I am having a row with Elephant Car Insurance after they have taken money out, put it back, taken it again, taken twice the amount, taken an amount different to that which we agreed, etc. I would like to defame them on my blog and make them apologise lest all of my readers never use Elephant, but I am going for the traditional route of shouting at them on the telephone.
“D for dog,” I say, reading out the policy number to an overly-friendly man (“Can I call you Billygean? Or Billy? Is that okay?”). I know it is delta, but I have a syndrome called I Do Not Know The Police Alphabet When I Need To.
“D for dog,” the man repeats to me, because he has worked out I am an imbecile.
“B for…” I say. My voice trails off into the ether. B for what? What begins with B? Bastard, says my brain. BOLLOCKS, say bollocks. No, brain, I say. There has to be another word beginning with B. Balls. Bastard. Bollocks. Bitch. Bullshit. Boner. Blow job. Butt plug. Oh dear god. “B for…” I say, while dying.
“B for… bog,” I say feebly, after a long pause; secretly pleased with myself for not saying b for boner to the man from Elephant Car Insurance.
“D for dog, b for bog,” he says, I believe making the point that I have rendered both explanations completely pointless.
“Thanks,” I say.
I have to give my address next. “Acocks Green,” I say.
“A cocks, as in… Cocks.”