Twenty20 Cricket Ticket

I've finally got hold of a ticket for a Twenty20 game at the Rosebowl down here in Hamsphire. The Hawks vs Middlesex Crusaders, June 11th. I love the new format of the game. I know the older generation of cricket fans think it is killing the sport, but I honestly believe it's breathing new life into it. More importantly it's getting people through the turnstiles for all games at all levels, and that can't be a bad thing.

Anyway, the point of the blog entry is to transcribe the phone conversation I had to endure to get this ticket. You would expect a stadium like the Rosebowl to have a professional booking service, either online or telephone based wouldn't you? After all, they are hosting R.E.M and Bon Jovi concerts this summer so they must be used to it by now.

They do have an online booking service, but for days, everytime I tried to book a seat, I got a garbled error message. After a week I decided to call their ticket office. Stupidly I called at the weekend, and got a recorded message "Sorry, the ticket office is currently closed. Our office hours are...." so I called back Monday morning instead. For the purposes of this tale, I have decided to call the operator Martha. I can't actually remember her real name, but she sounded like a 'Martha'

Martha: Good morning Hampshire Rosebowl Ticket office, how may I be of service

Me: Oh Good morning. I've been trying for some time to book a ticket for a Twenty20 game online, but I keep getting a strange error message. Is there any chance I can book a ticket through you?

Martha: I can fill out an application for you, but it will need to go to the bottom of the pile. Would you like me to proceed?

(Needless to say, this response stunned me into almost silence. I had no idea what she meant, or how big this 'pile' was...)

Me: Erm, Ok. Lets proceed.

Martha: Fine, I just need to take a few details

(At this point she took the usual name, phone number, address, inside leg measurement etc off me)

Martha: ..and which game were you looking at attending?

Me: Erm the game on June 11th, the Twenty20 game.

Martha: Ok, and how many tickets would you be requiring for this game?

Me: Just the one.

Martha: Oh, just one? Would you not like to bring someone? All seats are allocated so your friend's seat would be next to you?

(Now this is getting weird. Is she trying to psychoanalyse me now? is she trying to reach into the depths of my inner soul and find out why I'm travelling alone?)

Me: No, thant's fine it will just be me.

Martha: Ok, and where would you like to sit?

Me: I'm not familar with the Rosebowl, it'll be my first time there. Where would you recommend.

Martha: Would you like the North Stand?

Me: I'm not familar with the layout of the Rosebowl. Are those good seats?

Martha: It's inbetween the East and West stands

(I was going to make a comment here....but I'm still stunned she actually said that)

Me: When I was booking online I think I liked the look of Stand M, it's opposite the pavilion isn't it?

Martha: M stand. Yes that's part of the North Stand.

Me: Opposite the pavilion?

Martha: Next to East Stand

(I was close to giving up here, but I was desperate for the ticket)

Me: Ok, Stand M will be fine.

Martha: So that's one ticket only, North Stand for June 11th. £15 as it's an advance booking. Is that ok?

Me: That's fine.

Martha: So that's £16 to pay. How would you like to pay?

Me: Sorry, £16. I thought you said it was £15

Martha. All bookings are subject to a £1 charge for the booking process.

Me: Couldn't you just add the £1 to the ticket price instead? advertise that all tickets are £16 inc booking fees?

(There was a considerable pause here. I think I might have been the first person to question their booking fee)

Martha: ....All bookings are subject to a £1 charge for the booking process. So how would you like to pay?

(After giving her my debit card details etc the transaction was completed.

Martha: Thank you for your application. It is now at the bottom of the pile and will be processed within 7 days. You'll receive an e-mail confirmation that your application has been successful and then the ticket will follow shortly after in the post.

Me: Thank you very much.

Martha: Anything else I can help you with today Mr Gibson?

Me: Oh, just one little thing....

...Won't you need my e-mail address to send the confirmation to?

Caoimhe Gillian

Born 11.58am May 13th 2008

9lbs 1.5oz

...I've been smiling ever since.

(and before you ask, it's pronounced 'Keeva')

EDIT: Edited to add that Sarah-Jayne is heading home today from hospital. By the sound of it Caoimhe is already the size of a 3 month old, never mind 3 days! She could enter a milk drinking contest and win hands down. She can also do a perfect impression of Maggie from The Simpsons when she is asleep with her pacifier :o)

Just over a week til I get to meet her and hold her. I can't wait. Hopefully I'll be bringing her buggy over with me too, it's stuck in Preston at the moment.

Damaged Bread Mix

Sorry to my loyal reader(s) for a quiet blog recently. Sadly, life down here hasn't been thrilling enough to warrent a new entry.

For the past week, it's all been about SJ, and waiting for baby to make it's debut appearance. My previous page about her going into labour turned out to be a false alarm. She's due to be induced sometime before the weekend though, so not long to wait now.

Other than Sarah, life has just been full work shifts, sofa surfing and making another casserole. I didn't trip the fuse this time, so there was no need to wander round the flat carrying the slow cooker under my arm.

I did do a naughty thing though at the start of the week. I got a delivery from Tesco, and as I was unpacking, I punctured a packet of granary bread mix with the corner of a tin of mandarin orange segments. Normally I wouldn't have done anything about it. The bread mix was still useable, and I hadn't spilt any of the powder....

...but they had forgotton my margarine. (this is connected, trust me). I called up the helpline to get a refund for the spread and was speaking to a nice Scottish girl. After she had called up my order and deducted the Utterly Butterly the conversation went on:

"Ok Mr Gibson, I have deducted the price of the margarine from your order. Is there anything else I can help with?"

Now the correct response would have been:

"No that's fine, thanks for your help". What I actually said to her was:

"Well there is something. When the driver was taking items off his delivery trolley, he was a little heavy handed, and two of my bread mixes got damaged. I think they are still useable, but they appear to have been punctured on a tin can of some kind." How naughty was I being! Not only do I blame someone else for the damage, I double the amount of bread mix that was affected!

"Oh I am sorry Mr Gibson. Was it just two of your bread mixes? I see you ordered 5?"

"Well I only noticed two." - See what I did there? She had given me an opening to make out there was even more damage, but I gave a subtle, open answer, and left it up to her as to how she interpreted it.

"Oh well I'll refund the cost of three of them, just to be sure. Please accept my apologies for that. Anything else?"

"No, that's fine, thank you very much for the refund. Bye for now"

So there you go. I accidently damaged a food item, blamed someone else and got a triple refund! I would say I feel a bit guilty, but I've seen the declared profit margins Tesco makes each year.

...a few refunded bread mixes isn't going to break them.

P.S. as a disclaimer I should point out that the delivery driver was very friendly, and the customer service I received was first rate. Thank you Tesco

My Mum and The Towering Inferno

I've relayed the story I tell people about my Dad, well now it's the turn of my Mum. Another little tale I like to pass on about her past. Makes me smile to picture it.

DISCLAIMER: The jist of this story is completely true. As I wasn't there at the time however, some of the details have been 'added' to flesh out the story - Makes it a better anecdote :o)

Picture the scene. It's 1975. Fashion is short skirts, flaired trousers and terrible haircuts. Elvis is into his 'Las Vegas' phase and Abba are all over the charts. At the cinema, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is picking up multiple oscars and disaster movies are proving to be great money spinners for the studios.

It's one such disaster movie that plays an important part in this little tale. The Towering Inferno. Now a fixture of every bank holiday weekend, it tells the tale of a newly opened tower block catching fire, trapping hundreds of party goers inside. With a cast-list full of Hollywood's finest, it was a guarenteed success at the box-office.

What has this got to do with my Mother? Well she saw the film over and over again. Not because she was a huge fan of Steve McQueen or Paul Newman, just because at the time she was working as a cinema usherette. Now a dying breed, an usherette's main duty was to carry a tray of ices and frozen drinks on a stick to sell during the interval. Even to this day she knows the exact moment during the film she had to leave her post to go and collect her tray. She reminds me everytime the film in shown on TV!

I need to digress here if I may. Remember this is the mid-70's. Cinemas at this time were huge, imposing buildings. There would only be one screen, but the seating would be on several levels. Stalls at the lower level, dress circle above, possibly even a balcony level above that. Going to see a film was akin to making a theatre trip. It wasn't til the 80's when they all got converted to either multi-screen or bingo halls, and the magic of a proper cinema visit was lost forever. As well as selling the ices, an usherette would also be on stand-by in one particular area. Checking tickets, keeping rowdy teenagers quiet during the love scenes, breaking up heavy petting on the back row etc. They would also have the responibilty of guiding customers out in case of an emergency evacuation. Now that I've painted the picture, I'll get back to the story.

As part of my Mum's training, she was given a few code words to learn. The idea being that if something happened, a message could be relayed to all the usherettes by calling out a single unrelated word. If you were a customer watching the film, would you think anything of it if someone called out the word 'rabbit' once? Of course not, but to the usherettes that could translate as "There is an underage youth in section 4, check tickets and if you find him, escort him off the premises" (ok maybe not that complicated, but you get the general idea).

So, back to the film. My Mum is guarding the upper circle of seats. Everyone has their lollies, the lights have dimmed, and the second half is under way. Richard Chamberlain has just fallen to his death, and no one is holding out much hope for Fred Astaire by now either. Just at this moment someone calls out....

"Jester!"

"Hmm", thinks my Mum. "I'm sure that means something, but I can't for the life of me remember what it is. Nevermind. If it's important I'm sure they'll shout it again."

Silence. No more shouting, no repeat of "Jester". Can't of been that important then. Carry on enjoying the rest of the film, her section of customers happily settled in for the big water-filled finale.

...."but what did 'Jester' actually mean?" I hear you ask. You didn't ask? Well I'll tell you anyway!

"Jester" was the code word for "Fire - Evacuate your section immediately and quickly." Quite appropriate considering the nature of the movie on show.

Naturally the codeword couldn't actually be "Fire". Could you imagine trying to get several hundred people to leave a cinema peacefully and calmly in the dark if someone is shouting out 'Fire'? The panic could quite easily cause more harm than the fire itself.

Within minutes the entire cinema was empty, except for one small section of the upper circle where my Mum was watching over a cluster of customers. The whole of the stalls below her now completely deserted. Outside the management is explaining to everyone what is going on, and calming down anyone with hysterics. Inside, 30 or 40 people are still watching a 900ft skyscraper burn to the ground.

...Thankfully it was only a drill, but I'm sure she was sent back in usherette training school after that one!

My Dad and the Serial Killer

My parents being over last week reminded me of a story I often tell about my Dad, from when he was younger. Always helps the conversation if it appears to be flagging.

When I was about to start University I asked my Dad one of those searching, probing questions that sons often ask their fathers:

"So Dad, what did you do for fun when you were my age?"

Well, the basic answer was along the lines of: "We'd get the bus to Belle Vue, watch the speedway, go to the circus there, and then on to the dance halls. Dance the night away before making sure we got the last bus home." - I should point out at this point that I think the 'circus' was more like a fairground, and the last bus home was essential. People came from all over the North West, but there was no such thing as mini-cabs in the mid-60's. My Dad was born in '42 so I assume this is the era we are talking about.

All pretty exciting stuff I'm sure you'll agree. Well the follow up question was obvious:

"So Dad, what was your chat-up technique like then?"

"Dead simple", came the reply. "Just ask them what bus they're on. If they weren't on your route, then you just moved on to the next girl. No point chatting up a girl if you can't see her home is there?"

A few years ago, one of the evilest women of the 20th Century, in fact of all time, died. Myra Hindley. (Bear with me here, this is relevant). At the time, think it was 2002, there were several documentaries about the life, crimes and death of her on television. One such documentary had the following information:

"Myra, born in 1942, would often spend her lesuire time in the 60's hanging around the circus and dance halls of Belle Vue in Greater Manchester"

Well! Wasn't that a turn up! Here was a woman, born just 4 months after my father, who spent her free time in exactly the same way as he did. My own parent could well have been drinking, dancing and even smooching with the queen of crime. Naturally I confronted him with the facts.

After a short pause of contemplation he said, in a calm and calculated voice:

"Doubt it. She was on the 19 to Cheadle, and I had to catch the 42 to Stockport."

..How different all our lives could of been if it hadn't been for the lack of public transport after hours.