Call Centres I P

Last night I was in the Newt and Ferret having a quiet pint, when some idiot must have mentioned a problem he’d had using a call centre.

The whole pub went completely silent; I’ve never known anything like it, then everyone began shouting at once. It was just like being on the terraces when Arsenal scores a winning goal. The noise was absolutely deafening.

Then Big Harry stood up and began to speak passionately about call centres. I can’t repeat all the language, but we all got the idea he didn’t like them.

“Bleeding poofy music they play at you,” he ended, “I want answers to me problems not half an hour of ‘Greensleeves’.”

I jumped up to a burst of cheering from the regulars, “Come on Bill, carry on the good work”

“I’m not going to have another go at call centres,” I said, “Harry done a good job on them, but what about the latest menace, sodding voice recognition machines. The first thing they ask you is your name. Bill Smith I says.”

“Can you speak more distinctly please? It says back.”

“So I take a great deal of trouble trying to get the thing to recognise my name. Smith I say, Bill Smith.

“I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch that Mr Smiff bills miff.”

“At least it knows there’s two ‘effs’ in Smiff,” shouts some clever clogs from the back of the pub.”

I give him the look and he sits down before I go over and put him down.

“After ten minutes with me saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’, The machine says “I’m having trouble understanding you, I will connect you to a supervisor.”

“Well than God for that!”

A bloke comes on immediately, no fancy music, no silly questions, just a couple of words and my problems fixed.

What I want to know is why spend all that money on a machine that doesn’t understand a British accent when all you need is a chat to a human being?

I bet the next bill I get from that lot will include a fair percentage for their so called services.

“Bother the machines says I, they ought to hire more supervisors!”