Optus is this treating your customers with respect? No I don’t think so. This is blatant exploitation of customers, it’s no wonder you’re falling behind the pack. I’m now switching to another provider, one who knows the meaning of respect for their customers.

Imagine if you borrow a book from the library, but forget to return it exactly on the day, and returned it 2 days later. Do you think it’s fair for the library to slug you with a $150 fine? What if the library then said ‘it’s in your terms and conditions to pay $75 PER DAY for every day late’. How would you feel if the library suggested you should be more careful next time; at the end of the day it’s your fault and there’s nothing they can do?

Yes, Optus, it is in my terms and conditions to pay $2+ for every megabyte over my download limit. How about a little warning though when I actually exceed this limit? I bet this rort is making you an extra $20M profit every year.

It’s Saturday afternoon – oh of course “the Optus call centre is currently closed. Please call back during business hours”.

How about you take my $214 and put this to good use. Here’s a free idea – you could use this to employ call centre staff to help your valued customers?

Optus Mobile Broadband - Rip Off Merchants

You know those ads that you see when you’re using Facebook? They always seem to be so tailored; it often feels like Mr Facebook himself is looking over your shoulder.

I’m especially bothered by the ads that start delving into your personal life and exploiting your insecurities.

Why am I being offered penis-extension services? I’ve now developed a complex. Did Facebook examine my beach holiday photos and decided that my bulge just didn’t make the cut?

Two days ago Facebook displayed an ad saying “Jeffro, are you tired of having so few friends?”. Thanks guys.

Yesterday I was greeted with a Facebook ad that said “Finally, it’s time to lose that beer gut”.

Today the first Facebook ad I saw said “Find out if you were adopted – the easy way”.

What’s next, ads that say: “You ugly, lonely, fat excuse of a man. Buy the Ab-Man 4000 for rock hard abs today. We know you can afford it because you listed your job title and company.”

I think the creator of Facebook was bullied at school… I guess this is his way of hitting back and cyber-bullying every person in the western world.

Advertising 101 teaches building trust and rapport with your target demographic.

Facebook’s advertising policy is simple: Abuse the hell out of your subscribers, shatter their self esteem and hope they buy your advertisers products before they have a bath and plug the hair-dryer in.

And it’s not just Facebook; even my emails  intelligently invade my personal space somehow.

I sent an email to a good mate of mine, complaining about my over-bearing mother. Gmail (the cheeky-buggers) kindly displayed an ad next to my sent email entitled “Professional hit-man for hire. Great rates, 100% effective.”

The Brits have it good, although though they do love a good moan about the weather, the tube, their cricket team, the price of mince meat, newspapers with ink that rubs off in your hands, the fact that a weird-looking Australian tried to encourage fellow passengers on the 214 bus to get involved in a GreenDay sing-a-long at 7pm on a Friday evening on the way home from Sainsburys.

In fact, I frequently tell all my Brit mates that the UK is so great, that I consider it the second-best country in the world. For some reason, they’ve never appreciated this compliment. Ungrateful bastards.

So, in no particular order, here’s my list of the 5 things I miss the most about London.

1. Dunnyman. A uniquely British creation, Dunnyman (or the female equivalent – Dunnymole) is the lovable ‘attendent’ that dispenses handroll, after-shave, condoms, women-advice and philosphical mantras in the pub toilet. He is well dressed, welcomes everyone with the stock-standard  ‘Freshen up boss!’ greeting, and is almost always from a war-torn or famine-afflicted nation. Despite working in barely-tolerable, unhygienic conditions and copping daily abuse from drunk arrogant punters, Dunnyman is always smiling. I thought Sydney taxi-drivers copped a handful taking my mates home on a Saturday night….I’ve finally found someone with a thicker skin – Dunnyman.

2. Fried Chicken Joints. On every street corner in London, there is a fried chicken joint selling £1 fried chicken pieces, deep-fried in month-old vegetable oil. They’re a cornerstone of the British diet, and have been around for centuries. During the Victorian era, London town-planners laid out the city in such a way that every pub would be no more than a 50m stagger from a FCJ. However, the typical modern-British male is ashamed to frequent a FCJ, often waiting until his friends are on their way home in a cab before checking over his shoulder. In fact they’re sometimes so discreet, a casual observer would believe he’s entering an adult shop.

3. The Church. Every Sunday afternoon between 12-4pm, a “nightclub” in Kentish Town holds a massive piss-up called The Church. Completely dominated by Aussies and Kiwis, it’s a perfect excuse to end the weekend much the same way it started – drinking beer, being loud and obnoxious, eating 5 chicken pieces and a kilo of fries from a FCJ, then passing out in a cab.

4. English Accents. Don’t get me started here, I love English accents. OK, let me distinguish for a minute – I’m not talking about the chav accents from South Ruislip that sound rather like down-syndrome strawberry farmers. “O’ight geezer, giv’us one of ya fags love… innit”. Instead, I’m referring to the educated public-school London accents that you hear everywhere. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit (and please don’t tell my mum) – posh female English accents give me the horn. Often I’d re-check my voice-messages just to hear the lovely Buckinghamshire Vodafone lady tell me that I have no new messages.

5. Apathy Towards Terrorism. While the rest of the world is cowering in fear at the thought of mass-murder on their public transport systems, the Brits simply don’t care. During my first week in London in mid-2005, bombs went off on buses and trains all around central London. The locals simply carried on their day-to-day business without even blinking. I thought what a crazy place to live, no one seems to mind!

Vehicles manufactured in Korea are often of inferior quality.

Me: How was your day mate?

English Friend: Yeah was fine old chap, but the tube was delayed because a bomb went off on the Piccadilly Line…I wish the London Underground would just get their act together and stop making excuses.

Me: So you honestly don’t mind all these bombs going off. What would you do if a suicide bomber sat opposite you on the tube?

English Friend: I wouldn’t care. Well, as long as he doesn’t try and start a conversation with me.

Predictable really, considering that I’ve touched more timezones than the swine-flu in the last 24 hours.

Apologies in advance, as this will probably be my dullest post ever. I’m using you (the reader) as a selfish means to get to sleep. I’m hoping the act of blogging will exhaust me to slumber, rather like the midnight quickie.

Hey, at least I’m being up-front an honest.

Although I must admit, blogging does engage the creative juices a lot more – sorry to all the romanticists out there.

And you have to use your fingers a lot more when you type.

When trying to sleep earlier tonight, I attempted all the usual. Unfortunately, all made my mind more active and alert.

1. Counting sheep – but then I thought of lamb kebabs and became hungry.

2. Counting backwards from 100 – but once I reached 0, I had a crisis. What now? Do I go back up to 100? Or do I go into the minus numbers? Or should I do it again but count backwards in roman numerals?

3. Staring up at the black ceiling until my eyes fell drowsy – but my hyper-active mind started visualising dark shapes moving around on the ceiling and I freaked out. Were they cockroaches? Or a weird alien blob life-form that breeds on the ceilings of Bondi apartments?

4. Writing down my thoughts – which is what I’m currently doing, electronically. Hence, the reason for this post.

Well, I’m going to give it another crack, after all I have to be in the office in 5 hours to read my expected 300 new emails from the past 2 weeks. I’ll make the next post more interesting, promise.

I just had a rather traumatic experience involving the Malaysian version of a bidet, and don’t have an outlet to express my emotions as my phone isn’t working. So, I’ll blog about it instead.

It’s actually an extendible hose that sits next to the toilet bowl. As I considered myself rather inexperienced in Malaysian-extensible-bidet-use, thought I’d give it a go. I’m always willing to give new things a try.

I’m a germ-o-phobe. As I reached for the extensible bidet black hose, my thoughts immediately imagined thousands of unwashed grotty man-hands fondling this hose.

I picked it up gingerly with two fingers, lowered it beneath me, and turned the hose on.

There should we warning signs on the back of every toilet door in Malaysia.

These bad-boy bidets should be rolled out next time there are bushfires in Victoria. It’s completely unnecessary for a bidet to be as powerful as a Super Soaker 3000 XD. Bums weren’t invented to stand that kind of abuse.

Not only will I be farting out spurts of clear water every hour for the next 13 hours to London, but I also managed to squirt water all down my trousers and jeans.

To make it worse, my jeans around my ankles had soaked up all the shitty-pissy-water that had accumulated on the toilet floor.

Not happy Jan. I can hear my boarding call now…

From variations of actual names: Davo, Kenno, Robbo, Rossco, Moose, Gazza…

To nicknames that appear to have no justification behind them:
Penny-Trayshun, Hands, Damage, Britney, Feltcher, Psycho Jimmi, Water-Dreams, Scrubber …

From nicknames with multiple syllables:
Wolfgang-Puck-The-19th-Best-Chef-in-the-World (seriously, that’s how he introduces himself to women)…

To monosyllabic names that could be potentially offensive: Coon…

From nicknames derived from personality traits of that person: Poof, Pommy Tom, Kiwi-Pete, Easy, Cuddles…

To nicknames derived from physical characteristics: Skin-Footies, Midget, Fatboy, Shilpa, Billy Idol, Penis, Greg Da Pedo…

Of all the above people, only Greg Da Pedo (Greg) has consistently resisted adaptation of the nickname, despite my persistence over the last 3 years.

He has never been happy about the name, which of course encouraged the name to stick. When we worked together, I was even tempted at one point to introduce him to new clients as ‘Greg Da Pedo’.

The story about how this nickname came about is as follows. A few years ago, our company had a client that held a competition to find the “grizzliest man” in Britain. Users had to submit their most macho picture of themselves and a short description as to why they are Britain’s grizzliest man. The winner received a fridge full of meat.

Greg’s entry description was this: “I should win this competition because I have both extreme intelligence and a muscular physique. “

He submitted this photo. I AM NOT KIDDING.

ACTUAL PHOTO

When I saw his submission, the immediate dialogue that followed between us went something like this. (When imagining this conversation, remember that Greg has a well educated, upper-class English accent)

Jeffro “Are you fucking serious, THAT’S the picture you’re submitting?”

Greg “Yes”

Jeffro “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!”

Greg “Jeffrey, I really do not understand why you find this picture so amusing”

Jeffro “Mate…in this picture you look like… a sex offender! You resemble a cross between a Boys2Men member and a young Gary-Glitter!”

Greg “I most certainly do not”

Jeffro “You do! It’s bloody hilarious! Ooh stay away from me, I don’t want to be associated with a criminal! You look like either a rapist or a pedophile. So do you like tweens or teens?”

Greg “I find this all a bunch of nonsense. You can be rather immature sometimes”

Jeffro “HAHAHA!!!! I bet you like them immature!!”

Greg “That’s not funny”

Jeffro “Do you know how you always wanted an Australian nickname? Well your nickname can be called Greg The Pedophile!”

Greg “Do not call me that name”

Jeffro “What’s wrong with Greg The Pedophile? It’s an awesome name! You could shorten it to Greg Da Pedo, or even GDP! Yeah!! GDP is IN DA HOUSE!!”

Greg “I really do not appreciate being called a pedophile. It’s insulting and degrading”

Jeffro “Is it seriously bothering you?”

Greg “Yes, how would you like to be called Jeffro Da Pedo?”

Jeffro “I’d actually think it’d be really cool. OK if it really bothers you, I’ll give you two options. You can be called Greg Da Pedo or…..Greg Da Rapist. They both have a nice ring to them”

Greg “I honestly prefer neither of those names”

Jeffro “Too bad, it’s GDP. It even has lyrical potential: ‘They call me GDP – I’m a badass dude. I need small kiddies more than I need food.‘”

Greg “I hate that”

Jeffro “HEY EVERYBODY, COME AND CHECK OUT GREG’S COMPETITION SUBMISSION!!!”

And from that day on, the name stuck.

1. A blow to the testicles. It’s a fact that all men will laugh at the misfortune of another man when a cricket ball hits him in his bloke-berries (call it whatever… the nut butter tank, the hanging meatballs, the salty protein grapes, the chin pounders etc). It’s even better when caught on camera and submitted to Australia’s Funniest Home Videos.

I’ve experienced this on a personal level many times. Throughout my life my man-marbles have been subjected to numerous poundings including hits from rugby balls, tuna cans, pub fights, tree branches, the head of Robbo’s guitar and a hard whack from the mid-pole of my bike when the seat fell off last year whilst doing 40km/h on Bondi Road.

2. Diarrhea. Face it, it’s funny. In fact the subject of  “spray-can poo” dominates approximately 60% of any conversation my mate Ceps initiates. He has stories to beat the best of my stories, and believe me I have a lot of experience. Today I had a day-procedure at hospital to test for colon cancer. I’ll write about this traumatising experience in another post, but I’ll stay on topic for now. The point is, I’ve been shitting through a straw for the past 48 hours as I had to consume a vile drink that tasted of dish-washing water mixed with children’s snot, brussel sprouts and sugar. Why is it that all medicines contain obscene amounts of sugar in an attempt to mask the horrid taste? It’s similar to putting a dinner dress on a fat, ugly whore – it’ll be a bad experience either way.

Anyway, the demon-drink caused sudden explosive diarrhea approximately every hour in an effort to clean out my guts prior to the procedure. Consequently, my arse is now as sore as a Thai Lady-boy’s during an economic boom period. But the point is it was funny even for me; I was giggling like a Chinese schoolgirl in a Hello Kitty store whenever I had to run to the toilet. This was despite my desperate attempts to squeeze my butt cheeks together using nothing but mind-control. My girlfriend also thought it was funny, until the stench carried from the bathroom to the lounge-room where she was was trying to sew. I loved watching her head suddenly turn sharply to the right as she got whacked by the poo bat.

3. Watching English backpackers being rescued at Bondi Beach. OK so I’m not a sick weirdo that enjoys observing our tea-drinking cousins actually drowning. In fact, the death rate of Brits dying from over consumption of Bondi sea-water is actually non-existent thanks to our totally awesome life-savers who are volunteering their time I must add. I simply mean it is rather funny watching them struggling in the water – shiny, pale and over-weight. In fact, they often resemble albino baby-seals learning how to paddle. 200 years ago, the Australian Aborigines also probably thought this was humorous, and potentially paved the way for our obsession with others misfortune:

Aboriginal 1: Oi bro, check out the white-fella drowning. Should we save him bro?

Aboriginal2: Nah bro, leave him. Lets re-enact his drowning at “Australia’s Funniest Home Corroborree”.

4. Playing practical jokes on your passed out friend. Every man has done/had it done: from painting ‘Chelsea Smiles’ on his face, to sticking stiff orange vegetables in warm orifices, to shaving off every piece of body-hair he has.

TIP: Plan your bucks/stag night at least one week before the wedding

I believe that practical jokes on drunk friends truly do transcend all cultures:

Japan: “Let us see if Hiroshi wakes up if we rub wasabi on his pee-hole”

America: “Hey man, why the fuck do I have a safety pin through my nipple?”

India: “We will dip a condom in tandoori sauce and put it down Kumar’s underpants”

Australia: “AH CRAP AH CRAP I PISSED MYSELF!!! Oh wait, dammit Kenno did you pour warm water on my crotch again?!”

My mates and I have a common trait whenever we’re out drinking. At the start of an evening, conversation will be rather normal, even intellectual at times. We’d typically discuss our travel exploits, who’d win in an arm wrestle between Gordon and Barack, the impact climate change will have on beer-prices and if black leather jackets on men would ever be considered heterosexual.

However, we all seem to have a trigger point around the 6 pint mark, at which our behaviour almost certainly changes with predictable results.

Kenno – after the 6 pint trigger point will generally substitute the word ‘cunt’ for any pronoun or name. Additionally, the word ‘fucking’ would be inserted in his sentence structure, usually immediately before any noun.

• One pint Kenno: “Jeffrey, can I enquire as to whether you would like me to purchase another beer for you”.
• Six pint Kenno: “Oi Jeffro cunt, do you want another fucking beer you cunt?”

Within our circle of friends, this is completely fine and expected. However, Kenno and I often visit different countries, where ‘cunt’ may be somewhat more offensive than in Australia. For instance, in Poland ‘cunt’ is a well known brand of shoe polish. Kenno often makes matters worse by calling complete strangers ‘cunts’, including barmen, nearby punters, cab drivers, over-weight prostitutes and midnight kebab-store vendors.

Moose – after the 6th pint will be completely nude by the 7th, guaranteed. It’s almost worth preparing your phone for ‘video-mode’ around the 6th pint for blackmail potential if Moose ever becomes a prominent figure in society. We filmed this when we were drinking in a hotel bar in the mountains of Slovakia. A group of Polish tourists had just arrived at the hotel and were assembling in the foyer to listen to their tour-guide explain how to cope with potential situations in the woods, in particular amorous male bears that mistake backpack-toting Polish tourists for prime female bears. At this particular moment, a loud “WHOOOAA WHOOOAA” could be heard from the direction of the hotel bar. A moment later, a completely naked Moose was running straight for the crowd, who quickly separated for him faster than the Red-Sea did for Moses. Moose ran completely outside and back in again back through the path of people to the hotel bar. We were politely asked to leave.

The tendency to nude-up after 6 pints could possibly be genetically linked. I went out drinking once with his brother, and ended up in a strip club in Kings Cross. It was the type of club that served $27 beers and expected to keep the change from a $100 note. In the cab back to Bondi, I passed out in the backseat in a drunken slumber. I remember waking up only a few minutes later when Moose’s brother said to the cabbie “pull over just here, I really need to do something”. When the cabbie pulled over, he jumped out of the car, pulled his pants completely off and ran about 20m down the middle of the street yelling at the top of his voice “I’M FREE!! I’M FREE!!”. He then jumped back into the car and explained “It was something I had to do, drive on cabbie.”

There’s still Midget, Ceps, Ranga and Damage to go – I’ll expand on their trigger point traits later.

Werbeloff shot to international media attention with her colourful (i.e. Boganist) account of a shooting in Kings Cross on prime time news. Watch this for the interview:

This week, her quotes have donned mugs and tee-shirts, and have been the subject of water-cooler conversation in every office in the country. She’s even hired a publicist to deal with her new found fame. Perhaps her publicist could advise her to do the following to capitalise on the media attention while it lasts:

1. Release her own brand of perfume called “L’odeur de la Bogan”

2. Open a restaurant specialising in her speciality dish: The Werberloff Stroganoff

3. Be a regular advice-dispensing columnist in the Daily Telegraph. Call the column “The Werbsta Speaks”

4. Sell her toenails on Ebay. Ensure the bid ends soon as her 15 minute of fame is running out.

5. Make a sex tape. Scream “THIS IS FULLY SICK!” as she comes. But, of course we all know she’ll be faking.

6. Be the face of the Australian Firearm’s Association. Tattoos, long hair and westie-English. Just like most of the members.

7. Record a single and accompanying video clip with her wearing nothing but one of her tee shirts. Not the first time someone with a pretty face that can’t sing has made a single.

8. Go on Rove to promote her single. Call Rove a “fat wog” on the show.

9. Go on Celebrity Big Brother to promote her Rove appearance. You don’t have to be that famous to appear on the show. Face it, every celebrity from the fat kid on Hey Dad to the prime minister’s former-florist has made an appearance.

10. Set up FollowTheBogan.com. Support this with a Twitter page and a Facebook fan site.

1. Dye your hair black. OK, so this is the obvious one but it goes without saying that you can’t be a blonde emo. You’ll look as out of place in the emo community as a fat redhead in a Korean yoga class.

2. Never smile. Even if you score that promotion at work, or manage to complete the final level of Dungeons & Dragons with a faulty left-mouse button, you must look as happy as a paraplegic cat in a parrot sanctuary at all times.

3. Start writing poetry. A limerick or haiku is a good start; emos must be seen to express their emotions. Even better if it rhymes. Here’s a start: “Tears run down our emo faces, so we style our hair like Oasis”

4. Throw away your deodorant-stick. Emos, like their predecessor goth(o) cousins, are meant to offend at all levels, nasally included.

5. Don’t cut yourself despite the fact it’s the expected thing to do. Find healthier ways to vent your inner ‘emo’ such as bullying the foreign-exchange student at school to draw attention away from yourself.

6. Flop your dyed-black hair over your forehead and glue it down with emo-glue (emo street talk for hair-gel). It’s even better if you flop it over your eyes too, so you permanently have to flick it back with a jerk of the head like the special kid you remembered from Sunday school.

7. Pretend you like ‘emo’ music. As a general rule; if the band members dress emo then they must be emo. (editor’s note: all emos have since turned their back on Fall Out Boy because the singer started wearing a hat).

8. Change your name to a monosyllabic word such as ‘Thad’,  ‘Moo’ or “Merv”.

9. Become a vegan. Milk, cheese and toothpaste have emotions too you know man.

10. Memorise this checklist, close your browser window and delete your Internet history. Real emos will disown you if they found out you Googled emo how-to instructions.

Slick black hair and mascara, coupled with whiny emotional lyrics. Was Elvis the first emo?