Dear SKY Broadband,

I really thought I loved you, you know…For the past two weeks you have been bombarding me with beautiful, flirty text messages about how your new 40 MB broadband service is going to change my life on the 10th April 2013, the day when your engineer visits me between 9.00am and 1pm. It has, I admit, been a a lovely few weeks with every text you have sent me seeming more erotic the nearer the big day approached.

You have sent me a lovely new broadband box that I had to wait in all day for and you have also given me the good news that I won’t even have to be here on the following day (11th April) as it will all be connected remotely by one of your experts; I loved you, everything seemed perfect, I even bragged about you to my friends…what a fool I have been…I feel so stupid!

That is because today you have heartlessly text-ed me to say that actually, it’s not going to work after all, not now, probably never, but at least I can have my 0.5 MB download back online again, along with the £50.00 you somewhat presumptuously removed from my bank account last week. You heartless bastards, how could you do this? I feel like a child sobbing at the gates of Butlins two weeks after his parents promised him a trip to Disneyland, Florida. To lead me up the garden path to nowhere was a horrible thing to do but now I must be brave and  try to move on and seek an alternative relationship with someone else who can offer me a TV/Phone/Broadband package.

But you know the truth don’t you SKY? You know that my blood pressure cannot take the ordeal of a phone call to my lifelong foes at British Telecom, those marvels of technology who have issued me with a series of wrong numbers and with spectacular inefficiency that is beyond comprehension, even managed to put broadband in to my home, take it out again and place it in a house 27 doors away.  It was simple mistake, I lived in 14 and they lived at 41, our names were close as well, mine being Lethaby and hers Dicker (which is rather unfortunate in more ways than one). You know that BT have decades of ineptitude behind them and it that no matter how hard you try, you can’t to train your staff to be that hopeless overnight;  it takes time.

You know that when I try to end our relationship, there will be a lovely lady from the east coast of Scotland who will talk me out out of it, becoming more pitiful as she does so, eventually making me feel that if I do cancel, Rupert Murdoch will turn up in person and kill her and her family. You also know that the chances are that I will be so drawn in by the plight of the poor woman (who will soon stand in my minds eye as a sombre dressed lady from a Scottish Widows advert) I will probably end up as the proud owner of a six month subscription to a movie channel that I will never watch.

You bastards, you know that I do not have the energy from within to make the change, especially to BT. You also know that any complaint or a cancellation is, in reality, an opportunity to up sell. You probably knew I couldn’t get this service, it was just a conspiracy to draw me in.

And there was me thinking I was about to turn my back on the beautiful feeling that comes with a buffering I-player.

Bugger.