Hello, Am I speaking to Mr Joan Dookan?




Hello person in India or Pakistan or some other foreign land please stop calling me and pretending that you only want to ask a few questions, when instead you are wasting many minutes of my life. I don’t give a flying fuck that you have chosen a western name to try to ingratiate yourself to me, but I highly doubt that your name is actually Sean or Justin. I might suffer from mental illness but I’m not fucking stupid.

And stop telling me you “Aren’t selling me anything”, because I’m more than aware that you are selling me to other companies through data capture. Do you really think I’m going to tell you my household income or any other personal details over the phone to a complete stranger? Get a grip! The ambiance of the cattle shed of liars behind you gives you away after the initial four and increasingly annoyed “Hellos” from me. I know you are only trying to a job in an overcrowded country with limited opportunities, but I’m sitting down trying to relax and I have no interest in your small talk.

Tell you how I am? I’ll happily tell you how I am if you really want to know, but I can guarantee you the answer would involve many words that are not on your script you have to follow. And the sad thing is it’s not you who I am actually pissed off with – it’s the company who employs you to waste my time four or five times a day. Yes call ID is available but with most companies blocking their numbers now you have to take the chance and answer – furthermore Barclaycard’s operatives have the same accent as “Tim” so I need to see who it is.

The fact that you don’t know my address, have no idea how to say my name and the inability to recognise a “pissed off” or “sarcastic” tone suggests that you and I will not really hit it off. On one occasion I decided to do the questionnaire – I know it was stupid, and maybe that’s why they are still calling – but I made it clear they had to remove me from their list, which I was told they would. They didn’t. Who saw that coming?

Then there are the pre-recorded interruption phone calls that inform you in a 1950s BBC RP voice that you have PPI to claim, or a scrappage scheme to benefit from. Stop it you audial Autons! No I haven’t been in an accident, but you will be if I ever meet you face to face. Even though you are faceless in every sense of the phrase. I’m speaking to someone, watch some TV after a day at work, perhaps driving along and I pull over to check it’s not important. All for fuck all.

I already have three interruption machines at home – they are called children. They pipe up when you least want them to, mispronounce most words they attempt and are impossible to get rid of when you need space to yourself. Add in a wife who works by the remote control – ie as soon as you press play on your favourite programme you’ve recorded on your Sky+ box she decides it’s time to speak to you. I don’t need your interruptions – I have my own.

So here’s what’s going to happen, from now on I’ll pass the phone to one of my children and leave it up to them to piss you off instead – and the more you phone, the lower down the chain you’ll fall until you end up with the grumpy, whiny, crying one (add in your own joke here please otherwise I’ll get a punching…)


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