Bluer than a Scandinavian night of TV, roll mop herrings, and something to wash them down that sounds something like ‘Skull’, a ‘Windows-10-Blue-Screen-of-Death’, is a night never to forget.
You were just getting ready to watch the latest pirated edition of Game of Thrones, tucked your chair into its usual slouched position, and had enough snacks within arms-reach to feed a colony of squirrels through a very long and arduous winter.
And here’s the moment that sits in the memory; the moment that refuses to be washed away with the tides of aching flesh and witty dwarves; the moment your new Windows update, that you never quite remember agreeing to, fails.
Blue. Screen. Of. Death.
No matter how many times you switch on and off in a testy attempt to beat the hard rules of IT; no matter how many buttons you push, animals you kick, or words that spit out of your mouth in rising vehemence, your computer lies inert, faceless, and source of blue light in a dimly lit desk-space.
And with that moment of despair – like how a tsunami streaks in after a quiet moment, you are quickly washed away into a dark plughole of the soul as you realise that all your files – your selfies that you took while the cat freaked at the cucumber; the picture of your best friend, underwear on his head, and shoes round his neck as he stumbled effortlessly into a lamppost; and the files – the millions of files: chats, tax-returns; your PhD dissertation; your hundreds of hours of video with you and the cat and the one-legged hamster, are gone.
If only you had a repairman, who like Superman, would sweep unbeckoned into your life and quietly dispel the Blue Screen of Death with a wave of his well-manicured hands, before saluting, and whisking away through the half-open French window.
Sadly, life isn’t quite as welcoming as the superhero world we wished we were part of. Life, in every normal part of the world, comes crashing in wearing Dr Martens, a tattoo on the fist that says ‘hate’, and turns your loving memories into unusable blue with a swift strike to the abdomen.
The next best thing you can count on in life is the rescue of an IT Professional or a company that you pay to get you out of conundrums like the Blue Screen Of Death.
Alex Jenkins is of these such warriors. When you need them, stalwarts that they are, they will come to fix your Blue Screen of Death; your failed hard drive; your burned-out CD player.
But be warned! These stout gentlemen only appear by appointment. If you haven’t paid their (extraordinarily low) fee, then you must accept the flights of fancy that fate has given you, accept your destiny, and face eternal blueness.
You could also give Alex a call or use his contact page to reach out for help.