Recently, it came to my attention while building a commercial website for someone that I was no longer getting a good deal on my web hosting. 15 quid a month (plus VAT) for 50MB of space and a pitiful amount of bandwidth seems like rather a lot for script hosting when another company can offer me 3GB of space and 40GB/month bandwidth plus ASP.Net hosting for half that, so I decided to move hosts. I set up my new account and contacted my current supplier, who has been about as helpful as Pete the Feet, a legendary Moseley tramp who spends his entire life wasted on a potent combination of Kestrel, White Lightning and Meths and likes to shout random obscenities at trees and pigeons. Although I can understand the shouting at pigeons bit because they are evil vermin who should all be shot. When I finally got a response last night, I was told that they would charge me £20 (yes, twenty Great British Pounds) to change the IPSTAG. For those not in the know, the IPSTAG is a short string of letters and numbers in the registry of the domain which denotes who hosts the domain. It takes about, ooh, 3 seconds to change. How do I know? Because, spitting blood and bile, I told them in no uncertain terms that I thought they were a bunch of robbing shysters but seeing as I had no option, they had better go ahead and do it. 5 minutes later (this is at 9.30 at night) I get an email telling me it’s done and they are now referring me to the accounts dept to settle up and close the account.
Twenty quid. For that. You miserable, scum-sucking, thieving pikey bastards. I hope their servers all mysteriously overheat and die in a smoking heap of twisted drive platters, fried processors and burnt out buses.
After calming down and getting a relatively early night as I was knackered from playing a fairly high stakes poker game in the office after hours (!), I was happily sleeping when at 5.45 am (yes, that’s right: a quarter to six in the morning) I was awoken by my neighbours. They weren’t doing the normal things that people do when they wake up, like bumping into doors because they’re still in a zombified state or tripping over the cat which has cunningly positioned itself full-length on the third step down from the top of the stairs. Oh no. They were hammering a facking nail into the wall at 5.45 in the sodding morning. Who the arse thinks that it is socially acceptable to hammer a nail into a party wall at that time of day? What drugs must they have been taking to wake up at stupid o’clock and think “I know, I’ll bang a bastard great nail into the wall of the house adjoining us. They won’t mind being woken up by it”. To give you an idea of what kind of people we are dealing with here, they own a caravan. And they sit in it at the bottom of their garden, next to the garage, for days out. No, really. However, by the judicious application of some four star you could put paid to that and do everyone a favour because if they ever take it out of their garden and hitch it to their moron-mobile you can guarantee that the gormless tossers are the sort who will happily trundle along at 35 in a 60 zone which has no overtaking areas for miles on end without thinking to look see if they have caused a massive tailback and maybe pull over for a bit to let the normal people past, all because they’re too mean to spend a couple of quid on a B&B. Bastards.
AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!
Right, that feels better.
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