The curse of the call center

IF THERE is one aspect of modern society that sums up the relentless, tortuous contempt in which the mass of humanity is held by the thieving, sociopathic executives that rule our essential institutions, it's the call center.

It now takes such an effort of will and determination to begin the four-hour task of contacting, for example, the gas board, that no matter how serious your problem, you try to put it off forever. So even if your house explodes, you are likely to hover over the phone for a minute, then think, "Oh sod it, I'll just live in the rubble for a few days."

But worst of all, and maybe this explains the current world situation, are the banks. When I joined my bank there was a local branch, full of helpful, jokey staff, who made ordering a new checkbook a positive social experience.

So they were all sacked and replaced with the demonic call center and hours of repetitive ambient trancey music, punctuated with a sinisterly smooth voice telling you they're doing all they can to answer your call, although the one method they never quite get round to trying is to pick up the sodding phone. Presumably when a phone rings, they try blowing on it, sitting on it, spreading marmalade over it, then sit around gasping, "We've tried everything and we still can't seem to answer it."

Eventually, you slide into a trance, barely aware of your own existence, until finally you are jolted back to reality by a voice telling you, "Hello, I'm Sonia, how can I help you today?" But you are in such a daze that it's like when someone knocks on the door to ask if you want a cup of tea when you've fallen asleep in the bath. For the first few seconds, you can only make groaning, dribbling noises as you piece together how you came to be here, or anywhere--until you tell them the thing you requested three weeks ago hasn't happened.

Then they change all the security stuff, so now as well as Pin numbers, passwords and account details, my bank also insists on an ID number and a SPECIAL Pin number, which was supposed to come in the post, but didn't. Even then, they might ask for your mother's maiden name, and when you get past that, they'll probably say, "What's your favorite breed of hippo? Well, I'm afraid we can't discuss your details unless you can confirm your favorite breed of hippo. It's for your own security, Mr. Steel."

Then, it will turn out that everything's your fault. Because the thing you say happened isn't on the system, or you shouldn't have requested it on a Tuesday, or you should really have spoken to the Referral Current Monetary Unit based in Lithuania.

Then, they'll pretend they're being helpful by saying, "You do have the option of sending us a painting depicting the nature of the withdrawal you are requesting. And strictly speaking, it should be a traditional oil painting, but in this case, I am prepared to accept a piece of Cubism or even abstract shapes." And if you get that far, they'll say, "Now, all we need to do to complete the transaction is press this button, which should be done within 10 working days."

So the call center workers and their customers are pitted against each other, when the lives of both have been made more awkward, so the AGM can announce a greater dividend. Now even bailout packages can't stop the banks' demise, probably because every time a government agrees to one, they ring the bank to tell them, but can't bloody get through.

First published in the Independent.