I decided to get my "good deed for the year" over and done with nice and early in 2009 by buying my mother a new TV set to replace the desperately ancient fourteen-incher she's had since about 1989. Which - of course - was a chore, in and of itself. You knew that was going to happen, didn't you? 
Firstly, can anybody tell me exactly when a University Diploma in Advanced Nerd became a requirement for buying a new bit of electrical kit? I mean, I know that sales staff have always flaunted their "Huh, he doesn't know what a woofer is! How's he managed to get through life without that knowledge?" expertise. But, it's got worse. I mean much, much, much worse! Particularly when buying a PC or a laptop, the reviews for which - if you ever venture online in the hope of finding something written in recognisable English - all seem to fall into one of two categories: The "Dude, this baby is total primo-rad"-type of teenspeak that nobody over the age of twenty one understands or the sort which you get from real technoheads. Which nobody understands. Which brings me to buying a telly for my mum. From Morrison's, no less. I mean, I thought I'd be safe in a supermarket. No such luck.
I found a model I liked the look of (a Neon, 19 inch screen, LCD, freeview and with a little DVD in the side) and that I really liked the price of (one hundred and seventy notes). So, I says to the guy on the counter "Simple terms, right? Is this an easy set-up? I mean, she's got a video player which, I presume goes through the Scart, yes?" The reply started with several words that I didn't understand (after the opening "Well, chief, what y'need to do is ...") and concluded with something that sounded exactly like "... and then, once you've splonged the snarly-hoojar on the clompus and bookeneded the jiggery on yer Glonthometer, you should be well-sorted, capiche?" I just sort of nodded, mutely. "Yeah, sounds dead straight-forward" I muttered as I wandered away, a large package under my arm.
Anyway, got the thing home and, after having read the instructions (worse than useless), fiddled around for a couple of hours, got annoyed, hit it - repeatedly - with a hammer and then, gone back, re-read the instructions which made a bit more sense second time around, ripped all the wires out and then put them all back in, hey, whaddya know? It actually worked! Eventually.
Can somebody point me in the direction of my bed, I'm shattered after all that.
Firstly, can anybody tell me exactly when a University Diploma in Advanced Nerd became a requirement for buying a new bit of electrical kit? I mean, I know that sales staff have always flaunted their "Huh, he doesn't know what a woofer is! How's he managed to get through life without that knowledge?" expertise. But, it's got worse. I mean much, much, much worse! Particularly when buying a PC or a laptop, the reviews for which - if you ever venture online in the hope of finding something written in recognisable English - all seem to fall into one of two categories: The "Dude, this baby is total primo-rad"-type of teenspeak that nobody over the age of twenty one understands or the sort which you get from real technoheads. Which nobody understands. Which brings me to buying a telly for my mum. From Morrison's, no less. I mean, I thought I'd be safe in a supermarket. No such luck.I found a model I liked the look of (a Neon, 19 inch screen, LCD, freeview and with a little DVD in the side) and that I really liked the price of (one hundred and seventy notes). So, I says to the guy on the counter "Simple terms, right? Is this an easy set-up? I mean, she's got a video player which, I presume goes through the Scart, yes?" The reply started with several words that I didn't understand (after the opening "Well, chief, what y'need to do is ...") and concluded with something that sounded exactly like "... and then, once you've splonged the snarly-hoojar on the clompus and bookeneded the jiggery on yer Glonthometer, you should be well-sorted, capiche?" I just sort of nodded, mutely. "Yeah, sounds dead straight-forward" I muttered as I wandered away, a large package under my arm.
Anyway, got the thing home and, after having read the instructions (worse than useless), fiddled around for a couple of hours, got annoyed, hit it - repeatedly - with a hammer and then, gone back, re-read the instructions which made a bit more sense second time around, ripped all the wires out and then put them all back in, hey, whaddya know? It actually worked! Eventually.
Can somebody point me in the direction of my bed, I'm shattered after all that.
