"Nice to meet you. Please confirm your identity."

I'm sure there are those of you expecting a remotely serious blog on my status, each for very differing reasons. While I'd love to update the world on the goings on in my life, I'm here for one reason and one reason only.

So, today, at Chicken Cottage...

They absolutely massacred my burger beyond repair.

I've always been skeptical about the sense in taking on an employee for a fast food apprenticeship. Of all the jobs in the world to learn while you work, I'd rather you kept your grubby hands away from the one profession where I'm potentially paying to eat your junior mistake.

So to see some labouring buffoon approaching me with an apron several sizes too small and a look of utter bewilderment on his face, I knew today wasn't going to be a Good Chicken Cottage Day.

Turns out, I was absolutely correct.

"Can I have a fillet burger meal, please?"

He stared an empty blank through me. So I tried again.

"Err, a number two meal...please?"

With those magic words, he scurried away to grab some lettuce and left me to play with my jacket zip, feeling all the more intelligent for his service. Are you kidding? Word of advice to the person in charge. If your guy on the till works by numbers rather than meal names, you might want to check that he's putting his shoes in the cloakroom rather than the oven.

I eventually got my burger and turned round to take a seat. What do I find? Some useless thugged up Asian massive has reigned down on the last remaining table in the restaurant (and I use the term restaurant with a sprinkling of sarcasm). The very same seats that were empty when I walked in.

That really rubs me up the wrong way. You get to the front of the queue, order your meal, then turn to find that the gang behind you has split in to teams with two occupying the empty seats and another three waiting to be served. But given that there's only one of me, I don't have the advantage of swooping the last table AND fetching my food.

I gave them a dead filthy stare and cussed at their modded cars on the way out.

This after a marathon ten minute wait for my chicken burger to be cooked in the first place. Isn't there something wrong with that?

It's 1pm in the afternoon. You're called Chicken Cottage. Listen mate, if you aren't semi-expecting somebody to come in and order a chicken burger, you're working in the wrong industry.

If I wanted to wait for my food, I'd go next door and order a pizza.

The waiting process becomes all the more infuriating when you're forced to witness a bumbling junior take three attempts at smearing your bun in mayonnaise. Please read that sentence in its desired context. How hard can it be?

And if it is that hard, just tell me! I won't hold it against you. Just invite me behind the counter, give me those fricking tongs, and I'll cook it myself.

By this point, I was slumped over the till area having given up entirely. My eyes transfixed on the poor kid as he went about his work hopelessly. Fair enough. I'm willing to give somebody the benefit of the doubt. A fantastic burger experience would have saved the day.

But no sir. This wasn't a burger. It was a mayonnaise battered slush of soggy buns and a half decent fillet of chicken. I tried to take an unbiased bite, I really did. But it squirted EVERYWHERE.

Needless to say, I'll be offering my filthy custom to Pedros from now on.

I got a call from my mobile phone operator the other day.

"Hello there. We'd like to ask you a few questions regarding your account with Three."

"Alright, quickly..."

"First of all, sir, are you willing to answer a few security questions to prove that you're Mr. Osborn?"

The bloody cheek! You called me! I was tempted to return the gesture.

"Absolutely. But first. Seeing as you're the one who clearly wants something out of this conversation. Could you please prove that you're actually working for Three? Maybe send me your latest bank statement. Get the manager on the phone. God knows, Rajah, text me a picture of you in your company badge and pin striped suit - then maybe I'll prove that I'm Martin Osborn. How about that?"

It turns out they were wanting to upgrade my package.

I said, "I'm fine, dude. Twelve inches is just right for me."

But really, is there any logical reason why I'd want to have unlimited Internet access on my mobile phone? In his own words, you can download as many MP3s as you like without exceeding your current bandwidth quota.

Yeah, well, guess what? I have Broadband at home. I can already download as many as I want without having to pay for your fancy bells and whistles. And if I was going to enjoy your online Spice Girls back-catalogue, I wouldn't choose to do so using my mobile phone on the train.

Now sod off.