McDonalds

Dear Sirs,

I am writing to complain about the abysmal level of customer service at your drive-through restaurant in Kingston, Milton Keynes. Despite your history of environmental devastation, worker exploitation, child-baiting and animal abuse, I must admit that you do offer one thing that others do not: convenience. Sometimes, when no better option presents itself, I find myself with no choice but to force down one of your greasy McBurgers or a handful of lukewarm fries.

On one such occasion last week, however, I made the mistake of stopping off at McDonalds Kingston and using the ‘drive-thru’ ordering system. My suspicions should have been aroused by the bizarre spelling of the word ‘through’ – presumably this is an example of a multinational corporation piggybacking on the trend for blatant illiteracy amongst today's youth, most of whom are simply too lazy to refrain from unnecessary elision. Unfortunately, on this occasion I was extremely tired and had two unruly brats in the back of my car; not my own, thankfully, but my two godchildren, Honoria and Augustus. Although my good lady-wife, Agatha, dotes on the little blisters, I myself find myself at odds in their company and tend to fall back into glorious daydreams where I am throttling one of the little sods whilst kicking the other into some sort of ravine. On this excruciating excursion I had been forced to drive to some ghastly attraction in Staffordshire, which I had been unfairly tricked into thinking was a museum about Ernest Alton, the late Irish educator and politician. After a full day of what can only be described as financial rape and varying levels of nausea, I was allowed to crawl into the car and drive back home amidst the screams of the unholy spawn in the back. Despite warning Agatha numerous times about the effects of candy floss and carbonated beverages on children, she had stuffed them so full of sugar that no amount of threats or pleading would shut them up. In the end, close to tears, I had to resort to bribery; a McDonalds if they promised to cease their infernal yelling.

And thus we ended up at your godless ‘restaurant’ in Kingston. Exhausted, bedraggled and ready to stab, strangle or otherwise maim all children under the age of twelve, I drove to the ‘Drive-thru’ to pick up some cholesterol-laden meat products and a bagful of toxically over-salted fries. When our tepid food was finally shoved through my window, I parked in a lay-by to devour my portion of Chicken McNuggets and chips. After a day of surviving on Werther’s Originals and water from the log flume strained through my moustache, I was ravenous even for limp, dehydrated potato fries and pulped breaded chicken. Imagine my dismay, however, when I discovered that your staff had neglected to give me any sauce whatsoever. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to eat McDonalds fries without sauce, sirs, but it is a gruelling and tasteless ordeal.

The employees at the Kingston branch could not possibly have been unaware of this, and yet they chose to ignore my requests and sent me on my way, £16.47 lighter in pocket but with a meal that was inedible. For shame, sirs! Is this the latest measure in the battle to cut costs and please shareholders? Depriving the hapless consumer of the sauce that makes the rest of the meal palatable, nay, edible? I presume it comes from the same school of thought that prevents employees from giving out napkins with meals. While other fast food restaurants give out lemon-scented wet wipes, each packaged in its own sanitary little pouch, McDonalds doesn't even provide its loyal customers with a tissue to soak up the copious amounts of grease oozing from its products. By the time Honoria and Augustus had finished with their meal, the leather upholstery in the back of my car was swimming in shining oil and I was about ready to drown them in it.

I understand that this may be a minor blip in your customer service, so I am giving you the opportunity to repair the untold damage you have caused (both to myself and my car). Please rectify the issue immediately, otherwise I will be forced to take these diabolic bastard godchildren of mine to Pizza Hut next time they start getting on my pip.

Yours greasily,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton