweaty tourists who don't know that you're supposed to STAND ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE BLOOMIN ESCALATOR so the commuters who are running for the next train like their job depended on it (because it probably does) can WALK ON THE LEFT!!

I realise that my last 2 blog posts have also been rants of a sort (though, might I point out, also completely justified), and I fear that you, my reader(s??), might think all I do all the time always is rant. I do not. (Though don't get me started on booty shorts.) There are lots of things I *don't* want to rant about because they are functioning perfectly well and are not in need of a good verbal slap upside the head. Maybe my next post will be all about how flipping cute my dog is just to prove that there's more to me than bitching. But for now, the Olympics must be addressed. Because when the hoards arrive and I'm spending my morning commute squashed into some confused Games-goer's sweaty armpit, they're going to be glad I got my ranting out of the way now.

Let's start with the 'Get Ahead of the Games' posters - brought to you by the 'Mayor of London' (as if he has to take public transit anywhere, ever). For you non-Londoners, these posters are stationed handily throughout the city - on bus shelters, on buses, in Tube stations, in Tube cars, basically you can't shake a fucking stick without hitting one - and contain helpful hints to avoid the crushing influx of tourists London is about to experience. My personal favourite encourages commuters to get off a few stops early and walk the rest of the way to work. What a splendid idea! I'll just turn my 45-minute commute into a 2-hour bus-train-stroll combi! Are you freaking kidding me? Make the tourists get off a few stops early and walk-- what better way to see more of the city than schlepping from Heathrow to Highgate on foot??

Now moving on to the Brand Police - basically an army of lawyers and copyright experts (is that a thing?) who will be hitting the streets to make sure that unauthorised businesses (a.k.a., everyone except McDonalds and Coca Cola) aren't utilising any of the 'official' Olympic words. You know, branded words. Words like 'silver,' 'gold,' 'bronze,' 'summer,' '2012,' etc. These same Brand Enforcers have also banned the sale of chips (fries) within the Olympic park by any restaurant except McDonalds. Nothing says 'authentic British chips' like the fries served by a US-based fast-food corporation!

But all that pales in comparison to my personal favourite dick-move made by Olympics officials: Calling British soldiers up from leave to help with policing the games because the security company hired to do the job CAN'T DO THE JOB. I've said it before and I'll say it again: ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME.

Not to mention that I happened upon a comment about how the Olympics 2012 logo looks like Lisa Simpson giving head, and now I can't unsee it.

I asked Florence how she felt about all this, and all she had to say was:



Well-put, Florence. I think that pretty much sums it all up.

UPDATE: So I must say, my daily commute during the Olympics has not been the hideous hellhole of an experience I was afraid it was going to be. It could be because I don't commute during rush hour, or it could be because I'm not anywhere near any of the Olympic sites, or it could just be because God has seen fit to smile upon me and grant me this blessing, but if anything, the Tube has actually been *emptier* on my way in to work the last few mornings! (Honestly I think it's just because everyone in London with a bit of sense in their head and some annual leave still left to take has f***ed off to other countries.) But whatever the reason (his heart or his shoes, the Grinch stood there on Christmas, hating the Whos.... no?), I've managed to get a seat every single day (without having to shove aside any old ladies or pregnant women). WOOP. In regards to my other Olympic complaints, I really have nothing to add except this.

Complaint letter to Virgin Mobile

After the rousing success of my last complaint letter (I got free cinema tickets for me and my friends!), I decided to continue the Consumers Crusade with this little gem, sent off today to Virgin Mobile:

Dear Madam or Sir,

I am writing in relation to my mobile phone bill for the month of July, for which my bank account was debited in the amount of £10.13. However, my 'pay monthly' tariff, for which I signed up in June, is only £7. Upon closer inspection of my bill, I discovered that the extra charge of £3.13 was for a phone call made to the number 08454541111. Imagine my surprise when I discovered this number is none other than VIRGIN MEDIA CUSTOMER CARE! I had rung the Customer Care line from my (Virgin) mobile phone on the 26th of June in relation to an outage of my (Virgin) broadband service. I distinctly recall being asked by the customer care representative to please hold, at which I expressed concern that my mobile would be charged for any extra minutes, and was assured that such calls were free and I would be charged nothing-- not even mobile minutes from my monthly allowance-- for time I spent on the phone with Customer Care. Subsequently finding a charge for £3.13 on my bill several weeks after my internet outage was like icing on the cake, if the cake was made of dirt and the icing was piles of poo.

I find it mildly amusing, utterly appalling, and-- I won't lie-- a little bit genius (so many simultaneous feelings!) that Virgin Media would charge customers for ringing up to complain about Virgin Media services. I find it even MORE appalling that Virgin Media representatives would blatantly lie (or perhaps just be incredibly misinformed) about these charges when directly asked about them.

While I am somewhat impressed by the cunning business model being employed in this instance by Virgin Media (what better way to avoid complaints than by charging customers to complain?!), I'm sure you can understand why my frustration outweighs my admiration. I'm sure you can also understand why I would hope to be reimbursed for the overcharge made to my account, and why I would hope that in future, Virgin reconsiders their policy of charging for Customer Care calls. My contract with Virgin Mobile is no-obligation month-to-month and I've still got a T-Mobile SIM card waiting in the wings, so switching back would be a piece of (non-muddy/poopy) cake!

Yours sincerely,

Jocelyn James

UPDATE: Virgin has now responded (finally) to apologise for the confusion and clarify that there is no charge for calling Customer Care if you dial a specific number (150) from your Virgin mobile. They have also credited my account the £3.12 that was over-charged. Woop!

Verdict: Virgin Media gets a B for customer complaint response. They took their sweet time about getting back to me, and they certainly didn't go over-the-top to keep my patronage (like, maybe a month's free service or something? i <3 free stuff), but they did refund the overcharge and clarify their policy, so that's helpful. It's nice to know I won't have to switch back to T-Mobile PAYG! (YET!) :P

Complaint letter to Odeon Cinemas (feel free to use as a template)

Because I'm so proud of how it turned out, I've decided I should share with the world the complaint letter I've just sent off to Odeon Cinemas. I do believe I have managed to seamlessly blend the traditional complaint letter with just a touch of comedy gold. If I do say so myself.

Dear Madam or Sir,

On Sunday, the 3rd June, I attended the 17:45 showing of Snow White and the Huntsman at the Camden cinema. Whilst the lobby and snack/concession area all seemed to be of normal temperature, the cinema in which our film was shown (Screen 3) was absolutely freezing.

I attended this film with 3 other friends, and at various points in the movie (once before it started and three times during the film itself), each one of us got up to complain to Odeon employees about the cold temperature and to request that the heat be turned up or the AC be turned down.

Unfortunately, the temperature remained uncomfortably cold throughout the film. It was not until the fourth request (about 10 minutes before the end of the film) that the temperature began to improve slightly and I was able to emerge from the nest of jumpers and scarves under which I had (unsuccessfully) attempted to warm myself.

Immediately after the end of the film, my friends and I complained to the Camden cinema's manager about the lack of response to our requests. Despite 2 other cinema-goers simultaneously confirming the temperature problem in Screen 3, we received no response beyond a compulsory, 'Sorry about that.'

I am sure you can understand how frustrating it is to pay upwards of £10 to see a film, only to have the experience ruined by unpleasant viewing conditions. Kristen Stewart may not be the greatest of actresses, but if I pay good money to see her expressionless face on a giant screen, I expect to be able to do it in relative comfort.

I am sure you can also understand why, a day later, when it came time for me to choose a cinema in which to view Prometheus, I chose Vue in Angel. Their ticket prices may be clinically insane, but at least I didn't turn into a popsicle whilst watching Michael Fassbender and his exquisite jawline robot around in space.

If the Odeon brand expects to retain my custom in these 'interesting' financial times-- when I am extremely careful about how and where I spend my hard-earned money-- I would strongly encourage you to raise not only cinema temperatures, but also the standard of customer service and employee response offered to cinema-goers such as myself.

Yours sincerely,

Ms Jocelyn James

UPDATE: Odeon has responded with an apology, and 4 complimentary tickets for myself and the three friends who were with me on this freezing occasion! Woop woop! Well done, Odeon-- I feel a little Step Up 4: Miami Heat coming on!!

Verdict: Odeon gets an A+ for their response to consumer complaints. I now feel justified in returning my cinema patronage to their company, which is good because Vue charges out the a$$ for tickets!

Fashion Hymn of the Greater Public

or, 'Stop Infringing on Public Decency Laws'

(An ode to a couple of my most favouritest current 'fashions.' Inspired by my mind's eye being scarred forever, and sung to the tune of 'Battle Hymn of the Republic.')

Mine eyes have seen the horror of the sheer tights worn as pants*
The bulges and the panty lines, they had me in a trance
I couldn't tear my eyes away despite my best intents
And now I'm scarred for life

Why oh why do people do this?
Don't they know they're really pants-less?
No one wants to see your bare ass
Please don't insist we do

Mine eyes have seen the horror of the butt-cheeks on parade
Protruding from the hot-pants of the hipsters in AA**
But oh! It's so ironic, right? So that makes it okay!
The hot-pant marches on

Why oh why do people do this?
Don't they know they're really pants-less?
No one wants to see your bare ass
Please don't insist we do
PLEASE DON'T INSIST WE DO.



*The word 'pants' in this context is to be taken in the American sense, that is, trousers.
** 'AA' used here to signifiy American Apparel, not Alcoholics Anonymous.

Why I base my social life around my dog

Since getting my baby girl Florence 3 months ago (Saturday was our 3-month-iversary, yay!), a common refrain from me on nights out has become, "I have to go, I need to get home to my dog." And a common response to this refrain has become an incredulous, "You let your dog dictate your social life?"

The short answer is: Yes. Yes I do.

The long answer is: HELL yes I do.

Seriously though-- are any of the ass-clowns I meet at parties and talk with tipsily for a couple of hours going to snuggle with me that night and be thrilled just to be allowed in my bed? Will any of them wake up the next morning and be so excited to see my face they can barely contain themselves from dancing on my head? No? I didn't think so.

Guess what? My dog does those things. And not only does she do them, she does them consistently and genuinely. And all she asks in return is that I get home in time to take her out to pee so she doesn't have to wet her bed.

So yeah, I base my social life around my dog. And maybe someday, if some human appreciates me half as much as my dog does, he'll be lucky enough for me to base my social life around him. Til then, it's me and Baby Girl, holdin down the fort.

IN WHICH I GET A DOG

There was no sky-writing, or fireworks, (bummer, right?) but as most of you know from the recent announcement/album on Facebook, I HAVE A DOG!!! So of course I am going to write a post about her. Why? Because she's awesome. Why is she awesome?

This, for one:



And this:



And the fact that she has to wear a jumper (sweater, if you're not British) when it's cold, and the fact that sometimes I find her ensconced in a pile of my t-shirts on the second shelf of my wardrobe. And that sometimes both of her ears stand on end in complete defiance of the laws of gravity.

When I first got her, I felt like one of those people that doesn't know they're pregnant, then comes home from the hospital with a baby. I was 80% excited, 20% petrified, and 100% 'holy shit WHAT HAVE I DONE/AM I DOING/WILL I DO??'

A little background: I'm technically not allowed pets in my apartment, but I petitioned my landlord back in November on the off-off-off-chance that, fairy-godmother-like, they might grant my wish and let me have a dog. My petition was a work of beautifully-crafted logical and linguistic art. It involved words like 'regarding' and 'sufficient', bolded paragraph headings with titles like 'Property concerns' and 'Responsible dog ownership,' and citations of the RSPCA breed guidelines. And this picture.

Despite this appeal of epic proportions, I didn't really expect to be allowed a dog. Imagine my surprise when, about a month after I sent my petition, I received an email that said those 11 words every girl longs to hear: 'Your landlord has given permission for you to get a dog.' I CRIED. Honest to God. I was at work and I cried and I didn't even care, that's how happy I was.

Of course, this was about a week and a half before I left for Christmas holiday in the States, so it didn't make much sense to get a dog until the new year... right? But it didn't hurt to start LOOKING for a dog right away because adult Italian Greyhounds are extremely hard to find... right? Right. Except that I happened upon the perfect little 2-year-old baby girl the next day, and she had to be re-homed that very weekend. I had seen one picture of her and was already so in love that I OBVIOUSLY HAD TO HAVE HER. So the next day I hauled my ass out to Sussex (that's right, I went OUTSIDE OF ZONE 2) and brought home little Florence.

I loved her from day 1, but that doesn't mean I wasn't scared shitless. I had gone from hopelessly dreaming of having a dog to ACTUALLY HAVING ONE in a span of less than 3 days. I was on Cloud 9, but also, there was lots of pee on Cloud 9. There was pee on the throw on my couch, pee on the hardwood floor, and pee on my duvet-- 3 different times. There was also a constant outgoing stream of money on Cloud 9; money for a crate, money for food, money for dog insurance, money for those stupidly expensive pee training pads that Florence tended to ignore in favour of my duvet.

I was suppressing a minor panic attack the whole train ride back from Sussex, and not just because I was outside Zone 2. I had expected all of this-- the pee, the money, the parent-like worry-- but suddenly I wondered if I could actually handle it. The first night I had Florence, she refused to go to bed and I spent half the night sleeping fitfully on the couch in the front room with her so she wouldn't feel abandoned. What if she did this EVERY NIGHT? What if I had to spend every night on the couch in the front room and I never got to sleep in my bed again?? What if she NEVER STOPPED PEEING on everything? What if she decided she didn't like me and NEVER WANTED TO CUDDLE??

Luckily for me, I managed to push through the panic wave that crashed over me that first week (thank you, 3 years of therapy), and THANK GOD I did because Florence is the love of my life. She (more or less) stopped peeing on everything, it took her all of 2 days to start sleeping in my bed, and God help you if you try to prevent her from cuddling with me, even when I'm eating. I'm so glad I have her, and when I think about it I really don't know how I survived so long without her-- it's like there was a Florence-shaped hole in my life and I didn't even know it. Pee and all, I can honestly say that getting her is one of the best decisions I've ever made-- right up there with moving to London.