Well July is upon us and I have realised that I haven't written a blog on here for close a whole month! That's mostly because I've been busy working, a blessing and a curse all wrapped into one wholesome little bundle of shit. That's right those of you who are perceptive: I work in a call centre.
Forget the stereotypes of skanky young mothers working for below the minimum wage and annoying young vagabonds (you know, the type with product in their hair wearing a cheap Asda suit) begging you to buy some double glazing, for I work in a call centre for - wait for it - BINS. More specifically - Biffa.
So what kind of duties does one have when locked in that room for nigh on 8 hours a day? Well, believe it or not, there is nothing interesting that goes on in that room. I believe that, if I were paid the same, my time would be better spent shafting each and every customer with a christmas tree. They truly do get on my nerves, and test my patience every single day. One such issue that makes me feel the rage boiling up inside is thus; When answering the phones you have to have an account number or a contract number.
Take, for instance, the standard greeting that I have to give when I answer the phone; "Good *morning/afternoon* you're through to Biffa customer service, how can I help?" People then begin the shouting even before I have had a chance to ask for their details. Being Biffa, the extent to which the yelling extends is a builder or contractor (and the occasional Welshman) yelling down the phone as to why their bins haven't been collected. My response is to calmly ask for their account number or contract number. You'd think these are big business, so no problem, its pretty self explanatory that they'd have them to hand. Wrong. Instead you get a clueless mumbled response to the tone of "don't know it. Can I give you my postcode?" If I wanted your pissing postcode I would have asked for it, don't you think? Idiots.
Of course, this leaves me time to wonder what life would be like if the shoe was on the other foot. I believe it would go like this:
Irate Twat: Why havent my bins been collected?!
Ross: I don't know actually sir, but can I give you the football results instead?
IT: Excuse me?!
Ross: Well I dont know why the bins havent been collected, but I do know the football results.
IT: Are you taking the f!cking piss or summat?!
Ross: No...I just don't know.
And there is the crux of the Biffa system, based upon the foundation of 4 little words: "I just don't know".
When arranging for a bin to be collected, sure I can tell you it will be done on the Tuesday coming, but what you don't know is that once it leaves my computer screen it isnt in my hands anymore...It is now in the hands of the depots across the country, and that may as well open a pandoras box of problems. Why I hear you scream? Because depots are, for the most part, manned by brylcreamed cocks, manicured east-end-of-London women who have given up on life and the drivers? Lazy bellends. For the most part. Like all rules, there are the decent people out there, but they are few and far between. Most of them can't even be bothered to collect bins, WHICH IS THEIR JOB. In essence, it would be like a doctor turning up for work to take out an inflamed appendix, lounging around claiming he had done it and then having the patient die. Oh, then he would start an argument with the family claiming he DID in fact do it and blaming it on the nurses who organised the surgery to take place.
Yeah, Biffa is a joke. At the end of the day though, they pay me well to do a soul sapping job. And when worst comes to worst, I can always tell a customer exactly what I think of them and give them a false name. Win? Yep, I think so.
No comments:
Post a Comment