Xbox 360 UK Repair Timeline: A Gamer’s Renaissance Tale of Woe
When I was still at school I had a big thing for PC and video games. I used to run a Counterstrike clan, played a lot of random FPS/RTS/wtf titles and had a great time doing so. On the console side I’ve always been a bit behind the times — had a SNES quite some time after they came out, an N64 (with GoldenEye, of course) the Christmas after they were released, and more recently a GameCube and some borrowed time on my brother’s PS2. I didn’t even get a Game Boy until the Color version came out. But I was usually reasonably up to speed with PC gaming, from the days of Doom onwards.
In the last few years, more particularly while at Uni, I’ve lost touch somewhat with the gaming industry, only really touching on the new Valve titles (HL2/Episode One/Two/Portal) and dabbling in others (BF2, COD4). The impending release of GTA:IV last month prompted me to have a long, hard think about re-entering the scene, and having a friend circle placed firmly in the Xbox 360 camp pushed me in that direction from the outset. With the timely arrival of a pay packet from work and the associated shot of consumerist euphoria which that usually brings, I set about hunting down the best 360 deal I could find.
I settled on Play.com’s (now withdrawn) offering of the Premium console plus GTA:IV, ringing in at a buttock-clenchingly attractive £199.99 delivered. I put in an order, together with the official VGA cable (HDTV isn’t yet something I’ve felt compelled to shell out for, so I figured I’d get the best picture on my LG 19″ TFT), and set about grokking everything I could find about the 360, Xbox Live, the accessories, GTA:IV and so on, hoping to make up for being a relative latecomer to the “seventh generation” by being one of those giant irritants to existing product users, the excitable newbie positively bursting with questions about this, that and the other, “I read on this site that…”, “is it true that…”, ad nauseum. My 360-veteran friends were remarkably patient, and after the initial buzz wore off, I settled down to await the arrival of the goods. What followed was an episode that would have stretched the patience of a saint, the events of which I reproduce here for the benefit of anyone else unlucky enough to find themselves in the same boat, either wholly or partially.
I’ll update this as and when I get more information. I just figured it would be useful for others like me banished to the service-level backwater known as the UK to have some idea how long the repair process really takes. I was somewhat embittered to see that US Xbox customers can expect a 4-day complete turnaround time on their repairs (with packing box supplied), whereas we seem to be looking at 10–14 days. The MSFT agent told me, and the info seems to support this, that the repair operation itself doesn’t take long — it’s the carriage to and from. And considering that the UK repair centres are so overloaded that my unit had to go to Germany (others report Czech Republic and further afield), it’s not surprising.
There was a silver lining for me at least — I got time to get some work done instead of thrashing away the hours in Liberty City. I just hope that having had this initial bad luck, my console won’t die again for some time to come. It would be just too ironic for the thing to come back having had a $1 fuse replaced in Frankfurt only to RROD again in a few months due to the overheating problem. That’s the tradeoff you get for buying online I guess — saved a few quid but lost the convenience of being able to take the thing back to a high-street shop to swap it over. Ah well.
So anyway. Hopefully when this is all over I’ll be able to guilefully reinsert myself into the gaming scene, just like the good old days. Halo 3 anyone?
The last word: So a total turnaround time of 11 days — not bad considering the logistics. Exactly two weeks from the original turning up to the repaired unit being returned to me. And I got free stuff as well. Everything seems to be working okay now, though I had to re-configure a bunch of settings on the console (those which are obviously stored on-chip rather than on the HD/Memory Unit). Got myself a second controller and Forza 2 yesterday, and started playing via my projector. Hurray for games.
![]()
Sanity, Solitude And The Death Rattle of Productivity
These are strange times. Someone once tried to apply Einstein’s Theory of Relativity to produce something to the effect of “work to be done expands to fill the time available to do it.” Conversely, I’m experiencing something of the opposite, a sad failure of self-discipline where amount of free time and apathy toward work and study are set up in a tragic correlation.
![]()
Reflections on Making the Right Choices
I am sick of this house.
I am sick of waking up to filth; to dirty floors, the same piles of crap day after day because nobody can be fucked to lift a finger to clean them up.
I am sick of my property being abused under the assumption that since we live together it is theirs to do with as they please.
I am sick of being treated like a piece of shit every time I try to get someone else to do something that might be of collective benefit to the household.
I am sick of being made to clean up after everyone else if I want to live in what might be described as clean and tidy surroundings, and then receiving no thanks for doing so.
I am sick of being forced to chase people for their share of bills, since the concept of prompt repayment is apparently some sort of fantasy.
I am sick of looking after every single administrative facet of the house without a word of thanks because nobody else is prepared to take any responsibility whatsoever.
I am sick of having the piss taken behind my back every time I ask something of my housemates that might require looking beyond the ends of their noses at issues outside of their immediate personal atmosphere.
I am sick of being shown no respect by anyone in this house, who claim that they are adults capable of handling their own lives without being told what to do, yet are utterly unable to maintain any kind of decent living standard without my continual janitor act.
I am sick of living with people who have never had to take any responsibility for the care of their surroundings, and so feel no need to start doing so now.
I am sick of living with people who through their own negligence, inconsideration and laziness create large amounts of filth and then have the gall to suggest our collectively paying someone to come in and clean it up.
I am sick of living with people who cannot or will not realise everything I have done this year to help them and the household, or look upon it as some sort of duty of care that merits no thanks or support or recognition.
I am sick of being looked at like an idiot when I try to convey an idea of consideration for others to my housemates, such as when they insist on screaming at the tops of their lungs while playing video games at 11pm on a Sunday in the living room of our terraced house.
I am sick of being told that I have a need to control people when I try to get people to do something to help.
I am sick of worrying about having to fight for my property at the end of term as my housemates conveniently forget what was bought and what was brought by me at the beginning of the year.
I am sick of the inevitability that I will have to work my ass off to clean the house single-handedly at the end of term in order to secure the return of my security deposit, as my housemates who spent most of the year moaning about how they would surely be swindled out of theirs by the landlord conveniently find other things to busy themselves with (or just leave).
I am sick of being brought to the end of my tether by people who simply do not give a shit about anyone or anything besides themselves.
![]()
Spotted in a supermarket near you…

Celebrate the death of Jesus through self-love. Go, the eggs command you.
![]()
The weather has taken a turn for the worse, in reflection of my souring mood. Oh, what happened to the carefree optimism of yesteryear? Every day I find myself thinking of the future, and every time I think of the future I am filled with fear and anger.
So many parallels to school. Now as then, our stability is to be uprooted. I find myself thinking of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” and as the song describes its answer, I know mine is also “yes.” Right now, the only stable circle is what’s left of those I knew from school — and those relationships seem so much truer than these. We have been here two months and already talk is of next year and living plans — and the forecast is for more unrest. Last year’s decisions made anew; another search for solidarity among dwindling numbers.
I have lost the plot here. What I am doing is becoming less and less relevant — I have stopped existing from day to day, completely lost sight of the objective here because the objective has lost all meaning, because with every day my loathing of the stuffed-shirt business world grows, and all I am doing here is hard time on a degree that will put me into just that, unless I can come up with a solid alternative plan. That is why I fear the future, becase I can’t yet see a valid, self-sustaining path that doesn’t involve working to the bone in a shitty office to make enough money to live.
*
Already I’m having twisted fantasies about getting up and leaving this house, taking all my stuff, and closing all my utility accounts, just to show the rest of them how much I take care of here. Every time I tidy up tossed-aside shit downstairs, empty the trash, wash up, sort out bills, fix the network, drive them to the supermarket; every left-on light, oven hob, shower, and TV I turn off reminds me that I do this without asking for thanks, just out of a basic desire to improve living standards for all of us — and, in most cases, because if I don’t, noone else will. I do these things unasked, yet the moment I try to ask for a little support in return, I am shouted down.
We received an electricity bill yesterday for £135, for the last two and a half months, so I took the time to write a friendly note to the rest of the house highlighting a few ways in which energy could be saved, to ease our collective wallet strain. Coming home in the evening to find lights on in empty rooms, and the shower empty but switched on, I asked Josh if he had read the note, which resulted in another hitting-head-against-the-wall argument. He endeavoured to set me straight on a few points, namely that I shouldn’t try to “nanny” the rest of the house, nor should I feel compelled to “tell 20-year-olds what to do.” Naturally my defences were worthless — the very idea that I would do this for the good of the house, and not out of some sort of preternatural vaunting of authority, was out of the question. And so I died a little more.
You can see the attraction of this idea though, no? A quiet escape in the dead of night; they wake up to a house with no water, electricity, gas or Internet connection (no dedicated firewall, media server or cabling throughout); to a kitchen free of half its equipment, a fridge free of beer, and no car out front to shuttle them around. Not looking for praise or reward, just the tiniest hint of recognition. A savage demonstration of my part in the running of this house, but too late :-).
Another pearl of wisdom I wish I had been handed last year: enjoy having your own space while you have it. I wish I had appreciated it that bit more.
The closeness of this house is starting to grate. No matter how good your choice of housemates, confinement in a compact space is bound to amplify tensions, especially when you end up with crazy caricatures like mine. Today was not a good day. Possibly because I was hung over from another Halloween party, or because it was another dark and grey day — about to get darker as the clocks go back. But those were really only ancillary issues.
The crux of it was an argument about petrol, as we arrived at Sainsburys for our weekend shop. I drive a Suzuki Vitara, the fuel tank of which tops off at just over £45, which gets you between 200 and 250 miles. I drive to campus at least 3 times a week, and if anyone is around when I leave or set off to come back, I take them. This happens at least twice a week, usually more. So you can imagine my surprise when I gently announced that the tank was nearly empty and in need of a fill-up, and that I would appreciate a contribution of, say, £8 each towards it, and was met with not a small amount of disquiet and denials from two of the three that they rode with me more than “once in the last month”. And this, not to put too fine a point on it, is a crock of shit.
I’m sure you can do the arithmetic here: three contributions of £8 is £24, making my share of the fuel a tidy £21. I freely admit to using more fuel than anyone else, hence the uneven split. But no, even this was not enough for the lifts to campus, into town, and to the supermarket a dozen times a week. Sadly, I was so enraged I failed to point out the irony that, as they argued about how little they made use of the car, we were standing in the car park of the supermarket that I had just driven them to (for the second time in 24 hours).
On top of that I had to yet again face the issue of how to argue with a man who refuses to listen to any voice other than his own, or take into account the feelings or opinions of anyone other than himself. This is a daily struggle, and at times I wonder why I bother speaking at all. An impossible conundrum; a man who sets rules then breaks them, and won’t be told; a man who, despite having a very tenuous grip on reality, will not be swayed in anything he does by such trifles as common sense or the concerns of others. A man who considers himself to be above any other human being, and does not entertain the belief that anyone else could possibly have anything of any worth to say. And I have to share a house with the fucker.
Nothing I have done before has ever felt so much like hitting my head against a wall, for all it can achieve, and today was one of those days. And I lost my rag, properly, for only the second time with him, and immediately regretted it, for it can do nothing but further worsen his opinion of and attitude towards me. Any dissenter is a dick, no matter how right they are. But what can I do? Nothing I say will have any effect. I wonder what shocking circumstances of earlier life could lead to this ingrained, fascist self-assurance.
![]()
Also: Portable Fear and Loathing