I had to cold call whisky drinkers
Me: "Hi, I'm doing market research for *major whisky company*. Do you have time to answer a few questions?"
Drunkard: "I'm sorry. I can't speak."
(click)
( krang, Fri 4 Sep 2009, 0:21, Reply)

Idiots and Nutters
I worked on the ad department of a local newspaper group for about 18 months.

After a while, there's two classes of caller who stand out to you: the idiots, and the nutters. The nutters are better than the idiots but there's less of them.

Idiots first:

'Hello. I wanted to enquire about the cost of an ad.'
'Certainly, Madam. What is the ad for?'
'Well, I don't think that's any of your business...'
(click)

'Hi, is that the Jobs ad line?'
'Yes, it is'
'I'm looking for a job, what have you got?'
'Er... The line's to place an ad for jobs'
'Yeah, I know, but you work for the paper taking the ads, right? So can't you just tell me what jobs you've got?'
'No'
'Why not?'
'Because there’s about a thousand jobs, and the whole point is that you're supposed to buy the paper, anyway.'
'I'm out of work and living on the dole!'
'It costs 35p once a week, and if you really don't want to buy it, they're all on the internet for free and most of the same ads will be printed in the freesheet on Saturday'
'You tight bastard!'
(click)

'Hi, Can I place an ad in today's paper please?'
'It's too late, I'm afraid, I can do tomorrow's paper though'
'What do you mean it's too late - it's 1 o'clock and it doesn't arrive in in newsagents for at least another hour'
'Yes, but we have to print it, and we printed it last night, sir.'
'Oh... Can't you send out a correction to the newsagents by internet or something?'
(Pause) 'Er... no'

'Hullo, I'd like to place an ad, please.'
'OK, Madam, what sort of ad?'
'Well, it's sort of a job ad - it's for a pyramid scheme thing you see.'
'I'm afraid we can't take that, because these sort of things are illegal'
(shocked) 'No! Really! Oh... Gary, that fucking wanker!'

'Hi - I was hoping to get a copy of an obituary that ran recently about a friend of mine from school - he was a dear friend and I'd love to have a copy as a keepsake.'
(Being nice because he was polite and obviously old and I could easily help him) 'OK, sir, tell me which paper and when it ran and I'll find a copy.'
'I can't remember when it ran, or which paper, actually. Last month or so, sometime'
'OK, no problem, I'm sure we can track it down, what name?'
'John'
'John what, sir?'
'I don't know, son, I just knew him as John'
'Hmmmm...'

‘Hi – you might remember me, I’m Mr _______. I placed an ad last week for a JCB for sale...’
‘Oh yeah, Hi Mr _______.’
‘Well, listen mate, I haven’t sold it and I’m not happy. I want to try again but I’m only going to place an ad again on the condition that if it doesn’t sell, you lot will promise to take it off my hands.’
(Pause) ‘What’s a newspaper going to do with a JCB?’
‘Not my problem, mate.’
‘Well yeah, it is actually.’
‘Oh, yeah... just stick it in again for the same cost then,I suppose’

‘Hi, I want to place an ad'
'OK, no problem, what sort of ad?'
'Oh, for fuck's sake, I can't be bothered with this shit...'
(Click)

'04508796464056'
'Hello? sorry, can I help you?
'04508796464056'
'Sorry, can I help you with something?'
'04508796464056!!!!! That's my account - I want to renew the ad, for fuck's sake!'
'OK, who's that an account with, sir?'
'THE FUCKING EXPRESS AND STAR'
'Sir, this is the _______ ______'
(click)

Then there were the nutters:

The lady who rang up every other week to place ads in the paper about proper dog care, which took her about an hour a time to dictate. Everyone knew to be patient with her and only to charge her a pittance (just to satisfy her) even when she filled whole sections of classified with tips about Dog Dental care. Her family appreciated it and even sent a card to us one Christmas to say thanks.

The chap who'd once phoned up about an ad, and then carried on ringing me most weeks on a Wednesday for a chat because he was lonely. I was happy to skive from selling and have a natter, as he was a nice enough bloke and happy to genially chat about football for half an hour, but it became increasingly odd as he tried to persuade me he was MD of a Multi National Corporation and was sometimes calling from high-society parties, when I knew he'd placed an ad offering his services as a bookkeeper at discount rates only weeks beforehand, and could hear 'Neighbours' in the background whilst talking to him.

The bloke who placed help wanted ads and insisted on coming in to the office to pay in person. He'd always insist I went to see him and then chat for ages and try and make me feel awful whenI insisted on going back to work by - on some occasions - crying. God knows what he wanted people to help him with...

I have to say though, it was good fun and a learning experience for a graduate, although my appetite for exposure to the great British public is pretty much sated, and I'm glad my number isn't in 100,000 copies of the local paper every day anymore.

Apologies for length? We don't go by length, we go by column-centimetres x premium (for position, colour, etc.) x rate...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 4 Sep 2009, 0:11, 3 replies)

Hole in One
Although six months of directory enquiries work was generally nightmarish, a couple of calls did cheer me up immensely.

One was a lonely-sounding elderly man who wanted to know what would happen if he dug a hole through the earth with a spoon. We spent ages discussing what sort of spoon would be best and at what point we would hit lava.
'You're a fountain of knowledge, you are' he said. 'You should make this one of your regular services - answering any question people ask of you.'
I felt bad eventually, as the call was costing him a mint, but he seemed cheered up by it.

Another time a polite-sounding young man called up sounding distressed. Unfortunately, one of the company policies was that you had to repeat everything the caller told you to show that you'd heard them right:
ME: 'Welcome to 118118, how may I help you?'
HIM: 'I've got my cock stuck in a doughnut!'
ME: 'So that's a cock stuck in a doughnut. How can I help you with that?'
HIM: 'Well, I don't want it stuck here, do I!'
ME: 'Right, so you'd like help for a cock, stuck in a doughnut - is that right?'
HIM: 'Well I reckon I need a hospital or ambulance or something? Hey, it's turning a funny colour!'
ME: 'Right, well I can only give you one number. Would you like the hospital?'
HIM: 'I dunno, will they be able to help?'
ME: 'I'll tell you what, I'll put you through to NHS direct. You can tell them all about it.'

I wonder what they made of it?
(moosefish, Fri 4 Sep 2009, 0:10, 2 replies)

2
no wait

2

damn it
(StyX is staring at you, yes YOU!!!, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 23:57, 2 replies)

tongue tied
Working for a directory enquiries company several years ago - let's call them Fun Fun? Nay - I had to say the same phrase every 30 or so seconds 'Welcome to 118118 how may I help you?' (Not how CAN I help you, mind - the wording had to be exact.)

For some reason saying those words over and over to a colourful collection of ungrateful, rude and idiotic people, made my brain flip and decide it could no longer say the phrase - my tongue started to spasm and I just couldn't get the words out.

Six hellish months later and I had modified my greeting phrase to something like 'Hello, can I help you.' I promptly got called up during a 'monitoring session', asking why I wasn't saying the right words. Was there something wrong? No, they didn't see how such a mindless repetitive task could cause something like that to happen.

That was the final straw and I quickly got out of there, but to this day I still can't say 'Welcome how may I help you' without my mouth literally convulsing in fear. . .
(moosefish, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 23:55, 6 replies)

Just yesterday
I called the Telstra (Australia) service faults line to report a phone line that was sagging on a tree. The tree was to be trimmed and I didn't want the line falling or breaking.

First call, gave name, phone number and address to female with an Australian accent. After a few seconds conversation -

She "Mpphglwrph"

Me "Excuse me?"

She "Mpphglwrph hwfglmfpst"

Me "I'm sorry, I can't understand you at all."

Phone - Beep Beep Beep.

Cut off.

Second try - This time got a young woman with an East Asian accent.

Gave full details of name and address, telephone numbers etc, spelling out the street and suburb name, with postal code as well. at dictation speed. Told her the line was falling on the tree. She repeats that the tree is falling on the line. No, it isn't, the line is falling on the tree. She then asks the name of the suburb again. I give it again, spelt out at dictation speed. Again.

I ask for a reference number, being somewhat inured to Telstra administration incompetence. She then repeats that a tree has fallen on the line. No, I said that the line is falling on the tree. She puts me on hold, for two minutes.

Comes back on and asks the name of the suburb again. I spell it out again.

Puts me on hold again.

Phone - Beep Beep Beep - Cut off.

Third try.

Got another woman with an East Asian accent. Gave her the details at dictation speed, phone numbers and all. She gives me a reference number without being asked. All hunky dory - I hope. Says the linesman will be here between 9am and 1pm today.

Yeah, maybe.


Length = ten minutes rock-hard frustration.

PS. The line contractor just called. He has been told the job is scheduled for between 9pm and 1am.
(Redemption blamed it on the Bossa Nova since, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 23:54, 8 replies)

It may be sick, but it works
I have two main means of dealing with cold callers, and which I choose basically depends on whether I am the only one in the office (I'm the boss, but it doesn't look too good to mess around loads in front of staff).

In company, just start answering in a monotone, then cut them off dead and ask them about Jesus. I have a handy couple of pages ripped out of Revelation in my top drawer, and I find reading from them normally produces a dead line inside of a minute.

Quiet office: heavy breathing is a must. This expands into panting and if you rub your hand back and forth over some papers on the desk, the noise is quite realistic.
I have only ever had one caller stay with me through the whole peformance, and I was quite disturbed to discover he WAS doing what I was pretending to do (or he was a VERY good actor who likes out-hoaxing people)

I always knew that the Tiscali call centres were staffed by wankers, but I didn't know it was literally true.....
(justin7926, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 23:25, Reply)

Call centre story number 3 :
Still in the same call centre, there was the usual misguided zeal about stats - must take more calls, keep call times down, and all that (actually solving the customer's problem or giving quality support didn't seem to factor)...

Anyway, one member of the team seemed to always have fantastic numbers - took loads of calls, call times were low, and what's more when his calls were monitored for training purposes, he seemed to be doing a great job... until they discovered that he was actually hanging up every second call the moment it was connected. He wasn't fired, but did get into just a bit of trouble for that..
(Kyzia was here on, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 22:56, Reply)

I used to work
For one 2 one ... I think they're called T Mobile now. I knew I was leaving a long time before my bosses did (in fact, I knew I was leaving half way through the 6 week training course).

So I used to hand out £10 care credits to anyone who complained. So if you got £10 from one 2 one for fuck all, it was probably me.

You're welcome.
(El Fandango carved a big EF onto his nemesis' doublet on .., Thu 3 Sep 2009, 22:53, Reply)

Call centre story number 2 :
One of the problems with freephone numbers is that there's an awful lot of people who'll decide to call it, stay on hold for 20 minutes, and then bother some poor techie rather than actually think at all. Conversations like;

Techie : Which version of Windows are you using?
Customer : Five
Techie : Uh... five? Are you sure?
Customer : Yes, you know - the blue one
::penny drops::
Techie : Would that be WordPerfect, by any chance?
Customer : Yes, and I want to connect to the internet.

There was also a nice, but confused, old man who had received a Free Trial CD in the post. He didn't even have a computer, but had bought a washing machine about a week previously and wanted to know if it was anything to do with that. Was quite determined to return the CD too, despite assurances that we had loads, thanks, and he could probably just throw it away...
(Kyzia was here on, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 22:53, 1 reply)

Call centre story number 1 :
Many years ago I worked in the Dublin-based call centre for a well known provider of online services, internet, and free CDs. I was part of a technical support team composed of mostly early 20s nerds and geeks. Naturally, one of the favourite passtimes of most of the team members was frequenting the chat rooms and trying to score some one-on-one chats with the ever willing American ladies.

Out of boredom or mischief one day, I decided to see how easy it would be to wind someone up...
I created an alternate profile - 'Paula23765', gave her the appropriate details - 23, blonde, Californian, likes rollerblading and tanning, and then signed in to the chat room that most of the guys were currently infesting. Sure enough, within moments I had about ten invitations for private chats. I selected a likely victim at random (well, okay - it was Paul, the guy whose desk was opposite mine, just over the partition). Some chat ensued, which started off relatively tame, but didn't stay that way for long.. Desperate to impress, despite the obvious absence of a clue, he claimed among other things to have participated in the odd orgy (but "didn't like the taste of other guys cum" - dunno where that came from), and so on. All the while saying things like "I've got a live one here guys" to nearby team members. At one point he leaned over the partition and asked me how to spell 'cunnilingus' - it was hard not to laugh.

Anyway, all good things must come to an end.. round about the time that Paula suggested that she could stay with him during an upcoming trip to Ireland (at which point he admitted to still living with his parents), he went off for his scheduled 15 minute break vowing to return. Of course, I told another team member what had been going on. He begged for an email copy of the chat log, which I duly provided. By the time Paul got back from his break, the entire team had read through a few salient points of the chat, and the cat was well out of the bag. He took it very well, all things considered.

Within another hour, someone else on the team had forwarded the email to the mailing list for the entire call centre. The following day when I walked into the canteen and saw members of the customer service team passing sheets of paper around the table and laughing out loud, I knew without asking what it was. Nothing "official" came of it, thankfully, but I left the place shortly afterwards anyway...

Then around a year later, my brother forwarded an email to me.. it was the very same chat log. Printed out, it ran to 12 pages... about 8 of them were email headers - it had been everywhere, and back.

As for the length? When pressed, he admitted to less than 12" of throbbing meat. :-/
(Kyzia was here on, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 22:48, Reply)

Never read and speak at the same time
I used to work in a call centre. I also used to run pub quizzes in the evenings. One day over lunchtime it was quiet in the office, so I decided to write some questions. My research on this particular day was for the music round, so there I was with my head buried in the Guinness Book of Hit Singles. Suddenly there was a beep in my ear, which was my cue to speak, upon which I uttered the immortal line 'Good afternoon, Frankie Goes To Hollywood'. Christ I felt like a twat as a roar of confused laughter went round the room.
(Sonic promises not to spray it in her eyes next time!, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 22:45, 1 reply)

Cold callers...
I just tell whoever is calling that the person they are asking for is dead.
(Just a girl., Thu 3 Sep 2009, 22:39, 2 replies)

I did it...
So Sparkie had quit the bar work, and got a "proper" job, instead of arseing about studying part-time. At this point, I've got through the training week, in all it's glory.....

Now read on...

"OK then Sparkie, You're ready to do your first outbound call. I'll be sitting behind you, with my headset on, so don't worry, ok?" Said my trainer, Karen.

I took a deep breath, released the line and ... "Beep" .."Click" the account details flashed onto the screen...

I Smile "Good Morning, could I speak to Samuel Jones, please?"

"Actually, it's Samantha" Said a deep, brown, manly voice.

"OK, is Mr Jones there?"

"There isn't a Mr Jones, only me, MS Jones."

Deep breath... "OK, erm.. I need to speak to Mr Jones.."

"Look, my love, are you calling from the bank?" the dark brown manly voice asked. I could almost hear the hairy hands on it, it was so masculine.

I swallowed hard, may as well front up, if he's in bother with his wife then he should have been honest with her, which is totally against bank policy, and the law... But it was my first ever live call, so I ploughed on into the china shop..

"Errmmm yes I am, errm, madam, I am sorry, it's just that you don't sound like a Samantha, exactly..." I blurted.

"Thank you for that, you're the first person from that damned bank to acknowledge my assigned gender!!" Said the Deep Brown Voice.. I tried to move myself away from Karen, who had tears streaming down her face and was snuffling and cackling fit to bust.

"I bet I sound more like a Susan, then?" Said Samantha..
"Well, yes, you do!" I couldn't say anything else really, apart from a prayer that the ground would swallow me..

I did wish her luck in her new life, though. She was really nice...
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 22:34, 1 reply)

Peaky Chea
I got a call from a call centre a few months ago on my mobile. A Range Rover dealership in Sheffield. They thought that I was taking delivery of a new Range Rover. My normal polite instincts kicked in. I said that they have the wrong number, but I would love a new Range Rover Ha Ha Ha. They apologised, and I think nothing of it. A few days later, they asked me if I liked my new Range Rover and would I do a customer satisfaction survey over the phone. Ha Ha Ha, I splutter, no, you have still got the wrong number – I am not the person you sold a Range Rover too. They apologised. End of story.

Except the same thing happens a few days later. I told them they have the wrong number somewhat forcefully. They seemed to have got the message. A few days later they called again. They apparently hadn’t got the message. I tell them again. A month later, I got a call saying that as my Range Rover has been recalled, they will deliver a temporary one to me whilst mine is fixed, and that they are terribly sorry that they couldn’t get one to me for the same day, but they didn’t have any manuals, only automatics, and they like to offer like for like.

At this point I was incensed. Temporarily insane with rage. I told them to deliver the temporary car to my workplace. I hang up. Stupid idiots. Then I realise that I have effectively stolen a car. FUCKFUCKFUCK. I called back, but couldn’t get the person I spoke to. I left a message. Fuck.

Then the reception for the building I work in delivers a message over the intercom. “Will Mr. XXXX (dude they sold a car too) please come to reception.”

I shat myself. I glanced out of the window and there was a brand new spanking white Ranger Rover Vogue parked in a visitors spot.

My mobile rang. I freeze. My anus puckered so much that it picked up my chair with it. I stood up and my chair came with me.

“Who the fuck are you and where’s my car?” said the dude who had the broken Range Rover and was expecting a temporary vehicle. I put on a terrible, terrible fake Liverpudlian accent “What are you talking about, I don’t know nothing about nothing...etc”

“Why are you trying to steal my car?”

I toyed with the idea of telling the truth.

In a slidingly shit Birmingham accent now... “I don’t know what you are talking about, like...”

He hung up in disgust.

I glanced out of the window. The Range Rover is gone. Presumably reception have told the delivery dude that they now have checked the visitors/staff list and no one of that name is in the building.

I never answer my phone from people I don’t know. Ever.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 22:31, 6 replies)

OnDigital
Chances are, if you ever had OnDigital you had to call the dreaded Apollo call centre. Apollo call centre was seperated into 2 halfs. The Haves and the Have nots. IE: Agency Staff and BT Staff. and fuck was there a world of difference in the way we were treated. we all did exactly the same job, only some of us were in the Schutzstaffel and some of us were Jews. Now, like any self respecting employees, we could see how unfairly we were treated, but largely, we got on with our job. that was until the new boss was appointed. a Mr M****l M*****a if i recall correctly. he immediately set about making us, poor, homeless agency staff like scum, scum with boils and warts and piles. by chance, (i am not aware of how it came to light) someone discovered the way to get themselves to the back of the call queue by tapping a shot code into the keypad of the phone. word spread like wildfire. hundreds of unhappy employees were tapping not ready, release, not ready into their phones. days would go by without taking calls. not because the phones were quiet, but because 90% of the 3 to 4 hundred people on shift were at it, and if by chance you did actually take a call, you would conveniently, accidentally disconnect the little join between your headset and the phone, cutting the customer off, before getting back to your whack-a-mole keypad routine. i am only aware of 3 people getting caught, who of course were summarily dismissed. I left under an entirely different cloud :-)

So yeah, the moral of this story is. OnDigital didn't go bust because it was shit. It went bust because BT treated their staff like lepars, who in return treated their customers like shit.
a lesson should be learned. but i doubt it has been.
( Kingtoke was shit at life on, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 22:22, 1 reply)

Matt Groening stole my grandad and called him Abe
Dearest Foxy Badger Sr. - who I've no doubt whittled on about several times - had an incredible gift for tediously dull conversation. He wasn't a boring man by any means, he just knew how to drive anyone who irritated him to tears. His Mum had this gift and gave it to him, who then taught it to my Mum, and that in turn gave me the ability to instill narcolepsy on the general public. Whole hours of my life washed by as grandad gave stories about menial events in his seemingly neverending life.

In particular, there was the episodic saga of him getting new slippers during the winter of '74. Grandad was just short of the change for the bus, so decided to walk into town. On the way, he found some coins on the floor totalling what he needed and tried to get on at the next stop. It was at that point he realised he left his wallet at home. By the time he got back, he was tired, so he made himself a cheese and pickle sandwich, with the crusts cut off. You never know what they put in crusts back in those days. Meant to be rat poison, they say. Well, he was going to walk back out again, but then the match was starting on the radio, and he wanted to see how Soandso United played without Great Jimmy Twofeet due to his neck injury gained last month against FC Blahdeblah...

And so you see my point.

What does this have to do with anything, you ask? Trotting in from school one day, I call out to say hi to grandad as he chats on the phone. No response. I would've concerned myself more, but generic heavily-marketed dubbed anime was just about to start, and I needed an idea of toys for Christmas. An hour passes, and I can't decide if I prefer the Charmander or Bulbasaur talking keyring. Obviously, I need to consult grandad for his advice.

In I march with jovial joy and an Argos catalogue (pages folded at kids toys, of course), where I catch the last few breaths of the conversation:

'...So the slippers were too bloody small, but I won a bit on the pools that week and so I decided to treat myself to a replacement set the next Saturday. To answer your original question, I'm very happy with my electricity supplier and you now know fully well what it's like to have your afternoon degraded by meaningless phone calls.'

*click*

With him around, people didn't try and sell us a damn thing until 3 years after he died, just to be sure. Even the gasman wants to see the death certificate before checking the meter.

I still have my Bulbasaur keyring.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 3 Sep 2009, 22:13, 2 replies)

Not the call centre story I expected, either
So my laptop was doing poorly, and having exhausted all the (few, pitiful) tricks I knew I decided to break down and call tech support. I made it through the phone menu and was connected at last to a person. Now, my English isn't exactly perfect and I have a little trouble understanding English as is spoken in the country where I live now. English spoken at a call centre halfway around the world isn't a whole lot clearer to me, so every call center situation means I put on my clearest speaking voice, turn up the volume and hope for the best.

Usually, calls end in tears -- mine. This time was different! As the tech fellow talked me through diagnostic after diagnostic and hopeful fix after hopeful fix, we fell into conversation. TechGuy (TG) was surprised to hear that not only was I having aloo gobi for lunch but that I'd made it myself; he asked if I was Indian and I said that I wasn't, but my childhood best friend was and her father had taught us both how to cook. TG commented that my accent wasn't very American-sounding, and I told him how I used to live in France but had been in America for some time; he asked if I missed it (I do) and said he dreamed of going to Paris one day. I asked how he ended up working in tech support and TG said that he was a writer and wanted a job that would help to improve his English so he could submit stories to more publications. He asked if I knew any writers and I told him of a friend who'd recently published a novel, having been 'discovered' through a short story he'd had published the year before. TG said hearing things like that gave him hope, as the past few rejection letters had made him think of giving it up.

All in all it was really a delightful experience even though it didn't end in my computer being fixed (happily, a friend put it all right in exchange for a cake). I sometimes wonder how TG's writing is going and if there's ever a chance I'll pick up a short story or a novel and recognise the plot as one he described to me. I hope I will.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 21:47, 2 replies)

Metrication
Back in 98/99 my ex worked on the Metrication helpline for a company who manufacture scales. Sounds like "Bavery Erkel"

Sellers of various weigh-able goods would call and see what they needed to do to make the change from selling in imperial. Buy a new fucking scale?

One day a call comes through from a heavily-Jamaican accented gentleman.

"I needs to get me new scaaaales"
"and what do you sell Sir?" enquires my ex
"I sell de 'erb Mon!"
(LittleWhiteTreat, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 21:37, 3 replies)

TalkTalk and Roger fucking McGough - now with example wankstain poem!
I've had my fair share of call centre-related run-ins, as the unfortunate person at either end of the phone.


I've had to cold call people to try and get them to make a charity donation - starting at 9am on weekends no less, a genius strategy(!)

I dodged a bullet and ended up not working for Sky at one of their call centres, mostly because it took them until 6 months after I aced the interview process to finally ring up to offer me a start date.

I've spent hours at a time on hold with card authorisation companies whilst working for a bank, listening to the same 60 second clip of U2 that, to this very day, causes me to wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

And of course I've had to pit my wits against a steady stream of young fellows with names such as Sebastian and Alexander who, despite their reasonably-plummy sounding names, have an inexplicably strong Delhi accent along with a questionable grasp of the Queen's English.



However, despite this already burgeoning litany of shame, there is one thing about call centres that stands out above all other as being particularly soul-destroying and that is having to call TalkTalk.
Not only can you spend upwards of 90 minutes on hold on a bad day but the had the genius idea of replacing their hold music with poetry. Not just any poetry mind, but the primary school stylings of Roger McGough no less.

Now I cannot comment on the experiences of the Guarbian's journalistic staff but having spent in excess of an hour listening to the same collection of literary 'droppings' on a loop, I can tell you dear reader that the only thing more likely to inspire bloodlust than having to listen to the cruel and unusual, 'it's not poetry unless it rhymes' style of prose for interminable lengths of time is the knowledge that the smug, talentless twat whose voice you are listening to a recording of almost certainly earned more for this than you yourself are likely to do in at least a couple of years.

In case you doubt how bad his work is, this is just one of the 'gems' you'll encounter when waiting for some guy in Bangladesh or wherever to tell you to try unplugging your router and plugging it in again.

My only hope is that Karma has my back and that Mr McGough is a TalkTalk customer...




I suppose I'm due a length gag now.
All the way round at least 6 times, if you believe what you read in the papers.
(Pope Jamiroquai III, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 21:31, 3 replies)

Two of my best.
I work in a call centre, but rarely answer the phones these days as I act as more of an oracle or info sponge due to my vast knowledge of our systems. Here are two of the highlights from my telephonic early days:

First -

A requested callback for a customer finds its way to me one morning.

After checking the contact details I ring the number and glance down at the customers name in preparation of him answering, taking a sip of coffee whilst I wait.

The first name looks foreign and unpronounceable so I immediately check his second name ( I prefer the casual use of first name, thats my style) just as the customer answers the phone..

The customer is greeted by a choked retching sound as I splutter coffee all over my desk.

"sorry about that Mr Manjina." As I try to mop up the spillage with my tie.

"Please, call me Prit for short" he said, referring to the first part of his name.

Second -

A canadian customer calls. As part of the security questions, I am required to ask his address details.

He tells me his post code "V4G 1N4". I take a couple of seconds whilst this sinks in.

After the pause, the customer says, "yes, it DOES spell vagina".

(If you don't believe me, search google maps..)

My advise if you work in a call center - Learn everything. Let the monkeys do the work.
(Haddle The date sponsored by Accurist is, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 21:01, 4 replies)

National Rail Enquiries...
A few years back, when my (now ex) girlfriend started going to university in Cheltenham, I took the train up (I live in deepest, darkest north Devon) to see her one day. On the way back, I knew that I had to change at Bristol, but had about three things which told me different times so wasn't sure what time that change was. Being Internet free at the time, we couldn't check online (plus that was the source of one of the times) so I thought who better to phone than National Rail Enquiries.

Whoops.

(When I tell this story, I attempt to do an Indian accent and fail. In text, one cannot really do accents, so you can chose between imagining a proper Indian accent or a Devonian attempting to do an Indian accent.)

'National Rail Enquires, where are you going from?'

'Er, yes, I'm travelling between Cheltenham and Tiverton. I'm due to leave at nine-seventeen, and I know I need to change at Bristol, but I'm not sure what time the change will be.'

'Where are you travelling from?'

I sigh. 'Cheltenham.'

'OK, there's no station in Cheltenham.'

Well, that was news to me. There was definitely one there when I got off the train this morning. He continued.

'Do you mean Cheltenham Spa?'

'Yes I do.' Pedantic bastard.

'OK, and where are you travelling to?'

'Tiverton.' You'd have thought I'd have learnt by now.

'There's no station in Tiverton.'

'OK, well it's actually called Tiverton Parkway.'

'Ah yes, Tiverton Parkway. What time are you leaving?'

'Around 9.15 this evening.'

'OK, there's a train leaving at 9.17, but it doesn't go straight through, you'll have to change at Bristol.'

No shit Sherlock...

I eventually managed to get the time of the change out of him which, strangely but not completely unexpectedly, wasn't one of the three times I already had.

I relayed this story to Sarah after I got off the phone who promptly turned round and said 'But there's no station in Bristol'...
(richietheg my dad buries dead people. he's an undertaker., Thu 3 Sep 2009, 20:49, Reply)

How to deal with Sky.
This wasn't me, this was my grandfather. He had Sky TV, but got bored with having to pay for hundreds of channels of tripe. So he called them and asked to cancel his account.

This, it turns out, is easier said than done. My grandfather would call up asking to cancel; sometimes they said they'd cancel it but continued to bill him, sometimes they passed him around from department to department. It's as if they couldn't understand why anyone would want to stop paying for Murdoch-brand effluence being pumped into their home, and if they could stall for time long enough to steal another monthly subscription payment from this old-age pensioner, they would.

In the end, he had to fake his own death.

He called them pretending to be his son. "I'm sorry to say my father died recently, and I'm tying up his affairs. Apparently he had a subscription to Sky. Could you cancel this, please?"

They did.

I assume the same works for NTL (or Virgin Media, or whatever's now printed on the junk mail they insist on sending me every few weeks). I don't know a single person who hasn't continued to receive bills after they've left NTL. Perhaps faking your own death is the only way to do it.
(greem, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 20:37, 1 reply)

Cobra Playstation
My sis worked for bt direct enquiries on her holidays from uni back home in Ayrshire.

One evening a chap called up looking for the number for Cobra Playstation.

My sister thought it was maybe the name of some independant gaming shop somewhere or some kids activity centre or karate kid dojo or something and tried to find it.

Nothing came up and she told the guy she couldn't find it. This only seemed to enrage the guy who said "For fucks sake you must have the number for Cobra Playstation hurry up!"

So she said, "Okay, just to confirm, you are looking for the number for Cobra Playstation yes? Thats CO-BRA PLAY-STATION?"

"Aye"

Still nothing came up so she asked the guy to say it again slowly on the off chance she'd made a mistake.

"For Christ sake COBRA PLAYSTION! You know? The Police Station in Coatbridge."

Wonderful place Scotland
(Don't tell him Pike i'll probably just stay in, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 20:26, 2 replies)

Gerald and the Indian call centre operative
Our old flat's landline used to be a Mecca for every call centre operative known to man, it got to a point where I used to instinctively know that if it rang between 530PM and 8PM it was 98% assured to be some poor schmuck trying to hawk crap to me. It's also worth noting I am a chap who really enjoys fucking with cold callers.

One shitty winter evening the phone rang in the golden period and the game was afoot! "Hello" I answered in a more dejected and broken up tone than could possibly be imagined, "Hello Sir" replied a cheery Indian gentleman "I am calling you on behalf of ********* Broadband - How much are you paying for your broadband connection?".

Continuing in my wavering and choked up voice I went on to relate that "now wasn't a good time as I'd just been to a funeral" but was countered in perfect call centre tact with "I'm sorry to hear that Sir, but ********* Broadband can offer you a price of £10 per month".

"I'm sorry" I repeated "I've just lost someone very dear to me and it's not a good time" however my new Indian nemesis replied "Yes Sir, but if I can just tell you" before I cut him off with a hysterical trade.

"Look you insensitive shit, I've buried the love of my life, a beautiful man who made every day a joy. Gerald's not 5 hours in the ground and you're trying to sell me fucking broadband?!". There was a short and uncomfortable pause before "May I call you back next week Sir?".

The fucking balls on that guy.
(SpunkyMcSpunkbubble Diddled your nubbin on, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 20:14, Reply)

Citrus Virus
One time at the call centre I worked at, it was my buddies last day. We work for an Internet Service Provider, troubleshooting with Cx to get their DSL back up. On his last day when ever he had a customer call in that could route but had e-mail issues, he told them they had "The Citrus Virus" and should immediately go to LemonParty.ORG .. Hilarity ensued
(commodified =*, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 20:03, 4 replies)

Some People
I work in a call centre and I looove having a bit of fun. Some people take a long time to complain about how long it takes to talk to a human. Once they get to me they just choose to yell me. Sometimes I just hang up, and say.. "oops.. try again" Sometimes they want to file an official complaint about the IVR [interactive voice recognition] (The Voice Prompt System) and the customer wants me to tell the person in charge of the IVR to fix it. Personally, I have no idea who is in charge of it. I usually just tell them that

"I would love to call and tell them to fix the Call-In system, but I always get misdirected and it takes forever to get through to them. how else can I help?"
(commodified =*, Thu 3 Sep 2009, 20:00, 1 reply)

One from a month or so back..
I had to ring my car insurance company, to let them know that I'd crashed my car.
I'd just finished explaining what had gone on, when the following series of questions happened, which show the perils of working from scripts in a call centre...

Them :- Well, Mr C of P, where is your car at the moment.

Me :- Its currently sat in a ditch, on ****** Road, Nottingham.

Them :- Is it driveable?

(At this point, you could almost hear the 'oh shit, have I just asked that' come from the other end of the phone)

Me :- I'm not sure, I didn't try to drive it out of the ditch once I'd crashed.

At which point all I could hear from the other end was the stifled sound of giggling.

Arse.
(Code of Post lives at the moment in time that is..., Thu 3 Sep 2009, 19:55, Reply)