"Your call is important to us,” says the lady on the help–line.

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Hell yes!, your call is super important to us. That’s why we’ve got you on hold longer than a priest’s confession line after the church dance. I've noticed that? They say it like they’re doing you a favour “Your call is important to us” while they’re actively ignoring you like you just farted in a lift!

And meanwhile, every minute you’re stuck listening to that tinny jazz loop from 1979, they’re raking in 52p. Fifty-two pence! That’s not customer service, that’s a racket. That’s like emotional pickpocketing. You’re not calling a help line, you’re calling a slot machine with a British accent!

And the voice oh my God, the voice. It’s always some overly calm lady who sounds like she’s narrating a meditation app. “Please hold. Your call is important to us.” Lady, if my call was really important, you’d pick up the phone like it was on fire and I was screaming about a hostage situation. But no, instead I get the audio equivalent of a lukewarm bath and a I don't really give a toss shrug!

And then eventually when someone finally answers, it’s like they just woke up from a nap in a broom closet. “Hello, how can I help?” You can help by refunding me for the 27 minutes of my life I just donated to your corporate piggy bank, that’s how!

 Every time I call, I get the same treatment: ignored, charged, and serenaded by saxophone solos that sound like they were recorded in a dentist’s waiting room. That’s not customer care that’s customer dare! Like, I dare you to stay on the line long enough to forget why you called in the first place!

Normally I would snap the phone in half by minute six. I just mutter obscenities and pretend the hold music is my enemy. “Oh yeah, Kenny T, you smug git. You think you’re better than me!? HELLO!!? .....HELLO!!?.....HELLO!!?



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