Sunday, December 12, 2010


Tom has spent 30 minutes just now trying to explain to a man at BT exactly how they can make our lives easier. Its a simple problem. BT haven't registered our line as active, which it clearly is, but until someone ticks a box on a tiny computer, our broadband provider can't see it and therefore can't give us the wonders of the web. However, despite how easy it might seem to tell someone to get that box ticked, I have listened to Tom repeatedly say 'No, WE don't have BT Broadband, we just need you to render our landline active so that we can get broadband.' He would then say that again and again with further and further stress on 'NO' until the irritation couldn't have been clearer in his voice unless he was to precede the sentence with 'LISTEN YOU FUCKING IDIOT.' Then he got cut off and there was some swearing. Then I called them back and handed the phone to him once the patronisingly jingly hold music had passed trying to convince you through its upbeat plinky plonky nature that all is well in the world until the harsh reality hits you that people hired to work at help desks are the least helpful people in the universe. Its some sort of international cruel joke. I'm sure the staff in India are told they work for a phone line that people call when feeling suicidal. Or perhaps more likely someone has hired them under the pretense that they get so many prank calls they need an office of staff to try and deter them from calling anymore. Either way it would be less infuriating to know that when you call BT the line goes through to a phone that rings and rings in a room in an empty warehouse with nothing but an angry dog that's chained to the wall barking at it, than knowing that you actually have to speak to a grade A moron.

They had initially, when Tom had called them yesterday, told us they would call back today. They didn't and we sat around waiting for the phone to ring like an optimistically expectant teenager after a date. It got to 4.30pm and we realised we'd been stood up holding popcorn for two knowing full well we'd never get to see the film and would have to head home and cry. I suspect that whoever made that promise on Saturday to Tom, hung up the phone after, told everyone they'd dropped the 'I'll call you back tomorrow line' and then high fived his way to the pub. Another idiot stalled as far as they're concerned. After three phonecalls and being put on hold seven times, it was decided that it was unfair to keep us on hold anymore. The horse had long bolted by this point, and was probably being humanely put down by a race track somewhere. Instead of any further piano drabness that would have caused Mozart to forcibly remove his own fingers were he the culprit, we were told they would 'call back.' We'd heard that one before. As the phone hung up, myself and Tom resigned ourselves to knowing this was never meant to work and that there were plenty more phone operatives in the sea. Which is possibly why the phonelines were so bad.

They did call back, but in our flat of no connectivity, phone reception, along with wifi, is as scarce as actual talent is on the X-Factor. So a chirpy little message was left containing no answers as to whether or not the problem had been solved, or even whether or not they'd finally understood why and how they were severing our links to the outside world. Instead it merely told us that 'we were unable to get through to you, so have a lovely day.' Its 5.55pm, our day has already gone. Most of it was wasted talking to complete fucking morons at BT. If this isn't fixed by Tuesday we have decided we are going to start to ring up just to have conversations about anything. Absolutely anything, except issues to do with phones. If they even begin to complain, we'll tell them that we are lonely without the internet and that as they say 'It's Good To Talk'.

I firmly believe sorting out broadband is up there with the most stressful experiences in life, alongside moving home and escaping the scene of a crime. Until then we will steal Chilli Bernstein's internet on the sly. That's the name that pops up on his shared account and I am terrified that he is a member of the mafia in some way. If I die due to BT's incompetence I want you all to spread my ashes in the words 'Fuck You' over the windows of BT tower.

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