The World's Best Complaint Letter

[Lewis]

Dear Mr Branson

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008

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 mashed potato. 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.

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...

Website: http://uk.news.yahoo.com/blog/editors_c ... mments-nav

[RaleighRob]

That's absolutely hilarious and totally frightening at the same time!
I've eaten some exotic foreign foods before but even I couldn't tell what most of that was. (And on an airline, you really should offer non-exotic food as much as possible anyways, to appeal to the most customers.)

On the link, at the bottom, there's an update. Notice how Virgin somewhat-sarcastically say they're inviting the guy up to their catering site to pick a meal to cater to "his personal taste". Um...they obviously didn't get the point. He wasn't complaining that it wasn't to his personal taste...he was complaining that it wasn't edible, period!

[Lewis]

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.

[Earl]

Hmm, I think I'll have another crime-scene cookie with that 4,800-Calorie hamburger.

[Lewis]

Dear Cretins,
I have been an NTL customer since 9th July 2001, when I signed up for
your 3-in-one deal for cable TV, cable modem, and telephone. 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 perogative, 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 t..ticles 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 4 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%... hours
between about 6pm -midnight, Mon-Fri, and most of the weekend. I am
still waiting for my telephone connection. I have made 9 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 b*ll*ck jugglers.
I have been informed that a telephone line is available (and someone
will call me back); that no 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
answer 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 t..ticle-moments to attend to. Frankly I don't
care, it's far more satisfying as a customer to voice my frustration's
in print than to shout them at your unending hold music. Forgive me,
therefore, if I continue.
I thought BT were s.it, that they had attained the holy p*ss-pot of godawful
customer relations, 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 NTL, 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 b*stards you truly are. You are sputum-filled pieces of
distended r*ctum incompetents of the highest order.
British Telecom - w..nkers though they are - shine like brilliant beacons
of success, in the filthy puss-filled 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 quickly be replaced by derision, and even perhaps bemused
rage. I enclose two small deposits, selected with great care from my
cats 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 you miserable short life, you
irritatingly incompetent and infuriatingly unhelpful bunch of *****.
John

Website: http://techrepublic.com.com/5208-6230-0 ... 25&start=0

[Earl]

Thanks, Lewis, for these moments of hilarity. When I saw the first two words ("Dear Cretins") at first glance, I thought that you had quoted another hateful response from an angry sports fan.

[Lewis]

More of a complaint post, but lmao.

[Lewis]

To whom it may concern,

It concerns your entire company and money making scheme, that's 'whom'. Today, I went to subway, for a sub of course. In fact, I still have it here with me. Here's something interesting, I've nicknamed this sub. It now goes by the name of "Dud". Not as in Dudley, as in dud. It's the worst, non-event of a lunch I've ever had to endure.

I spent $7, for this so-called, footlong meatball. I would rather have spent that money on a Woman's Weekly magazine, which I would then procede to eat in order to satisfy my raging hunger. In fact, in retrospect (beautiful thing that), I would kill to have taken that path. Yeah, I'd rather have killed a person, then spent $7 on a magazine that has little or no use to me, which of course isn't the slightest bit edible. Taken a knife and fork, and ate the whole thing, probably hospitalising myself.

Here's how it went; Exhibit A (me) walks into Exhibit B (one of the Brisbane city Subway stores), and asks Exhibit C (Employee A) for Exhibit D (Footlong meatball on Italian herbs and cheese). EA, then proceeds to tell Exhibit E (Employee B), that he prefers Swiss cheese, and the sub should be toasted. EA is happy with the efforts of EC and EE, and ponders that thought while he waits for ED to toast. ED arrives, and is taken by Exhibit F (Employee C) and placed on the counter ready for salads. Here's where things get pear shaped, so for maximum chance of understanding, I'm going to refrain from writing in such a cryptic manner.

The sub was taken out of the toaster, at this point im still only just standing in front of the end of the counter (the end where I tell them what bread I want). She yells out "meatball??" in order to find the orderer, so I put my hand up and aknowledge that it's mine. The young lady asks me "salads?", I have this look on my face as to say "seriously, you're not going to serve me when I'm all the way back here are you? You won't hear what I'm saying!" I pause, to show that I don't want to give my order just yet. Relentless she asks again "Salads?" So now, I'm thinking "okay, there must be some order happening, I'll give it a crack." Now, I'm a very keen disbeliever in mixing cold salads with hot food. So I say, "no salads thanks", whilst shaking my head in a "no salads thanks" kind of way. Yet somehow, this is mistaken, and she procedes to take a generous handful of each salad (yeah I know, with the GFC, generous amounts of anything isn't right), and places them on the sub. And don't think I didn't try and stop her. I yelled out, past the line, at least four times "Excuse me! No salads!", yet my passionate cries for a decent lunch go unheard. So here I am, handing over $7, for a sub standard sub, with Jalapeno's on it. JALAPENO'S for crying out loud! Not too mention the rest of the salads. Yuck! And NOT, what I wanted, or ordered!!

It's a disgrace how subway's are these days. Too small, too crowded, and no one seems to care about your order. All the want to do is serve as fast as possible and get everyone through, without care of what it tastes like. Tomorrow I'm having lunch at a tobacconist! (Yep, a little Friday treat!)

Thanks for listening.

Yours sincerely,
Unhappy customer.

Website: http://www.facebook.com/?ref=logo#!/top ... opic=12027