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Sunday, May 08, 2011

Taxi companies, and why I hate them

Remember that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry explains the concept of reservations to a hire car company worker? THIS SUMS UP EXACTLY HOW I FEEL ABOUT THE LAST HOUR OF MY LIFE.


I work a job that requires me to be in the office at absurd hours, when most decent people are asleep. Hours which no human being should have to work. On a Saturday night I normally finish at about 1.30-2am, after having started at 1pm.


Yes, you can start pitying me now.


Because of this, and the fact that for a long time I didn't have a car, I have become rather used to trying to cajole taxi companies into letting me give them money to drive me home. Despite this being their sole reason for existing, this has always proved rather hard, mostly because I've left it to the last minute to ring for one.

Today however, I was clever. I BOOKED my taxi 12 hours in advance.

"HA-HA!" thought I.

"No waiting around for ME tonight, I'll be straight out the door and into my waiting cab on the dot of 1.30am!"

Sadly Suburban Taxis had other ideas, as they informed me when I called them at 1.45am to find out where my cab was.

"Yes, see it's Saturday night, and it's really busy in the city, so your car is late, and its GPS is broken so we can't even tell you how far away it is," they said.

"But it shouldn't BE late! I BOOKED it! Twelve hours ago!" I argued.

"It doesn't matter what time you book it, it matters where the cars are at the time you booked the taxi for," they said.

"But isn't that the point of booking a taxi, so it turns up at the time you want?" I asked, my mind bending into a pretzel.

"No taxi company in the WORLD is going to guarantee a car will turn up on time," they guffawed.

It was about this time that I noticed a Suburban taxi pull up out the front of the office with its light on - AND PICK UP A RANDOM GIRL FROM THE STREET.

"HEY, ARE YOU BOOKED FOR PETSTARR?" I shrieked, running up to the car window.

"Huh? Nup," said the driver and sped away with his drunken quarry.

Furious, I called Suburban back again to inform them of this new development. Namely: why the fuck am I still waiting for a taxi I booked 12 hours ago when there are free cabs hurtling up and down the street picking up randoms?

"Well that taxi driver you just saw didn't have YOUR booking you see, YOUR booking is with another driver who is still on the way," they said.

Cue rant.

WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT OF BOOKING A TAXI IF THERE IS NO GUARANTEE OF THAT TAXI TURNING UP AT THAT TIME?

And why the FUCK does your booking system allocate my job to ONE driver, whose GPS is broken and so may or may not even be in South Australia, so that other vacant cabs are driving up and down my street looking for fares, blissfully unaware of my desperate desire to get home?

And finally, what DEMENTED, BRAIN ADDLED, FUCKTARD HALFWIT thinks that a booking doesn't count when it's busy? THAT'S THE FUCKING POINT OF A BOOKING, YOU TWATS. It's like booking a hotel room in Melbourne during the Australian Open, getting there on the first weekend and being told "Oh no we don't have a room for you - it's very busy at the moment you know!"

THAT'S WHY I BOOKED, MORON.

See - anyone can just TAKE a reservation. You've got to learn how to HOLD the reservation.

Sunday, May 01, 2011

Bloated on too much MasterChef

Somebody call a doctor, I think I've come over ill. I'm not sure what's wrong with me, but I'm just not that excited about MasterChef starting tonight.

I know. This could be serious.


This fulfils my quota of stupid Matt Preston photos for this week.


Regular readers will know that I am something of a MasterChef tragic. Excluding the utterly unwatchable Celebrity and Junior versions of the show, which made me want to throw macarons at my television screen, I have watched and loved every single episode.

I love the drama (only 20 minutes to make a lamb roast!), the disasters (collapsing cakes!), and the triumphs (anything that makes George Calombaris stand on his tip toes), not to mention the blast freezers. They should make everything in the blast freezers.

But this time around, I've sort of gone lukewarm on the idea.

I've seen the ads with the contestants running through the streets to inspirational music and thought “Yeah, yeah”.

I've read the gushing newspaper articles about how season 3 will be more exciting than ever, packed with celebrity chefs all clamouring to promote themselves, and actually yawned. YAWNED, I TELL YOU.

Could the unthinkable have happened? Could my love affair with MasterChef be over after just two seasons?

You see, while I'm still semi-interested in tuning in (if not only to see what special guest Heston Blumenthal will make the contestants do, hopefully involving liquid nitrogen), I'm worried the cooking franchise has run out of steam.

The proof is in tonight's pudding, so to speak, but if MasterChef has lost its gloss it's fairly easy to work out why. To use yet another foodie analogy, Australian TV networks have over-egged the pudding when it comes to cooking shows.

When it started three years ago, MasterChef managed to capture Australians' burgeoning love affair with cooking shows just as it was starting to gather momentum. In cooking terms, its souffle rose at exactly the right time.

Then, as always seems to happen in TV land, some bright spark put their hand up in an executive meeting somewhere and said something like “Hey, everyone seems to love this MasterChef thing, how can we flog it some more until everyone's totally sick of it?”

And thus Celebrity MasterChef was born, aka “The MasterChef we all pretend never existed”, and then Junior Masterchef, aka “The MasterChef starring obnoxious kids that only parents enjoyed watching”.


ANNOYING.


And then came My Kitchen Rules, which was basically Channel 7 taking a giant fork and stabbing Channel 10's souffle over and over and over, to the music from Psycho.

And peppered in between all of this we've had Jamie Oliver cooking things in 30 minutes, and Heston Blumenthal making edible Christmas trees, and Gordon Ramsay yelling at people, and OH MY GOD I DON'T THINK I CAN TAKE IT ANYMORE.

I feel like I'm stuck at a never ending dinner party with a bunch of fat, boring toffs who say things like “twice cooked” and “jus” and regularly describe meals as “a journey”, and we're onto the 17th course, and that's just entrees.

It remains to be seen whether season 3 of MasterChef will capture the public's imagination like the previous seasons. I'm going to hazard a guess and say yes, probably, it will.

But at some point we're surely going to have to admit that we're full up of cooking shows, and leave the table, before we explode from gorging ourselves on our own infatuation with food.

Maybe an obssession with exercise shows should be next?

This article was first published in the Adelaide Sunday Mail's TV Guide on May 1, 2011.