Morning all. Bet you’re wondering where I went, eh? Sitting around waiting for something interesting to come along, and having your hopes dashed at every visit?
Yes, well me too, actually. A million times over. Because, without mincing my words, Virgin Media are BLOODY, BLOODY BASTARDS, who deserve nothing better than death by rabid man-eating kitten. How DARE they take away my god-given right to the internet? BASTARDS.
Let’s not go into details, but basically the worst thing about them is the fact that they employ real human beings in their call centres. This makes me desperately angry.
Don’t get me wrong – I have nothing at all against call centre workers, irregardless of location (in fact, I can understand Indians far better than Glaswegians). In fact, therein lies the problem: you can work yourself up into the most roaring, burning hatred against mankind and all its electronic trappings while the inane hold music tinkles away, pissing wet, tepid sound into your painfully angry head. However, if you’re anything like me, it all starts to melt way into manic English hyper-gratitude when the nice, hugely apologetic lady gets on the line. From that point on, it becomes clear to even idiots like me that Nothing Will Now Be Achieved. But thank you so much for trying – no, don’t worry, I know you tried your hardest. Really, don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Thanks. Goodbye. No, you hang up first! No, you! Oh. She hung up.
See, if that hadn’t been a rather sweet lady called Susan (didn’t realise that was such a popular name in Chennai) I could’ve unleashed the mental – you know, saved myself hundreds in therapy, chocolate and cocaine. Susan would be better off too – less pathetic self-deprecating wankers like me, more time for therapy, chocolate and cocaine. Nobody would lose out, least of all the cocaine barons and therapists. Cadburys would be minted, with whole new foreign markets opening up and Curly Wurlys selling out before they even reach the shelves.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You think you hate that ‘press five’ bollocks. But think again. How about if there were options for stress-relieving services, which would push you just far enough over the edge that you could finally come to terms with your innate humanity? I’d like to be the first to suggest a script (with obligatory jolly-hockey-sticks voice).
Hello, and welcome to Teasmade Revenge. Your call is not at all important to us. Please be aware that all calls may be recorded for comedic purposes. Please select from the following options:
- Press one to stay on hold and listen to a loop of pan pipes being played inside a wind tunnel for the next three hours;
- Press two to speak to someone who you don’t understand and who doesn’t understand you, and who then puts you through to the pan pipes from option one;
- Press three to listen to drowning kittens;
- Press four to enter into a lengthy conversation about the political leader of your choice with a recently-released mental patient;
- Press five to order a bumper-sized roll of bubble wrap and a complimentary Megadeath EP;
- Press six for tips on how to self-harm with one hand whilst on the phone to Virgin Media with the other;
- If you want to find out the meaning of life, say your name, address, social security number, credit card details and the name and intimate measurements of your first sexual partner after the tone, speaking slowly and clearly.
They might as well implement it. It’s not as though you achieve anything by ringing the bastards anyway. At least I got my mobile internet fixed. NO THANKS TO VIRGIN MEDIA.