I have a nasty dose of the homicidal rages today, all thanks to those fine chaps and chappesses at British Telecom. Now I have to say that there's no single person I'd like to kill, I'd be quite happy with a random selection of about a dozen of them. I'd get twelve dining room chairs, arrange them in a circle, then strap the random dimwits down and take a cordless Black and Decker drill to their foreheads. Maybe with one of those big, core drill cutting heads on it. Go round one by one, making a big round hole in their head stick my hand into the squishy brain matter and rearranging their sodding synapses with my fingers.
I phoned up with an 'enquiry' about my bill. Waited in the queue like a good little boy. Explained the situation to Person Number 1. Put on hold again. Transferred to Person Number 2. Explained everything again. Another chance to listen to the hold music. Transferred to Person Number 3 who apologised because Person Number 2 had put me through to the wrong department (after I'd explained what was wrong for the third time), and wasn't it awful when people are passed from department to department? Yes it is. Can he put me through to the right department? Of course he can, and I'm to have a nice day. More hold music. Person Number 4 -- wrong department. AAAAAArgh -- but Person Number 5 was the most cunning of them all.
By this stage I'm getting a teensy, tiny bit less than impressed. But I'm astonishing myself by staying calm. After all, it's only been half an hour since I started on this bastarding quest, pressing all the right sodding buttons in the phone menu labyrinth that's designed to sap you of the will to live. Telling person after person what my bloody phone number is. WHY? Why do I have to tell them? THEY'RE BT! THEY KNOW WHAT BADGER-BUGGERING NUMBER I'M CALLING FROM!!! IT'S ON THEIR SKATE-SHAGGING SYSTEM!!!!!
Calm breaths, calm breaths.
So with Person Number 5 I want to make sure I've finally got the right department. And just to be on the safe side I ask him for his name. Ooh. In hindsight that was probably my mistake. Well, other than thinking calling the BT help line would actually 'help'. Radjid, says he. Can you spell that for me? I ask, not understanding that I have just walked into the lion's den. 'R for Romeo...' He says. Pause. 'A for Adam...' Longer pause. 'Romeo, Adam...' And then he hung up!
So confounded was he by the task of spelling his own fish-frigging name, he actually hung up!
I've spent half an hour, repeating the same damn sorry tale five time, worn my fingers to tiny stumps fighting my way through 'Press 1 if you'd like to strangle someone; Press 2 if you think you're likely to die of old age before we do anything about your problem; Press 3 if you'd like to tear someone's left foot off and shove it so far up their own rectum they'll be able to bite their toenails from the inside; Press 4 if you think it'll help. It won't, but hey, knock yourself out. Or press 5 to hear these options again, while you slowly go insane.'
And now I'm going to have to go through the whole thing again, but not yet. No, first I have to calm down, because I like to be calm when I'm dealing with idiots. Being angry when dealing with the mentally challenged never helps. It disrupts their already diminished cognitive abilities.
But for now: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAArgh! I HATE BT!
Labels: cock-weasel, rant