Call Centre Confidential

2008-08-13T22:49:00.001Z

2006-07-19T21:18:00.000Z

The road to nowhere …

I can’t help thinking that I’ve been here before. Sticking a set of different coloured VW Beetles on the starting line to represent my team. I had a flash back to when I was back in at the old place … sticking the heads of Big Brother contestants on cars … Nadia … oh my … I’m stuck on a roundabout with no left hand turn.

I mentioned this to the team, "A couple of years ago we had big brother wacky races."

They stared at me blankly.

All afternoon they did Pete impressions.

There’s only so much “Whistle. Pop. Wanker!” you can take

2006-07-18T18:37:00.000Z

Something Stupid

Give a team of sales managers a task like selling car kits and it is a queue for something stupid.

“Let’s make it visual! We’ll run a motorway along the side of the office with cars representing each of our advisers!” Fag Ash Lil, who loves these kinds of things couldn’t help herself. “We can have prizes for people who hit different mile stones – the first to fifty could have a free valet, the first to a hundred could have a furry dice.”

“Yes! Yes! YES!” screamed Brenda who was practically sticking to the seat with excitement.

Everyone was ‘tasked’ on finding cars to represent their team members from the internet. Elaborate plans were made for the art work. I offered to order the brown paper and felt tips, but I’ve been banned from the stationery catalogue (again) following an over enthusastic ‘post it’ request a few weeks ago.

Car kits sold … Nil (Early days)

2006-07-17T21:34:00.000Z

Our friends electric

Refreshed and renewed – we have been set the task of ‘blowing Bolton out of the water’ in our sales performance.

No body blows quite like Brenda blows when she’s had a tuna and onion sandwich. Her mentor and former boss, Bernard, has been winning the monthly sales competition for the past 6 months. They even managed to sell a job lot of St George’s flag dressing gowns (from Euro 2004 – with the label cut out) and the Cupid Love Handles went out in droves.

Brenda has seen the light and she’s insisting that every call includes the sale of a heritage car kit, which includes a Victorian style squeegy.

During her presentation she talked about the need to create a “Blueprint that follows the road map to a sales timeline.”

Its times like this when you need a regency style sat nav.

2006-07-11T17:41:00.000Z

Flog it!

I felt really empowered being ‘a leader’ rather than a ‘manager’, unitl I had to take my shoes off to enter Brenda’s office. She’s got a new carpet, a new lap top, a screen and one of those pointers that people shine in the eyes of pop stars.

We sat in a semi-circle, looking each other down in our new ill-fitting uniform. The collective rustle of the nylon body-warmers, combined with the new carpet, was generating enough static to power a small town in Wales. Forget nuclear power Mr Blair, I've found the answer.

“We are reaching a new era of freshness and renewal …” she said.

Here we go again.

“Renewed, refreshed energy …”

She really is Bernard in a pencil-line skirt.

2006-07-03T20:52:00.000Z

Wiginagain agin again and again

Brenda has created a new world order in Wigan. She has given the Team Managers a new title. From next week, we are to be known as Team Leaders. She thinks that if we change our names we will become like Winston Churchill in an Asda suit over night.

The Asda suits are going too. The campaign for ‘togs’ has finally been given the green light and we will be decked out in yellow t-shirts and beige slacks with the company logo embroidered on the purple tie. To finish off, we have a beige gillet, which sounds like a sea bird, but it’s a quilted body warmer that makes us look like we are FBI agents without a nightstick.

Brenda doesn’t wear it. It doesn’t suit her ‘line’ apparently.

I give it a month. I’ll keep my ASDA suit on standby until then.

2006-06-29T09:53:00.000Z

Wiginagain agin again

These are the confessions of an unreliable blogger.

Being back at the Call Centre is strange. Its like going to bed with Sharon Osbourne, it seems new and very old at the same time.

There are aspects of the job that never change. The customers still have unrealistic demands of being answered straight away by someone who knows what they’re doing. I mean. Come on.

The staff still are trying their damnedest to get off the phones at whatever cost.

The team managers, sorry, Team Leaders, are still trying their damnedest to keep their team on the phones while hopping from one meaningless meeting to the next.

The Customer Service Manager, Brenda, is still keeping it real by concentrating on the minutiae of every bleeding detail in meaningless meetings that go on for hours.

Thus the cycle continues and the nation is provided with all the novelty spoon holders it can ever want and some attractive love handles thrown in for good measure.

I’m not finding it funny any more.

2006-06-28T02:18:00.000Z

Wiginagain agin

Now that I’ve been back to work for 6 months, its time to take stock and reflect on what has been an encouraging start: Brenda has not given me real people yet, I’m stuck with temps but they are so embedded that they are going to qualify for a clock, she has, however given me several high profile jobs such as monitoring the complaints and auditing the chairs in the centre.

She has been like a plague of locus throughout the Wigan office and chucked out the chintz, and everything else she could get her hands on, in a bid to make the place ‘her own’. She’s replaced all the chairs with bucket-like banquettes in a range of colours. At the end of each day she has a diagram that she spot checks to make sure that the banquettes do not clash with the pin boards.

I have been put on ‘bucket-bonk’ detail.

It’s a start. I may not be hot on the love handles, but I know that my ‘apple’ fabric shouldn’t be mixed with my ‘damson’ pinboards.

2006-06-27T11:50:00.000Z

Downtime

Don’t worry. I’m not dead. I’ve been resting due to a malfunction.

It makes me sound like a dodgy cyberman. Let me rephrase; I’ve been off-line due to a computer malfunction. It’s something to do with a firewallbanger burning out, or something like that, thus I’ve been unable to access the internet.

Whatever the reason, I’ve had Slaptop, the IT manager, burrowing under my desk for weeks pulling out wires, staplers and laminated ‘Employee of the month’ certificates like they were rabbits out of a hat.

He mumbled something about thread worms and gave me a long number that I was supposed to remember and an ETA SLA of 28 days.

On the dawn of the 28th day, I saw the light of day, and the BBC homepage.

Slaptop sent me a 40 page feedback form for me to complete. I’m giving myself 28 days prior to sending a ‘holding notice’.

In the meantime it seems that a counterfeit version of the blog has been started: ‘Call Centre Consequential’. If you haven’t seen it, then imagine buying one of those t-shirts off the market ‘Timmy Hillfigure’ or ‘Kevin Klien’ and you’ll get the idea. I guess it is the sincerest form of flattery, but I feel a little soiled. He’s even recycling some of my bad jokes.

I wonder if Slaptop can ‘take him out’.

2006-04-07T07:50:00.000Z

Team Talk

I’m never going to get a team of real people at this rate. I’m working really hard on the complaints process, but I’m not getting chance to speak up in meetings and get myself noticed.

Brenda called a meeting in her head quarters today. She looked serious. She must have had the tuna and onion melt early in the day because she was breathing noxious fumes across the table.

I could tell that there was work on the way and I intended keeping my head down. I can’t afford to cop for anything else.

“What’s happening with your sales?” She screamed.

A sales competition between the Wigan and Bolton office had been raging over the past couple of weeks. It had passed me by as I thought that I had a perfect excuse: I’m dealing with complaints and the temps are … temps … they don’t count because they can’t count, (it takes all their time to breathe.)

“Ermmm. I’ve not added them up yet,” I lied, buying for time.

“It needs to get better. Your lot have only pumped out a dozen of those Cupid knobs!” she said.

I need to get a better handle on the team.

2006-04-06T07:45:00.000Z

"It looks like you are writing a letter," said the paperclip

Dear Mr Brunton,

Thank you for your letter dated 1st March 2006 regarding your dissatisfaction at having to wait so long on the 28th February to register the warranty for you brand new 1940’s style telephone/ facsimile combination.

We are experiencing large call volumes at present due to our Heritage Catalogue promotion. Customers are taking advantage of our free ‘Love Handles’ offer on orders over £50.00, (the Love Handles are cupid shaped knobs, for an interior door).

The hold music we have selected has been market tested for its suitability for most audiences and Nigel Kennedy is considered to be an industry standard. I hope that you have recovered from the discomfort that you experienced while waiting, however, any claims for disability will need to be verified by an independent medical expert rather than the ‘programme on channel five’ that you refer to in your letter.

As a gesture of goodwill, without prejudice, I enclose a complementary pair of ‘Man for All Seasons’ cufflinks, in the shape of Henry the Eighth. I trust that this resolves your complaint to your full satisfaction.

Yours sincerely …

2006-04-04T07:40:00.000Z

Spring is in the air.

I’ve got myself into serious trouble while being the complaints monitor. Perhaps I’m not the right man for The Apprentice after all.

My interpretation of the 24-hour rule is incorrect apparently. 24 hours actually means 24 hours! The ever-growing pile of complaints needed to dealt with quickly so I came up with a ‘holding letter’: “Thanks for getting in touch, but we need a bit longer – Thanks.”

This kept the wolf from the door for a while, but now I’m working all hours trying to catch up.

The queues have been high recently and the whistling wall boards have been singing. The complaints have been getting more and more intense as while the customers are having to wait and wait, listening to the hold music.

A customer complaint from Mr Brunton has been escalated to Brenda. He’s seeking compensation for contracting seasonally affected disorder from Vivaldi while on hold for 20 minutes.

If he’d waited a bit longer, he’d have reached Spring

2006-03-17T19:26:00.000Z

Give up giving up

I’ve managed to break all the resolutions I made at the New Year. The healthy seeds I was chewing on have been growing in the cupboard. It’s not very healthy to have shooting seeds in your closet … ask George Michael.

The only resolution I’ve managed to keep is kicking my stationery habit.

All that is about to change. I’ll need to put in an order for a job lot of lever arch files to retain the complaints within my elaborate system.

Over the past few days I have compiled a complex indexing system for registering complaints that requires a set of algorithms too intricate for the human brain to work out, thereby making my role as Complaint’s monitor indispensable, (cue evil laugh).

The complaints pile is now about an inch high (less if I use a paper-weight). I’m not too worried, I’ll make a start on them next week now that I have a system. There needs to be a 24 hour turn around, which makes it about three working days… less if you include my lunch hour.

Sir Alan Sugar has missed a trick. His next apprentice is right here.

2006-03-15T14:08:00.000Z

“And for another thing …”

In business, you need to listen to your customers (See – I’m even beginning to sound like Sir Alan.)

Following the reprogramming, I was hoping that Brenda (my manager) would have promoted me to ‘real people’ rather than temps. She’s done the next best thing, and put me in charge of complaints. This is the best status I’ve held since being made a Milk Monitor on that glorious day in 1978.

I spent most of the day composing a spreadsheet. I spent hours working out what information I needed to capture and moving things from one side of the page to the next.

I proudly presented it to Brenda and sighed, “Use 10 point Tahoma.”

“What about the information it captures?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know, that kind of thing doesn’t bang my buttons.”

A tidy pile of complaints arrived at my desk at noon. I put them to one side and set about removing Comic Sans from my spreadsheet.

Brenda has taught me to prioritise my work.

2006-03-13T08:57:00.000Z

The Apprentice

In the new world order, after my reprogramming, I’m finding it hard to be cynical about the Call Centre. I’m so fired up about my job, I’m so motivated by Brenda’s flouncing, that I cannot bring myself to bring it down. I’m no longer a rebel. I’m a company man.

Indeed, I’m considering putting myself forward as Brenda’s Apprentice, in the hope that I can appear in the next series of THE APPRENTICE. I’m begun to model myself on Sir Alan Sugar: I’ve bought his book, I’m more grumpy and wearing a pair of tights over my face to ‘get the look’.

I got another call from one of the Marr’s zombies today saying that he had bird flu. “How do you know it is bird flu?”

“I caught it off my girlfriend.”

You’re a light-weight. You’re fired.

2006-02-13T23:43:00.000Z

Born Again

My reprogramming is almost complete.

They’ve tucked me away in a prefab somewhere for a couple of weeks for an ‘induction’. It’s basically been a crack course on fire extinguishers, an endless stream of videos with John Cleese getting inflamed with James Bolam and all the sandwiches I can eat.

Pheobe, the mild mannered trainer, picked at her eccentrically manicured nails while telling us about customer service and asking us to complete “feedback sheets” every hour on the hour about “Things that have gone well” and “things to do differently”, or variations on the theme: “Is it hot or is it snot?”

Or at least, that’s what it sounded like.

It was during the CO2 extinguisher session that I was struck with a brainwave. I was standing up right, striking the knob when I realised that I needed to update my Wankerdaq profile…

2006-01-30T22:19:00.000Z

Marrs Attacks

Alison ‘The Hun’ isn’t that bad. In the post this morning there was a cornucopia of stationery with ‘Marrs Temps’ plastered all over it: mouse mat, ruler, rubber, pens and a stress ball.

It will help me resist the stationery catalogue for a bit.

I was disappointed that there was no Marrs Hole Punch. Fag Ash Lil was impressed with the bounty when Brenda flounced in from lunchtime shopping. She delved into her Pravda bag (where did she get that in Wigan?). “I saw this and I thought of you.”

She handed Lil a leaflet with “Smoking Cessation Class” advertised in big letters. ‘Cessation’ is a new word for ‘pack it in’.

Luckily, I managed to catch the stress ball before it hit the back of her head as she walked away.

2006-01-25T23:21:00.000Z

They’ve got my number

I’ve been completely erased from the system, so they have created a whole new identity for me. The PC’s in Wigan have more security than Harrods on “Scouse Shopping Day” and the virus checker is so thorough it can find bird flu at fifty paces.

The change to my numbers and passwords as thrown me into an identity crisis, so at lunch time I forgot my PIN number. The woman at Marks and Sparks asked me to put in my number and I drew a blank.

“Sorry cock. It’s chip and pin or nothing.” The M&S grinned.

All those years at school, learning how to spell my name, come to nothing.

I had to put the celery banquet back on the shelf.

2006-01-24T13:57:00.000Z

Its Behind You

Karen, one of the temps on my team, has been protesting about where she is sitting all day.

“I’m too near to that plant. There are flies. I don’t like flies.” She explained.

“I’ll get you a swatter,” I said (luckily The Catalogue that Cannot Be Named (for keeping my job reasons) has got one in stock.)

“There’s a draught from the air conditioning.” She said.

“I’ll turn it off”

“I don’t like having my back to the room. I don’t like people coming from behind.” She moaned.

“I’ll get you a rear view mirror.”

“I think that this chair needs adjusting.”

I think she needs a mallet.

2006-01-23T22:30:00.000Z

Zombie Flesh Eaters From Marrs

“Have they all arrived Hun?” Alison ‘The Hun’ from the Marrs Job Agency, was keen to know whether the temps had managed to shuffle their way in.

“Yes they are all present and correct.” I said, trying to match her cheerfulness.

“Do you need more chick? I can get them for tomorrow!” She is relentless.

I looked up at the congregated crew clustered around the ‘glug, glug, glug’ water machine.

One of them dribbled.

I hope I get upgraded to real people soon.

2006-01-18T22:43:00.000Z

Absence Makes the Heart Grow fonder…

There is a friendly face in Wigan. Fag Ash Lil has transferred over the Summer.

She hates the place and has been huffing and puffing, more than usual, at my desk today.

“They are turning the smoke room into a ‘contemplation room’ so people can pray. It’s political correctness gone mad. What about my rights? Don’t they realise that they are making me smoke MORE because they are all trying to stop me? If they let me smoke at my desk, I wouldn’t fret so much and I’d probably give up.” She fumed.

I suggested she put shine to Benson and Hedges in the contemplation room.

I got a passive glare.

2006-01-17T21:01:00.000Z

Go Away

Day6 and I already have an annoying person on my Wankerdaq profile. Not bad going.

To break me in gently, Brenda won’t let me have a team of real people, I’ve got to have temps instead and she has allotted a new batch of ten from the Marrs temp agency.

Alison from the temp agency has been ringing me all day. She is depressingly happy all the time and insists that I’m a “honey’, “chick’ or “babe”.

“Hun, I can get you five guys for next Monday, how does that sound chick?” said in a tone you could call ‘bubbly’.

“Er… I don’t know.” I said.

I’m a team manager; she mistakes me for someone who can make decisions.

2006-01-16T21:54:00.000Z

Secondment to none

One week in and it feels like I've never been away. I keep getting those "they never get away" looks. Barney, the Big Gay Bear, keeps calling me from Bolton demanding a refund of his 'whip round' money from when I left.

People are curious... The girl with Kaleidoscope eyes keeps asking me about it.

"I've been on a sabbatical," I keep saying, not really knowing what one is, hoping she'd go away.

"Did you go travelling?"

Does a weekend in Morecambe count?

She continued, "I had a 'gap year'."

"Really?," I replied, "what did you do?"

"Worked in Gap and took too many drugs."

Now, why didn't I think of that?

2006-01-12T00:32:00.000Z

Wigagain

Brenda, the former under-boss, has been bumped up a few stripes.

Part of the conditions of my return was that I had to go from Bolton to Wigan. If it isn’t bad enough that I have to come back, I have to fit in with Brenda’s new World Order she has developed in the Wigan office.

Brenda has grown from a tuna-and-onion-breathing to fire-breathing dragon. She is half way between Thatcher and Evita played by Janet Street Porter.

I think she is avoiding me. Occasionally, she’ll flounce past saying “busy, busy, busy,” or she lurks behind a plant and says, “I’ll catch you for a latte and lunch. Honk! Honk!”

Three days on and I feel like I we’ve crashed landed and I’m trapped in a strange place with a beast lurking, making strange noises in the undergrowth.

Its like LOST. With ugly people.

2006-01-10T22:16:00.000Z

Re-Programming

This is a new start and a chance to reinvent myself. People have a short memory and my incompetence will be all but forgotten. I’ve set some golden rules for my new image:

1) I’ll cut down my Post-it consumption.
2) I’ll only order the stationery I need (see 1 above)
3) I’ll look at the BBC website no more than once a day. I don’t even like cricket.
4) I’ll prepare for my appraisal and avoid self-destruction.
5) I’ll investigate more about the life of Jodie Marsh, her work has passed me by, Big Brother is leading me to cultural enlightenment.
6) I’ll cut out chips and beans and eat seeds instead.
7) I’m not going to waste my summer on Big Brother.
8) I will no longer have the wool pulled over my eyes. I will consult the Family Medical Encyclopaedia when staff phone in sick. How was I supposed to know that parvo was a dog disease?

I quite like the new me.

2006-01-09T20:43:00.001Z

Bak to the Jug Agen

Whoever said, “lightening doesn’t strike twice” had never heard of herpes, Mick Hucknall and call centres.

I’m back, in the words of Gary Barlow, for good. While I'm at it I'll be whistle-blowing like Roger Whittaker with a pair of bellows up his arse

In the month that the Dutch have finally admitted that working in a call centre is not the fulfilling job that we were promised, by opening one in a prison, it is fitting that I come back.

I left seeking fame and fortune. I discovered that the streets maybe lined with gold, but they are also dotted with dog muck in neat piles. Some people have a calling for greatness; I’m clearly destined to work in call centres.

It is my destiny. I only hope that I’m up to the task.

2005-03-22T20:24:00.000Z

Exit Interview

In my daydreams I have rehearsed my leaving speech a dozen times. I suppose its like attending your own funeral, you hope to discover that you’ll be missed and that people really do rate you.

In my daydreams, Bernard is weeping uncontrollably at the thought of his protégé being released, while Brenda has an ‘Ernie Wise’ moment as she sees her potential double act collapse before it has begun. My team are fawning at my feet, John three clutching my leg, begging me not to leave, but it is too late, the crematorium curtains are being drawn to the sound of a Springsteen ballad. I’m falling behind.

The reality is much more sobering. Thrush, Tizzy and Joan always make sure that they are off the phones and ready for these events. Everyone else is carrying on like nothing is happening, pretending that the call they are taking is far more important than the maudlin nonsense going on around them, pushing their ear-piece closer to their head to drown out the splattering of applause as a card is passed to me.

I open it sheepishly and read the “Good Luck”, “Best Wishes” and “Don’t come back” messages made by people I don’t know. The people I do know seem to be suspiciously in the same handwriting as if it was dashed around on the last minute.

“Speech. Speech!” Thrush chants.

I smile and quote, “This is it. This time I know it’s the real thing…” you can always depend on Dannii to capture the essence of moments like these.

There’s a pair of Dilbert socks and a Six Thinking Hats book given to me by Martin on behalf of the other Team Managers (Ian’s idea apparently). Brenda looks like she wants to be somewhere else as I thank them, “It’s not the work; it’s the people I’ll miss.” I resist the urge to add, “taking the piss out of,” and reach a rousing end, “thank you for the good times.”

I pack away my headset in its velvet-lined box for the very last time.

“I’m made up for you, I really am made up for you,” Thrush taps me on the shoulder.

“I know you are. You all are John. Thank you.” I say.

Thanks for all your comments, but its time to get this show on the road, until then it is, “Adieu. Adieu. Remember me.”

2005-03-15T22:46:00.000Z

Dear Bernard

I don’t want to go to Wigan. I don’t want to carry on blogging this nonsense. I’m going to give it all up …

“Dear Bernard, I’ve finally done it. I’ve finally escaped the clutches of this soul sapping job” No make that “vampiric nightmare of a job that has sucked me dry of energy, creativity and the will to live.”

Ahh…let’s start this over…

“Dear Bernard, It’s hard to write this after having such a fulfilling 12 years working here. I’ve become part of the furniture and its time for a make over. If CHANGING ROOMS has taught us anything, it’s that a ‘throw over’ will only spruce up an old settee for a short period of time and that the time comes for a new one. Its time for this comfy old armchair to move on…”

Nah. No … corny, too corny for my taste, I mean, let me try and make it more profound.

“Dear Bernard, There comes a point in everybody’s life were they need to develop, move on and leave the stability of the place were they have been nurtured. Like a newborn making its first tentative steps I am going to stand on my own two feet …”

No, it’s going to be too preachy. I mean, you know … let’s face it; I want to hand in my notice here …

“Dear Bernard, I hope that you see this as a wake up call. People are dissatisfied with the work they have to do here. There is too much surveillance and not enough vision from …”

Too angry … I don’t want to be angry.

“Dear Bernard, Please accept this letter as my resignation. Thanks for all your support and encouragement. Yours sincerely.”

Love it.

2005-03-07T19:28:00.000Z

Safety Last

The Catalogue That Cannot Be Named have introduced a new promotion. They have a job lot of First Aid kits to shift. At the end of ever call we need to ask the customer if they want one, they say yes, and one is hastily despatched… oh if it was only so simple.

When you telephone in making an order for a new bulb for your SAD light, the last thing that you want to hear is some numpty trying to pass off a box of bandages.

The complaints have already started clogging up the system. There are no scissors in the box.

Martin has armed his team with some objection handling techniques: “Well we have cut its price and it’s still a snip. It’s the last chance to get first aid.”

Pass the smelling salts.

2005-02-28T23:03:00.000Z

Menthol Health Act

I’ve been writing this for two years today so, in the words of Bill Hicks, forgive me while I slap on a fake smile and wade through this shit one more time.

Simon, the Craig David looky-likey, has been leaking profusely today. Every hole in his head seems to be dripping as a result of his vicks sinex addiction. He asked for time off the phones so he could nip to Boots for his latest fix.

“Have you tried steaming with menthol?” Tizzy asked him.

“No miss, coz it brings on my face-ache,” he said.

If I shot him, I’d technically be doing him a favour.

2005-02-23T23:34:00.000Z

It gets Sadder

The Catalogue That Cannot Be Named is selling a range of ‘SAD Lights’ for people who don’t like the winter. The catalogue claims that ‘it may’ sooth people who suffer from Seasonally Affected Disorder with its bright ‘simulation day light’ and range of ‘dolphin music’.

“Is it like that SARs?” Joan asked.

I said that it wasn’t and that, according to the catalogue, its more prevalent than you may think.

“I think I’ve got it sir,” Simon, the Craig David looky-likely, made a bid for another sick note.

SAD. SAD Lights.

Long winter nights can make anyone a bit miserable, but haven’t these people heard of telly, stella and packet of crisps? It makes a pleasant change to having your retina burned out to the sound of bleedin’ Flipper.

Buy one while stocks last.

2005-02-22T21:06:00.000Z

Ordinary Addictions

Simon, The Craig David looky-likey, has had a cold since November.

Tizzy has said ‘bless you’ so many times she’s like a trainee Pope.

He’s developed an addiction to vicks sinex and squirts it up his nostril every ten minutes.

Wendy, from HR, has suggested that it’s due to atmospheric conditions in the office, and has recommended that we move the plants to create a unique eco-system for him.

He’s like a boy in a bubble in a bobble hat without a bobble.

2005-02-21T19:30:00.000Z

Wigham of Wigan

I spent most of last week going to and from Wigan with Brenda, preparing for move at the end of March by filling flip chart paper with multi-coloured action plans.

Brenda flounces through the office with her clip board ‘making observations’ about the Wigan office, its people and plant arrangements, “Who maintains the greenery in the office?” she asks Steven, the present office manager.

“We do.” He replied.

She wrote, “Outsource” and a big question mark with a big girly dot.

Steven looks like Wigham from the Simpsons and he is a secret spec wearer. He likes Brenda being up close, breathing her lunch up his hairy nostrils, because he can’t see her. The tramlines on the side of his head and his ‘deck-chair-leg’ nose give his secret away.

Brenda wrote, “Making a Work Plan” on the board.

Steven leant over and whispered, “Marketing a Wok Pan? What does she mean?”

2005-02-16T22:54:00.000Z

Wrapstar is on holiday in Wigan. Back in a week. In the meantime, tell your mates to visit here, we want to hit 200000 visitors before the 2nd blog day on the 28th!

2005-02-09T21:15:00.000Z

Step On…

I held a team meeting today and inevitably it was filled with discussion about me leaving them. They weren’t interested in me. They were discussing my replacement. “Who’s TBA, sir?” Simon, the Craig David looky-likey asked.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Tizzy rocking backwards and forwards in her chair.

I explained that my replacement had not been appointed yet and that there would be a selection event over the next few weeks, so that when I leave in March I can have a ‘hand over’.

Brian glared through his big glasses and started to make hand farts for some reason, “Is it going to be a lady? I haven’t had a lady manager.”

“We don’t know yet. It could be,” I replied.

Tizzy was like Rain Man on acid by this point.

“Susan, what on Earth are you doing?” I couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Sorry. I’m trying to fiddle my step counter. I’ve done 1002 just by sitting here.”

2005-02-08T19:17:00.000Z

Cheesey

Bernard had finally made an appearance following the restructure announcement. At today’s meeting there was a toadying competition to see who could congratulate him the most for his bravery. Everybody loved the new Organogram.

“There’s plenty of opportunities for everyone.” Martin said, raising his ‘best boss in the world’ cup to salute him. Of course he likes it, he’s going nowhere different and gets to move into Brenda’s desk, complete with its own fan.

“If we don’t change we may become extinct.” Ian pointed to his Jurassic Park tie to emphasise the point.

“So true,” Bernard was getting into the grooves of the compliments by now.

“Who moved my cheese?” Brenda said.

Bernard stood up and said, “Thank you Brenda. You have reminded me of a seminal work concerned with change-management. Who Moved My Cheese uses the parable of mice looking for food to illustrate the need for change.”

“No Bernard. I’ve lost my shopping from Marks.”

If found, please return to …

2005-02-07T19:01:00.000Z

The Road

Wigan. WIGAN!

The only good thing to come out of Wigan is the A58 to Bolton.

The Wigan Call Centre isn’t a real Call Centre – it’s an old council building with shiny walls and sticky carpet. The only good thing its got going for it is its water machines (they have those ones that have a big tub that goes glug glug glug).

I’m going to be stuck there with Brenda. I hope the pie shops don’t stock tuna and onion sandwiches.

“Hey up son!” It was Call Centre Tony phoning to congratulate me on the move. I was consoled by the thought that we could revive our daily canteen confessional. “I’m Boris* to Birmingham.”

Woe thrice woe. Glug, Glug and glug again.

*Boris Karl OFF

2005-02-02T19:55:00.000Z

The end of the pier show

It’s been a long time coming. After weeks of speculation and the fear of God instilled in everyone, the restructure has been announced.

Bernard decided to take the day off as it was revealed on the ‘intranet’ (it’s like the internet, but without the porn.)

“This is a new Organogram of the Call Centre that comes into effect from March.”

I thought Organogram was a herb that you put on pizza, apparently it’s a complicated diagram of where you are in the food chain.

I’m not on it.

Brenda sidled over to me, “We are going to make a good team you and me.” She made a bold ‘panto’ gesture with her arms. Tuna and onion wafted up my snozzle.

She smiled and gave me the weird look that she’s been giving all week.

“I wanted someone on my new Wigan team who was dynamic, quick thinking and knew how the agents think.” She said.

I stayed silent. I wasn’t sure how to react.

“Wigan is going to be a big challenge I want someone to lead the team that can keep on delivering again and again.”

I paused before saying, “You couldn’t get Janice.”

“No. I got you instead.”

2005-01-30T20:58:00.000Z

Giving Head

Working in a call centre means getting intimate with your tool.

The tool in question is a headset. They come in many sizes and shapes, but without them you’ll not get far, because they are the link between you and your public.

It’s easy to spot people who work in call centres as they all suffer from ‘head set hair’: a narrow parting that stretches from ear to ear. Some women like to adjust the headset so that it sits at the back of their neck to avoid it messing their hair do.

There are a several code names for varieties of headset:

The Madonna These are coveted, but rare, versions of the headset. Made completely of black plastic with a proper cover on the mouthpiece.

The Cliff This is a ‘double header’ with ‘two’ ear-pieces instead of the usual ‘one’, disliked by everyone as it is impossible to hear what the topic of the ‘between call chats’. Barney has one, and skates around the office singing ‘Wired for Sound’.

The Seagull People are possessive about their headset and some daub their initials in Tippex on the earpiece. The headsets are past from generation to generation, and eventually they get caked in the stuff.

The Spirit Level A headset with a spit bubble trapped in the mouthpiece.

The Brazilian A headset with a curly bit missing.

The Nadia A headset with no muff.

This post is dedicated to Julian Clary who has avoided another snatch.

2005-01-25T19:08:00.000Z

Get out my way!

I hope that SMAGELL gets the chop in the restructure. I’m coming to the end of my tether sharing my desk with a lunatic. It’s not enough that I’ve got a bleedin’ dream catcher floating over my head, dropping dust in my hair whenever anyone wafts past me, but she’s plonked a model of Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, in the middle of my desk.

She won’t let me have Dannii Minogue, but Nellie the friggin’ elephant is fair game!

Ah well. She should be thankful that I’ve got more pressing things to worry about.

I’ve been concerned recently with all this talk of blog stooshing. That bloke at Waterstones lost his job. Dr Dre has stopped his NHS blog.

I might end up losing my job and that would be terrible.

2005-01-24T21:00:00.000Z

Bin there and done that

According to ‘experts’, today is the most miserable day of the year. Debts are high, Christmas has worn off and it’s a Monday.

It’s perhaps fitting that Bernard has decided to launch his restructure.

Bodies will appear in dumpsters and they’ll be dredging the canals. The culling started early doors with the Chuckle Brothers from Quandix. Apparently, the bottom has fallen out of the hygiene bin market.

2005-01-18T19:42:00.000Z

Starr’s in your eyes

The knives are still being sharpened in Bernard’s office and still no sign of the ‘first cut’, which as we know, is the deepest.

The topic of today’s ‘between calls’ discussion was about the heir to Freddie Starr’s throne: Prince Harry (lock up your hamsters).

Joan was horrified.

So was Barney, “It was a really bad costume, you’d think he’d have gone for the SS uniform, something with a little more élan.”

Joan was even more horrified.

Barney said, “Let’s face it, it would have been a big deal if he was Prince Charlie’s son, but he ain’t, so get over it.”

Joan spent the afternoon in the medical room.

2005-01-17T20:16:00.000Z

The wrath of the Medusa

Brenda keeps fixing me with those strange stares. There’s definitely something going on. Bernard has been locked in his office, scrawling on a flip chart, rubbing his chin, shaking his head and moving post it notes from one wall to another.

“It can only mean one thing,” Janice said, wide-eyed (as usual), “RESTRUCTURE.”

Yes, of course, the signs have been there for months, Brenda and Ian vying for position, coming up with hare-brained schemes to catch Bernard’s eye, they were making sure that they come out well in the cabinet reshuffle.

If you have been reading this for a while, you’ll know that things happen here in cycles, and the occasional reshuffles are designed to ‘keep things fresh’. In other words, people who know what they are doing are given new jobs so they don’t know what they are doing and it ends up with the Call Centre’s virtuous circle: nobody knowing nothing.

The disruption caused by this movement rumbles on for weeks. Old teams are sundered apart and new ones form.

It’s time for change.

It’s a time for new a vision.

It’s a time to order another register from stationery.

2005-01-13T23:08:00.000Z

History of Call Centres (Part Two)

It is pleasing to note that the first part of this History of Call Centres has been ‘searched’ by a number of people and will be forming part of dissertations in assignments around the world. Isn’t the Internet wonderful?

The first Call Centres were created when people in the Stone Age began to live together. Before, when people lived in caves, they used to communicate to their neighbours using smoke signals: “Please can we order one of those sabre toothed tiger skin rugs.”

When they moved away from the comfort of the caves and began to build houses and live in villages, they built beacons on the top of the nearest hill so they could communicate to the next village: “Our rugs have gone bald – can we have a refund?”

These beacons were the first Call Centres.

They were staffed by the local student population, between their ‘Wheel Studies’ they would throw sticks on the fire under the control of a ‘Tribal Leader’ who dreamed of doing something better with his life, such as appearing in Ray Harryhausan films, but working on the beacon was a ‘stop gap’.

2005-01-12T19:24:00.000Z

New Balls Please

I had a ‘Sprout Surprise’ smoothie today. It sounds horrible but the apple, mint leaves and carrot make sure it really is horrible.

I threw most of it away and got a coffee from the vending machine – I know, I know – it’s a slippery slope, next I’ll be on bread and before long I’ll be puffing away on a crack pipe.

First Aid needed to be administered on one of Martin’s team. The foam ball gun miss-fired and hit Bess on the back of the head. It was like Wayne Rooney had hit her in the face, she took a dive and hurt her knee on a desk. The ball bounced behind the coffee machine. The desk is a write off.

Another great idea comes to its natural end.

2005-01-11T08:11:00.000Z

The New Wave

I was not surprised by the debate that Thursday’s post generated about the tsunami as the office has not stopped buzzing with opinion for the past week. It has genuinely affected people and, two weeks on, everyone is beginning to understand that life may never be the same again. At least it has raised the level of debate from celebrity gossip to world issues.

Joan said gravely, “Well, in the pub quiz about a month ago, we were asked, “What is a tsunami?” and we said “Newcastle United fans”. We won’t be making that mistake again.”

John Doe offered his theory on the matter, “I reckon that China finally got its act together and arranged to jump at the same time to see whether they really could dislodge the Earth’s orbit. China is making no comment.”

“That’s worse than the ‘Lex Luthur’ theory you had last week!” Barney protested.

Bring on Brad and Jen.

2005-01-10T07:38:00.000Z

Balls

While I have been chewing cashew nuts and trying to resist the cravings for chips and beans, Martin has been trying to ‘up’ the level of competition on his ‘Youth Camp’.

He got a gun that fires foam balls for Christmas and he is now using it as a means of punishing his worst performers of the day. At the end of each shift he lines the people who have sold the least against the wall and they have to plead for their survival. Depending on the content of their plea – if they make a good pledge, for example – they may get a stay of execution (he isn’t known as ‘the Best Boss in The World’ for nothing), otherwise, the best performer gets the chance to fire foam balls at their head.

It causes a great deal of merriment and cries of ‘why don’t we do that kind of thing?’ comments from my team.

It’s enough to put you off your Echinacea.

2005-01-05T21:28:00.000Z

Stark Waving Mad

When there’s a national moment of silence, there’s a logistical nightmare to ensure that everyone gets the message and that customers who are mid-way through the conversation are politely told to ‘shut up’.

Brenda spoke into the p.a. microphone in a somber tone, like John Paul at Easter, and above the wail of feedback, she made everyone aware that the three minutes had begun.

I’m sure that some customers decide to ring us because they are banned from Talk Radio shows. I had a complaining customer on at the same time refusing to co-operate:

He: “I want a full refund and compensation …”

Me: “I need to interrupt the conversation to observe a three minute silence for the disaster in Asia.”

He: “What! I haven’t got time for this – listen – I can’t even go to a football match without a moments silence for someone’s cat dying. Life goes on.”

Me: “I think it’s more serious than a cat dying.”

He: “Over the last year and a half the Americans and British have killed as many Iraqi people that the wave killed in one day – are we going to have ‘a moment of silence’ for them an’ all?”

Next caller, on line three, is Clive from Grimsby.

2005-01-04T23:54:00.000Z

Janus Long

I can’t believe that I’m starting another year in the Call Centre. This time last year – when Michelle McManus was soaring up the charts like a burst Zeppelin – I was setting myself a clear set of resolutions:

More exercise,
More dieting,
More tolerance.

For old times sake, I’d decided to have the same this year. I’ve been given a book this Christmas: “You are what you eat.” In my case “I am a Kebab – with everything”.

Not this year. This year I’m going to be a reduced carb person who eats pulses and examines my stools.

“Happy new year.” Brenda breezed in, fixed a strange look on me, and winked.

If Brenda is what she eats, she is a Tuna and Onion sandwich.

2004-12-31T13:59:00.000Z

Once you pop

Is there anything on Earth more painful than spicy twiglet-dust in your eyes? It stings like nothing else. Its enough to put you off them – believe me – I almost missed Wizard of Oz this year trying to douse it out.

They should carry a health warning.

I hope that all my readers had a great Christmas.

Apart from Christmas Eve, the customers have not stopped calling. There was a numb silence prior finishing on Friday. The annual twiglets and Pringles party was cut short this year. We all decided to go home and reconnect with our loved ones, as we had not seen them for four weeks.

There’s a silent stare that we exchange. A knowing look that says: “I understand what you’ve been through.”

When we came back this week it was much the same. Customers were holding on for twenty minutes yesterday to complain that their miniature sprinkler for bonsais was bunging up, or that their Singing Ringing Tree had forgotten its words.

Ah well. Happy New Year everyone and normal blogging service will be resumed on Tuesday. 2005 promises to be full of changes.

2004-12-21T18:54:00.000Z

Christmas Puppies

It was the team Christmas do on Friday. I never enjoy it. Somebody always corners me for a ‘career chat’ and ends up crying in my stella. It was quite good this year as everyone got leathered early doors, during the meal, and cut out the banter.

I love Barney (The Big Gay Bear) when he’s had a drink. He cranks up the campness to such a degree that he can wave his left hand, waft a fag in his right, while wobbling his head and bobbing excitedly in his chair - all at the same time! “I need to unfasten my pants, I’m bustin’ out. I’ve been gobblin’ nuts all day.”

Tizzy was almost wearing an 'Obi Wan Dress' - ("Feel the force - LOOK). Every muscle around my eyeballs was straining to maintain a ‘horizontal hold’ to save embarrassment.

“Look at those love. You could feed a crèche,” Barney said. “You could cure me with those!”

Someone got me a ‘Best Boss In The World’ mug in the secret Santa.

Someone was taking the piss.

2004-12-20T13:15:00.000Z

Ho Ho Bloody Ho

I know, I know – sorry and all that – but I’ve been busy. Santa’s turned his back on Bangalore and outsourced his work to us in Bolton.

My headset has been out of the velvet-lined box and its muff welded to my ear throughout December. The wallboards have been jingling constantly as the ‘on hold’ Christmas music warped with overuse.

John Three has not had time to breathe, never mind moan, and the inquest about missing stationery has been ‘parked’ (whatever that means) until the tidal wave of customers that crash against our heads ceases.

It must have been bad as Quandix were taken off ‘Hygiene Bin detail’ and redeployed to take inbound calls for The Catalogue That Cannot Be Named (for keeping my job reasons).

I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you, but here are the top 5 gifts for this holiday season:

(1) ‘Ever Hard’ a space age biscuit tin that means your bourbons will never be limp. It’s like Viagra for Rich Tea.

(2) ‘Disco Pen’ re-live Saturday Night Fever next time you write a cheque. Flashes red, yellow, pink and blue – not suitable for people with photo-sensitivity or taste.

(3) Nuts of the World Luxury Hamper – a hamper filled with nuts. Unlike every other hamper in the world, there’s no sign of a ‘pie in a tin’, you’ll need to purchase it separately. May contain nuts.

(4) Singing Ringing Tree – knows over a hundred Christmas tunes, some of them made up, could replace Cliff Richard when he croaks.

(5) Wrapstar’s Lever Arch Files – while stocks last!

2004-12-07T01:01:00.000Z

too busy to blog - see you in a week - write in for a refund.

2004-11-30T19:36:00.000Z

A Brief History of Call Centres

Part One: Banishing the Back Office.

A combination of economics and technology has created call centres. The desire to get more for less created the need for companies to centralise; therefore taking their operation out of city centres and into the outskirts, in a bid to transform the country into a car park.

It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, using technology as an excuse, that has driven the rise of call centres. It’s a logic that says “We need more call centres because our customers want to contact us by telephone” while customers are saying “I need to contact people by telephone, because I don’t have a choice, they’ve moved everything into a call centre.”

Management have been determined to banish ‘back office’ work. The ‘back office’ conjures images of gnarled old men punching holes in strips of paper while Bob Cratchet chucks another log on the fire. Back offices were filled with people who used to ‘do stuff’ and they have been replaced by computers that ‘don’t do stuff’. It was a necessary to make companies profitable.

A hundred people were once employed, on four pounds an hour, to 'do stuff'. Instead, we have Management consultants who are paid four hundred pounds an hour to work out why nothing gets done.

Progress.

2004-11-29T21:49:00.000Z

The Important Room

Mary had booked the Important Room that we are never allowed to go in, for the meeting about stationery. I was ready to be publicly exposed as the main culprit for the rising costs in the office. I rehearsed my leaving speech in preparation: “I may be going – but at least I discovered what gridding tape is – how many people can say that?”

The Important Room has a long, narrow table down the centre; like a decorating-paste table, and a big plant in the corner. Brenda loves the table because you can’t help but sit really, really close and breathe on the person opposite. “What’s this? A ‘stare-out’ competition.” Martin said as he sat down.

I laughed (with nerves), but everyone else was far too serious.

Everyone in the meeting was clutching a cup with a cardboard jacket from the Death Wagon. Every time Brenda crossed her legs, she kicked me hard in the shin.

Mary led the meeting and after an hour, six sheets of flip chart paper, six different coloured markers, some blue tac and ten copies of a 10 page report, we came up with a cost saving strategy:

“We pledge to use less stationery.”

It’s a simple but effective strategy I feel.

2004-11-25T19:33:00.000Z

Ouch

I caught my finger in a lever arch file today. It was the shock of being invited to a meeting to discuss ‘stationery consumption’ headed by Mary. It really hurt. Maybe it’s an omen.

I bought a latte from the Death Wagon - two quid! - for a cup of foam that inflated in my stomach. I was farting away all afternoon like a singing ringing tree.

You should hear my ‘Away in A Manager’.

2004-11-23T23:43:00.000Z

Skinny Latte – to go!

Mary has pointed out that people have been turning in late over the past week. I opened up my in-box to find a stinging memo from Ian complaining about my team’s log on time. Every member of the team has been late every single day for the past three weeks.

Part of the problem has been Mary’s visit and John Three’s scowling, but the real reason is that my watch is on British Summer Time. Call it wishful thinking; call it ‘positive self-talk’; better still, call it laziness - but I haven’t put my watch back in an attempt to avoid winter.

A few pertinent questions here and there and everywhere and … et voila – Bob’s your Auntie’s live-in-lover - my investigations revealed the cause of the tardy behaviour.

It seems that the Death Wagon, parked outside of the Call Centre, is not content with clogging up arteries with fried egg, bacon, steak and mushrooms. It’s gone ‘up market’ and bought a barista. The sound of slamming that accompanies modern coffee making rings through the converted trailer while my team wait for the next fix.

My team are wired on caffine from a gleaming machine… (get Bowie on the line – I have a new lyric.)

2004-11-22T21:30:00.000Z

Shot in the Dark

John Three’s gripes and groans are still fresh in my mind. Wendy from HR has suggested that I ‘document’ the discussion for future reference.

I’ve considered what he said and can see his point. It’s a pain in the arse working in the Call Centre. I watched a neo-investigative journalist on one of those pre-Eastenders fill-ill documentaries that the BBC is churning out - “Should I be worried about … the bleedin’ obvious?” or something like that. The journo went undercover in a call centre and measured his ‘stress levels’ as he took calls. He was standing in line for a triple by-pass after twenty minutes. He said that it was ‘the fear of the unknown’ and ‘not knowing what query was coming up next’ that sent his heart rate a flutter.

If it’s true that call centres are not for people with a nervous disposition, how come they employ so many people who get stressed at the slightest thing?

Tizzy has the constant jitters and apparently told one of the Quandix temps that working at the Call Centre was like “playing Russian Roulette – you never know if the next call is your last.”

I may suggest a new ad campaign for recruitment: “Call Centre work – at last – a game of Russian Roulette that won’t cure dandruff”

2004-11-18T22:28:00.000Z

Bull by the Horns

I’ve decided to tackle John Three and his Moomin memoirs in a pre-emptive strike, before Mary hits me with a 40 page report. I decided to take him on and find out, once and for all, what’s bothering him.

I wish I hadn’t bothered.

“The innovation station hasn’t been up dated for months. There are not enough pens, there’s too many files and flip chart paper, but we can’t write. John’s had to use the same piece of paper for the past 4 years …”

“It’s his choice to use the same piece of paper.” I interjected.

“It’s ridiculous. There’s too much noise in the office and the customers are stupid and don’t know what they’re doing. The toilets are never clean. I’m not enjoying my job and no one seems to care.”

I knotted my eyebrows in concern.

“Trouble is,” he continued, snarling now, “If you say anything you are branded as ‘negative’”

Whatever gave him that impression?

2004-11-17T10:02:00.000Z

Giving Mary the Finger

Mary has been sat with the team. The last time she was here she said that we were “not specific enough about the degree of imitation-ness of the imitation beech effect cd cases”.

She has been hovering over to the Quandix team too, who have been wooing her with their charm and cheap sweets. The chuckle brothers, Mr Outspan and Johnny Knucklehead, have managed to persuade her of the rationale of having a hygiene bin in the middle of the office.

John Three gave her the curly finger – the international symbol for ‘I have something to tell you’ – and she conspiratorially slid over to his desk. She spent half an hour reading through his book.

We are doomed.

2004-11-16T19:06:00.000Z

It’s going … It’s going … Done for!

“Will we be observing a two minutes silence for him?” Joan asked with her eyebrows knotted in concern.

Bolton has come to a stand still as it buries its ‘favourite son’ Fred Dibnah. It’s not the first time he’s brought the town to gridlock – his bleedin’ traction engine made sure of that – but this time it is for his funeral procession. Shops have closed. People have lined the streets.

Not a bad showing for someone who knocked down chimneys for a living. He was Britain’s first ever ‘reality tv’ star, a pro-type Jade Goody if you will, and was probably the first and last time you’ll ever see the words ‘celebrity’ and ‘steeplejack’ put together.

At school, I was doing Fred impressions while everyone else was still doing Frank Spenser – I still get requests. Although we never met, I like to think I had an impact on his life as I once bumped into his wife Alison at the library. She was looking puzzled so I helped her to find the ‘feminist sociology’ section. Weeks later she divorced him saying he was an out-moded chauvinist who was living in the past. Who knows, if I’d shown her to the ‘canals and waterways’ section, the course of history may have been changed.

Life goes on. “Get back on the phones Joan.”

She tried the same last week for Arafat.

2004-11-15T21:58:00.000Z

Baubling On

If you “press 1” for the Christmas catalogue, you are fast-forwarded to one of Martin’s team.

Martin and his ‘Youth Camp’ – sorry – ‘Team’ have put up decorations and flashing fairy lights around a ‘Team Score Board’ to get them in the mood.

HONK! Honk! HONK! Honk! Brenda was sat with Martin as they listened to a call together. Apparently a customer was complaining about a ‘Singing, Ringing Christmas Tree’ that was fluffing its lines and she played it down the phone to the adviser.

All the managers crowded around Martin’s desk to hear the tree sing: “Fart. The feral angels sing …”

You should hear its Frosty the Snowman.

2004-11-12T09:18:00.000Z

English Language … the ultimate sacrifice

Another day. Another meeting.

Mary has summoned the managers together to deliver a presentation entitled “Mail Order and Distance Marketing Regulatory Requirements: New Initiatives for a New Millennium.”

Who could resist such a catchy title?

I could tell it was an important meeting because Bernard had ordered biscuits. He was snatching at them at intervals.

She took us through a whistle stop tour of a power point presentation and summed it up by saying, ”In short, I am adopting a holistic approach to the business synergies to ensure global, joined-up-thinking across the piece.”

We paused for two minutes silence …

2004-11-10T10:03:00.000Z

Bin and Gone

Mary has descended. She is doing an audit on the office. There’re new regulations that she wants to impose and no doubt she’ll want to commit further crimes against the English language.

“What on earth is that doing in the middle of an office?” She pointed to a ‘Hygiene Bin for Sanitary Products’ that the Quandix team were selling to pubs and clubs up and down the country.

I explained to Mary, “It helps them focus apparently. We have a gnome as our mascot.”

I held up the gnome with blue-tac where its eyes once where.

She wasn’t looking. She wouldn’t take her eyes off the bin.

Perhaps I should hide the files in it?

2004-11-09T19:45:00.000Z

Mass Debate

I was in a meeting with Brenda, Martin, Ian and Janice today. Martin was humming “Spring Time for Hitler” as he sipped on a steaming cup of Bovril.

“Yep. Yep. Yep.” Ian was stroking his Yoda (circa Attack of the Clones) tie as he made yet another point of objection.

Janice, her eyes now so big she’s wearing goldfish bowls for contacts, was shifting her support from Ian to Martin.

Martin drained his ‘Best Boss in The World’ cup of its beefy liquid and started to get passionate, slamming the table, pointing furiously.

Janice moved to his side nodding, tight-lipped. Brenda interjected, urging compromise, her hands diplomatically trying to draw them together.

The smell of tuna and onion from Brenda mixed with Bovril was making me feel queasy and I was uncomfortable with the tension in the room when attention turned to me. They wanted me to have the casting decision, I said “Look. Does it really matter where we go on our Christmas do?”

2004-11-08T21:50:00.000Z

Box Room

To be honest, I’ve not really been able to take Brenda seriously since I saw her flossing her fanny with a feather boa on a works night out. She was going to be my coach and give me support, but she’s given up the ghost.

Like all the others, she is aware that the tectonic plates are moving and changes are about to take place and she wants to make sure she is not left behind. She has started to wear glasses and inspect the office every morning ticking a list on her clipboard.

“Why is there a cardboard box under every desk in your area?” She asked while peering above her glasses and breathing tuna and onion directly up my nostril.

I muttered and stumbled as I thought of an excuse. “I’ve recently conducted a work station review and discovered that my team needed foot rests. I thought that I’d save money by improvising.”

“Well done. Good idea. We need to do something. The stationery budget has doubled over the past month. Bernard has called in Mary to investigate.” She said (I think there may have been mayonnaise on her tuna and onion sandwich too.)

100 lever arch files – I must ask Thrush how e-bay works.

2004-11-04T18:53:00.000Z

Karma Police – arrest this man

John Three, or Moomin Papa, exudes ‘bad vibes’. I don’t know what is wrong with him, but he’s been ‘on one’ for months now. I suppose I could ask him what’s the matter, but he might tell me and if he tells me, I’ll have to do something about it and I can’t be arsed. It’s not a management approach I’d advocate for everyone, but it works for me.

His glumness is spreading to the customers too.

I had to get my headset out of its velvet-lined box to actually speak to customer.

He was a screamer. He was so loud my headset muff rattled. He may have been schooled in my master-class, using a combination of aggression and tenacity, and had managed to see off three different levels of operators, however he had made a fundamental flaw: he’d phoned the wrong number.

He was complaining about the rising price of his electricity bill and try as I might I could not convince him that I couldn’t help him.

“I want compensation!” he screamed in a bizarre west-country accent. I wasn’t sure whether or not it was a wind up and I was being broadcast across Devon by an afternoon show on Cream Tea FM so I was cautious at first explaining that he would have to make a case for compensation. “I’ve been on this call for twenty minutes. My time is money.”

He’d spent twenty minutes asking for compensation so I could hardly compensate him for not getting compensation.

He insisted on speaking to the ‘organ-grinder’ and not the monkey. Bernard (busily grinding organs in his office) agreed to send fifty quid to the guy to avoid messing up his hair with a headset.

John Three seemed to make a careful note of the incident.

2004-11-03T09:58:00.000Z

Tic Tac Toe

When I returned from holiday, my desk was covered with boxes and boxes of stationery. In my bid to blow the budget I’d got carried away and ordered 10 packs of 10 Lever Arch Files rather than the 10 files I needed. I’ve missed the deadline for making a return so I now have a hundred files and nowhere to put them.

I’m beginning to suspect that my plan to dominate the Call Centre with my innovative use of stationery is beginning to fray at the edges. The white board that was painstakingly gridded with tape to display the team sales is now used for noughts and crosses competition.

“Do you think the republicans will win the election or will Kerry snatch it at the last minute?” John Doe asked as he put an X in the grid.

Barney, the Big Gay Bear, replied “Bush or snatch? Not much of a choice if you ask me.”

2004-11-02T13:22:00.000Z

GBH

Word on the street is that John Three, aka Moomin Papa, has a beef with the Call Centre.

He's been silently fuming for weeks. I knew there was something wrong when he refused the Hear'say album he had won during the SELLATHON. "What use is that to me? I don't even have a gramaphone."

"What's a gramaphone sir?" Simon, the Craig David looky-likey, rescued me from the confrontation. The team went on to brainstorm redundant names for electrical products: Hifi, wireless, radiogram, Sinclair Spectrum etc.

Apparently John Three has saved the incident in a book that he aims to use to bring down the Call Centre. Who would think that Kym Marsh could cause such unrest?

2004-11-01T23:19:00.000Z

Bouncing Check

Thanks for the comments while I was away; it’s pleasing that you don’t begrudge me a well-earned break.

I went to Prague, a beautiful city that has escaped the grip of an oppressive regime. Interestingly, and ironically, the museum of Communism is located next to a McDonalds, inside a casino. It tells the story of how enemies were vilified by relentless propaganda and of people forced to work in factories while they were under constant surveillance.

I switched on the call monitoring software and thanked goodness that there was no turning back.

2004-10-22T10:22:00.000Z

Thank you for calling. You're through to Judith Chalmers. I'm on holiday again and will be back on 1st November. Alternatively leave a message after the tone. Goodbye.

2004-10-20T10:08:00.000Z

Doing Lines

The gridding tape arrived. It’s not much good for wrapping Christmas presents so don’t bother putting an order in. It’s designed for drawing lines on white boards.

I asked John Doe to draw a table on our flip chart board so we could mark up the sales on the team. Big mistake.

“What are you doing?” I asked, “Its not the bleedin’ Sistine chapel!”

He was working with a protractor and a setsquare trying to get the lines dead straight. “I can’t believe it. It’s like a dogs’ back leg!”

It was about a millimetre adrift. Before I could say anything he pulled it off the board. He was caught up in a lattice of gridding tape like Spiderman had webbed him.

I can feel my ‘giving it up as a bad job’ senses tingling.

2004-10-15T08:22:00.000Z

Pen is from Heaven

The little sticks of Stabilo heaven have arrived! (they are actually 'Niceday' copies)

The first stage of my bid for world domination starts today. Watch out Poland here I come.

I've tested them and they work perfectly, apart from the red. Red? Red. Who thought red was going to be a good idea? A black one is as much use as a red one as it obliterates anything it highlights.

I've ordered some 'gridding tape': not sure what it is, but it sounds useful.

Outspan, the Quandix sun-bed king was impressed, "What a nice shade of orange."

I can see a request going into 'Tantastic' this weekend: "Turn it up to 11 love. I'm going NICEDAY!"

2004-10-13T08:58:00.000Z

Sadam’s Stock Clearance

‘The Catalogue That Cannot Be Named’ (for keeping my job reasons) has launched its ‘All New’ Autumn Catalogue.

‘The Weapon of Dirt Extraction’ caught my eye, but it turned out to be a power-washer.

It’s pleasing that they are continuing their bid for papal beatification by extending their ‘miracle’ product range. There’s a ‘miracle’ ‘No Nails Coat Hook’ but still no sign of a cure for leprosy. Perhaps they are waiting for spring.

Estimated time of arrival for the highligher pens: two days

2004-10-11T22:17:00.000Z

Muck and Bullets

The turf war between the Team Managers has transformed the Call Centre into ‘Bedlam, with florescent lighting’.

In one corner there’s Martin (the modern day Robert Owen) whose team is a cooperative based on selling, hard work and self enforced fun. They are almost entirely self-sufficient and peer down their noses at everyone else.

Janice has new contact lenses that make her more severe than ever before. Her team of drones plug themselves into the consensual reality as soon as they walk through the door and don’t twitch until they leave. It’s not so much ‘The Matrix’ than ‘The Mattress’. The only sound is Bess sucking on her teeth.

Ian has a team of temps who are working on … I’m not really sure what they do, apart from wear cropped tops and leggings. Ian strokes his tie and whispers “ding dong” as they reveal their tiny tattoos.

Meanwhile, the nkotb, Quandix, the team who were in-sourced to work on the new outsourced campaign (taking orders for sanitary bins), run their team like they’re galley slaves. I get tired watching them. Johnny Knucklehead wanders through the team and waves his arms at Outspan like the bastard child of John Mcerrick and John McVicar, on speed, while Outspan puts down the scores on a flip chart.

In all the excitement I put in an order for highlighter pens from stationery. I've got some big ideas.

2004-10-07T07:47:00.000Z

In saucing

"I hear that the Iraq survey group have come back with nothing more than 'wall ties' and 'check the damp proofing'" I said to Ian, feeling pleased with myself; he wasn't listening.

"What on Earth are they doing now?" he said as he furiously stroked his 'Star Trek, The Next Generation' tie while he watched the 'insourced' Team Managers at work.

Outspan and Johnny Knucklehead were pinning florescent, positive affirmations on the wall:

"Imagination makes the world go round"

"Any idiot can paint a picture, it takes a genius to sell it"

"If you don't change, you'll become extinct"

"Don't leave dirty cups on the desk"

Ian shook his head, "I don't even get the last one."

2004-10-06T21:31:00.000Z

Hockey Cockey

Bernard attempted to explain what in-sourcing was in today’s meeting:

“We’re an OUTsourcing company. Work comes OUT to us, but we can’t get enough people IN, so we have to go OUT and get IN staff through other sources.

I don’t want it to get OUT that we’re getting these people IN – how can you outsource outsourcing – so keep it amongst yourselves errrrrrrrrmmmmm!

They’ll be IN the office while we work OUT how many people we need IN. Then they’ll be OUT.”

Fair enough – but it isn’t cricket.

2004-10-04T22:38:00.000Z

Source of the Bile

Things aren’t the same in the Call Centre. I think it was that great man of English letters, John Prescott, who said that when the tectonic plates start to shift, everyone moves into their position.

Steadily, over the past few months, Bernard has been moulding the office into his own image, and his vision of a pre-cog Call Centre that’s dynamic, proactive and all those other things he reams off at away days, is slowly coming to pass and everyone is running for cover.

Ian and Brenda used to rule the roost around here but the introduction of Martin and his innovations: “in my last place we used to…. (Fill in the blank)” has knocked them off top spot. I’m sure that Bernard thinks he jogs across the river to work.

I’m sure that he’s has made up the concept of ‘insourcing’ to cover his tracks. We have exhausted the local job market and to avoid recycling the dregs of unemployed, Bernard has contacted Quandix to ‘insource’ staff.

It’s not clear how they manage to get the people that the Call Centre cannot reach, but it appears that they are willing to wallow deeper in the local gene pool for their staff than our lot will go.

Heads turned when their crew shuffled in behind Outspan and Johnny Knucklehead. It was as if a chain linked them as they snaked through the cubicles, gorping at my team, while they sneered back.

There’s been a turf war breaking out over the past week so I’ve been keeping my head down. It’s the most dramatic event since SMAGELL and her legion of undead started hot-desking with my team in the evening.

I’ve put a label on my calculator … just in case.

2004-10-03T17:15:00.000Z

I’d rather jack …

On Friday, I went on my first ‘corporate’ since I was invited to the Tantazia ‘Stu Francis’ night last year. Quandix have a hospitality box at the MEN Arena and they gave Bernard a number of tickets to see the boxing and all the prawn sandwiches we could eat.

Ricky ‘The Hitman’ Hatton was fighting another schmuck to defend his title and earn Frank Warren another condo in the South of France.

He should not be confused with Pete ‘The Hitman’ Waterman – although I’d pay good money to see HIM getting a good pummelling – “this is for not letting Kylie ‘explore her creativity as an artist” BIFF “This is for the Reynolds Girls” PUNCH “This one is from Cheryl Tweedy.” KO!

My team looked unhappy as I packed up early to get there. They begrudge me leaving earlier than them and the hard stares made me uncomfortable.

John ‘the Moomin’ was silently fuming. Smoke was rising from the foam of his headset muff.

I explained that I would still be ‘on duty’ but it didn’t wash. A debate broke out about the ethics of boxing.

Barney, the Big Gay Bear, cut it dead by chipping in: “Well I think there’s nothing wrong with consenting adults having a good licking in the ring.”

2004-09-27T20:49:00.000Z

"Thank you for calling. Lines are closed. Please call back on Monday 4th October. Alternatively you can leave a message after the tone ..."

2004-09-21T21:36:00.000Z

“I’m the daddy now!”

“Who sent in the bouncers?” Janice looked furious.

She pointed to two guys in suits. One of them was outspan orange with a shoe-polish black hair scraped back, while the other was bald and wore a black turtle neck with a thick gold neck-chain. They were eying the cubical desks up and down and nodding to each other in encouragement.

Bernard ushered them into his office before looking around guiltily.

Janice had that eye-popping look she gets when she is in fear of being passed over promotion or spends too long sniffing dry-wipe pens. “Who are they? And what are they up to?”

Ian said, “They are Quandix.”

I thought it was some term of abuse he’d picked up from his holiday in Greece and smiled knowingly.

“They are team managers for a couple of new teams that Bernard is ‘insourcing’ for a future campaign.” Ian said, pulling on his ‘Attack of the Clones’ tie.

The two hoods looked through the window of Bernard’s office as Bernard pointed towards us …

The Krays have moved in on my manor!

2004-09-18T12:03:00.000Z

Antique Romans

Thank you for participating in Call Centre Confidential’s first two modules of my master-class in how to deal with Call Centres.

A regular reader of CCC has complained that there has been too much negativity, too much ‘black hat’ thinking, and I have turned my blog into a den of grieves.

The usual stuff is back next week and it has been quite eventful recently… let me speak to the yet unknowing world... So shall you hear of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, of accidental judgements, casual slaughters, of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause, and, in the upshot, purposes mistook fall on the inventors’ head: all this I can truly deliver.

All this and toilet gags!

2004-09-16T20:04:00.000Z

Selling - The Love that dare not speak its name …

Module Two: Part Three in my master-class in how to deal with Call Centres

As I think I’ve said before, common turns of phrase circulate call centres quite quickly. There’s no real training. These phrases are not taught. They come into being through years of evolution in a great chain, preserved for future generations on laminated sheets of paper.

I honestly believe that a phrase like ‘bear with me’ originated in a call centre 10 years ago and it has passed around the country like chlamydia on a Club 18-30 holiday.

Why else would any one else need to say ‘bear with me’? (Unless you were a chubby chaser caught in a cottage in Camden, as in “I’ve got a bear with me officer.”) I hear someone say it a thousand times a day.

Those verbal tics are okay compared the weasal words and double speak invented in Call Centres to cope with things that we don’t like to say. It’s enough to warm the cockles of Peter Mandleson’s heart (we’re back in Camden again) when you consider the spin that Call Centre’s create in order to avoid saying that we sell things.

To help you, here are some favourites:

“We have demonstrations in your area …”

What they really mean “You’re the next in the phone book”

“Some time ago you requested some information …”

What they really mean “You’re the next in the phone book.”

“I’ve been reviewing your account.”

What they really mean “You’re the next in the phone book. Please ‘bear with me’ while I fumble around trying to work out why I’m calling.”

“This is a Courtesy Call”

What they really mean “I’m about to sell you something.”

“I have some information for you”

What they really mean “I’m about to sell you something”

“I’m about to sell you something”

What they really mean “I’m new here and do not know how to lie yet.”

2004-09-15T07:59:00.000Z

Wrapstar says “NO”

Module 2. Part Two in my masterclass in how to deal with Call Centres

We all yearn for that golden age when you could ask for the time without having to listen to someone flogging you a watch. We all want to turn back the sands of time when we could order a pizza without being offered a slice of bread with garlic on it. We want to buy a holiday without being sold a policy that we’ll probably never be able to claim on any way. And we want to watch Bargain Hunt without the fear of interruption.

I remember when all this was fields etc. etc.

The fact is – we don’t want to be ‘sold to’ and the people selling don’t want to sell to us in the first place. There’s only 2% of the world’s population who are willing to be mithered into buying something they didn’t want, but trouble is; they’re letting the rest of us down, because until the revolution, we will be mithered into submission.

Like nuclear weapons and Kendal mint cake, sales have been invented and can’t be uninvented so we need to learn to live with them. At the risk of sounding like Zammo or, worse still, Nancy Reagan, it’s time to “just say no.”

Call Centre agents are armed to the teeth with ‘objection handling’ techniques that have been finely honed over centuries and are so effective they could turn the undead. Every time someone refuses their advances, they consult a laminated matrix in front of them, and come back with some tried and tested reply: “May I ask why you are not interested in saving money?”

These choice phrases are seldom delivered with any conviction; nevertheless they can befuddle and confuse the unsuspecting punter.

There’s a sure-fire manner of dealing with unwanted telesales calls. It works and comes free with this master-class. Until the next lesson, I want you to practice the following approach in front of a mirror:

1) Listen politely and wait for a pause …
2) Say politely: “Thanks for telling me about that (name). It sounds really good. Goodbye.”
3) Put down the phone.
4) Continue watching Bargain Hunt

The adviser will be so confused (“were they interested or not?”) that they will make sure you are never called again.

2004-09-13T20:34:00.000Z

For Whom the Whistle Blows

Module Two: Part One in my masterclass in how to deal with Call Centres

Every time you pick up a phone to a Call Centre you become ‘an opportunity’.

Isn’t that a beautiful thing?

By merely talking into a plastic handset you suddenly become fecund with potential.

No – I know it isn’t convincing – but Call Centres all over the world are attempting to convince their staff to treat people in this manner… and failing miserably.

Have some sympathy for people working in Call Centres, most of them would rather stick pins in their feet than sell anything to anyone. Most have applied for this work because they thought it was something to do with ‘customer service’. Somewhere on their role statement, between donating their organs to medical science and an obligation to conduct a tour of duty in Afghanistan, there’s a sentence that briefly mentions that they may need to do some selling.

Either they have been fooled into it, or they have been redeployed from a back office function that disappeared when the operation was centralised years ago and they haven’t had the energy to escape.

There is no escape, because everything from a cashier to a dishwasher is expected to up-sell or tag a sale on to every interaction. You may think that they are raking in commission, but they are more than likely trying to fund a Hasbro Fun Bag habit and there is a promise of a fizzy cola bottle hit if they sell something.

2004-09-12T15:28:00.000Z

The Hardest Word to Say

Conclusion of Module One of how to deal with Call Centres

Students, in short, when making a complaint to a Call Centre: polite tenacity always wins.

Remember - life's short - take it easy - there's probably a policy of submission at some point and it's better to get there calmly rather than blowing a gasket.

Here is some help decoding some of that Call Centre double speak:

"I can only apologise ..."

What they really mean is : "I'm getting bored of you now and will repeat this over and over and over until you give in."

"You'll need to write in."*

What they really mean is: "I can't be arsed sorting out your problem"

You'll never actually get a response to your letter because the correspondence department will think, 'it's better to deal with these matters on the phone' and they'll probably send you a letter asking you to ring in again.

*This will usually be followed by "If you get a pen I'll give you the address." Because it sounds helpful.

"I'm sorry you feel like ..."

Well done. You have reached a black-belt numpty. This is the art of Call Centre jujitsu. A compliant art, where the operator uses the customer's strength against them - it appears that they are apologising, but in fact they are not admitting to anything, merely acknowledging that you are pissed off.

Remember, these master-classes are not available in the shops, and are exclusive to Call Centre Confidential. Coming Next: Module Two: Sales, selling and saying "sod off".

2004-09-09T19:40:00.000Z

Numptys of the world Unite!

Part Three in my master class in how to deal with Call Centres

When making a serious complaint you need to keep going … and I mean REALLY serious (how angry can you get over a trouser press – come on – it ain’t that bad) - keep going until you coax a senior manager out of his hermetically sealed office.

It is quite tough and it requires a significant degree of patience and you need to feel that your complaint is significant enough.

To use a rather fishy analogy: Call Centres are like drag nets – if your query is not picked up, then who cares? There’s always another customer waiting. If you behave like a herring, then you’ll be treated like one. On the other hand, if you see your complaint like a majestic whale that is worthy of a massive harpoon, then you’ll need to make sure that someone is worthy of wielding the weapon.

Unfortunately, you’ll need to make do with Captain Birdseye rather than Quint from Jaws.

Behind the scenes, the Call Centre will be thrown into a tizz. Panic alarms will be pressed and a huddle of Team Managers will be drawing straws to determine who will tell the Office Manager that they need to speak to a customer.

He will draw a diagram on a sheet of A4 to get a ‘pen portrait’ of the situation and come up with some glib response and send one of the Team Managers on the phone to say, “I’ve just caught him on his way to a meeting, he’s agreed to the following …”

If you are still not satisfied… keep going.

Eventually he’ll speak to you with the telephone technique of Ozzy Osbourne playing Wembly without a microphone, or else will sound like he’s speaking through a heavily togged pillow. Half way through the conversation he will press the wrong button and cut you off.

When/ if he phones back, start asking for HIS manager. In the words of Mr White in Reservoir Dogs, “… after that he’ll tell you if he wears ladies underwear.”

2004-09-08T15:18:00.000Z

I've Told You Once

Part Two in my master class in how to deal with Call Centres

If you are getting nowhere with the numpty who answered the call, you are probably tempted to ask for “someone in charge”. It’s the same impulse that encourages people to support hanging, there’s a sense of retribution if you are bending the ear of someone who you think matters.

The trouble is, the numpty who answered the call is not trained sufficiently to deal with your query, but they have mastery of deflecting complaints that are about to go higher. Like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven, the killer instinct suddenly kicks in and there is no way that you are going to speak to their boss.

Stick to your guns. When they say, “Well, I am a customer/account manager, I can deal with your query,” don’t give in; they are stretching their job title to its limit.

Keep going. Ask for a manager.

“Well, they are only going to say the same thing, he is in a meeting at the moment, can you call back later.”

Keep going. Ask for a manager.

Tip: Under no circumstances should you say at this point: “Don’t worry duck. I haven’t got any complaint about you, I want to speak to someone in charge to let them know how angry I am.” It’s a sign of weakness. Another numpty will be briefed ready to take your call. “Hello, I am the most senior member of staff available at the moment …”

This almost certainly means, “I am the most senior person available within the nearest 5 foot radius of where I am sitting.”

Keep going …

2004-09-07T18:14:00.000Z

“Is this the right room for an argument?”

Part One in my master class in how to deal with Call Centres …

“I wish to register a complaint…” thus begins the Dead Parrot Sketch, a cornerstone of British comedy, and the staple part of the repertoire of every pub bore in the country, and not without reason, for the British are notoriously crap at complaining. This is compounded by the fact that customer service workers are crap at dealing with complaining customers.

Cultural commentators tend to put this down to innate British politeness, however they are missing the point: when did complaining and ‘not being polite’ become mutually exclusive? The British are poor at complaining because they feel the need to be nasty and people working in customer service respond in kind.

Politeness disarms even the most ruthless Call Centre worker. It may seem obvious, but I speak to 100’s of people a month who think that being a complete and utter twat is the best means of achieving success in getting a refund on that ‘jumper de-fluffer’ that was bought on impulse.

They’re wrong and I have the scalps to prove it …

2004-09-06T20:45:00.000Z

I am a mole and I've been in a hole ...

I’ve been getting complaints. I’m sorry that I have been an unreliable blogger over the past few weeks. Zoe makes the point that Call Centres are dull places to work, and she’s right, over the past few weeks I have been too caught up with the day-to-day dullness to notice anything. Perhaps I have said all there is to say.

Besides there’s a whole plethora of blogs based at work out there:

Natural Born Liars at an ad agency, a Morrison’s employee, a teacher, a NHS workerand another set in a Fast Food place.

They all manage to end their posts with a pithy comment.

I must try it some time.

Reading these blogs made me realise that I am a whistle blower. I’m like Russell Crowe in The Insider, but without the unconvincing grey wig, letting the outside world realise what goes on beyond the receiver. I hadn’t realised my special powers and the potential to provide a service for people.

The Call Centre industry has been like The Magic Circle for too long, keeping its secrets from its customers. For the next few days I’m going to be like Ali Bongo after taking a truth drug, although I expect the first thing he would say after taking a truth drug is “My name is not really Mr Bongo.”

- insert your own pithy comment here -

2004-08-31T15:36:00.000Z

Bank Holiday Blues

New research by the Investors In People says that people don't like going back to work after their holidays. I know. It's remarkable isn't it.

Here's looking forward to the outcome of their "Where to bears go for a shit?" research.

Apparently, bosses should make an effort to say "Welcome Back" as 44% said that it would make a difference.

Some of my team came back today looking tanned and disillusioned after their Summer break.

I nearly welcomed them back, but given that there's less than half a chance that they'd give a toss, I couldn't be arsed.

2004-08-26T22:19:00.000Z

P-p-p-p-lastic!

The Ron Tikki Man was on full volume today, giving me grief about the inordinate laminate use in the office. Apparently the Bolton office uses as many laminates as the rest of the sites put together.

He muttered, mumbled and stumbled over dire warnings about the landfill time bomb and my responsibilities to future generations, “do you realise that the plastic will last for a 100 years, while paper will rot in a year.”

It’s a sobering thought when you consider that our office is to leave a legacy of pointless signs for our descendents. There are splendid laminated examples of Word Art on every wall:

“Leaving this door open causes a draft and is a Heath and Safety issue that may lead to dismissal.”

“Please leave this photocopier tidy – your mother doesn’t work here”*

“Please flush and brush before you rush.”

And of course there is my wipe-clean Dannii Minogue collection. I’m sure that the people of the future will forgive me.

* John Doe’s mother actually does work here (in accounts). I suspect he ignores this message.

2004-08-25T22:12:00.000Z

It’s not easy being green

I’ve been busy this week. The Ron Tikki Man has been on a visit from Birmingham. He’s the ecology representative and he’s been sat with my team wearing a little ethnic hat and smelling of essential oils.

He’s given me a ticking off about the rate the office goes through plastic cups. He pointed to Martin’s “The Best Boss in The World” cup, complete with its layer of grime.

“That’s more like it. You should all have one of those.” He said.

“I think you’ll find that if we all had one it wouldn’t be grammatically accurate and “the Better Boss in The World” doesn’t have the same ring.” I replied.

Being green brings out the worst in me.

2004-08-19T22:47:00.000Z

Venus the Fly Trap

Simon, the Craig David looky likey, spent the morning flicking rice crispies into the fly zapper.

It kept him amused between calls for hours until he started to get over confident and used an elastic band and a paperclip.

A misfire hit Bess from Janice’s team square on the arse.

It caused a diplomatic incident that rumbled on all afternoon.

I don’t think I helped matters by saying “I think the lady doth protest too much.”

There are times when Hamlet doesn’t help matters.

2004-08-18T22:27:00.000Z

Can Can

When I tentatively presented the SELL-A-THON to my team they were uncharacteristically enthusiastic about the idea.

Unfortunately, they misheard what I said; they thought we were having a STELLA-THON and launched in to an impressive flurry of sales expecting to be furnished with lager.

Simon, the Craig David looky-likey, was enraged as I handed over a mars bar for his efforts.

“Reassuringly inexpensive…” I added.

2004-08-17T09:15:00.000Z

The Prize is Right

Bernard is opening his cupboard this week to fund Martin’s SELL-A-THON with prizes.

Martin has calculated that we can boost our sales by tempting the staff with various goodies. Bernard is excited at the prospect and he has transformed his office into a cornucopia of sales incentives.

Martin looked disappointed at what was on offer. Bernard’s cupboard has not been open for quite a while, nevertheless, I expect sales to soar when they find out what they could win:

First Prize – Hear’say (Popstars) CD – Their first (and best) album.

Second Prize – A Dairy Milk Easter Egg.

Third Prize – “As many Refresher chew bars as you can carry”

It’s a winning formula.

2004-08-16T21:55:00.000Z

Now I could drink Hot Blood

I watched Hamlet at Strafford over the weekend. I don’t know why I’m drawn to a drama about an overly introspective genius who is stalled by in-action while being surrounded by manipulative, corrupt fools, but I do find it compelling.

Ian was wearing a Garfield tie today. The orange cat was being squashed by MONDAY carved out of stone. He laughed off our ‘living in the eighties’ jibes, “It’s the only one that the dry cleaners didn’t mangle. Besides, he’s back in fashion.”

Martin spent the afternoon in Bernard’s office plotting something or other. It turns out that he has convinced him to have a SELLATHON week to shift the latest promotion: battery operated Fly Zappers.

They have been testing them out in the office causing an ultra-violet glow to radiate from the office like an overactive sun bed.

Martin was grinning from ear to ear as he emerged with the plan.

Smile, smile and be a villain!

2004-08-10T22:54:00.000Z

Sod’em and Tomorra

From one extreme to the next. After yesterday’s mugginess the heavens opened and poured a river through the Call Centre.

Everyone was clamouring for a seat at The Fridge yesterday, today people were quietly steaming by the radiators.

I was drenched. Soaked right through to the undercrackers. I squelched in my socks throughout the day.

“Wet enough for you?” Thrush said as I wiped my specs on my tie.

Tune in tomorrow for the locust.

2004-08-09T22:45:00.000Z

Sweltering Sky

It’s been really hot in the call centre. Fans have been clicking and paper has been wafting in a bid to compensate for the poor air conditioning. A missive from the premises manager did not help matters. They said that the problems with the air conditioning was caused by the inconsiderate use of monitors.

A memo has been sent to all Team Managers to insist that any unwanted monitors should be switched off.

What am I meant to do? How can I constantly shuffle my in-box if my monitor is not on?

2004-08-05T23:12:00.000Z

From the chaff

Thrush alternated “Glad you’re back?” with “I bet its like you’ve never been away,” throughout the last couple of days.

I have been a man on a mission since my return. I have been clutching my luminous ‘Things To Do’ pad as if my life depended upon it. I have been switching on my empathy too and trying to get to grips with the various neurosis of my team.

I don’t like to make light of these matters, and if you are suffering from stress yourself, you have my ‘empathys’ – but bleedin’ hell - I think the world is going mad.

Consider my team: a few months ago Joan needed to blow into a bag to calm her down; Fido through a wobbly at the canteen manager because there was too many carbs on the menu (I had to go and break it up – he was off for three weeks because he was ‘tired and emotional’ following the incident); even Barney, the big gay bear, left his previous job at tetrapak because he couldn’t hack it, “I could never get into a box” he said.

Tizzy came back into work again today following her ‘stress related illness’ that was brought on by losing her little grey book. “I don’t think it was just that,” she said.

“What do you think it was?” I said, managing to resist saying ‘get a grip’.

“Dave brought home a Warburton’s toastie loaf and I think it triggered my wheat allergy.”

I am glad I’m back.