My ‘lunch hour,’ a beauty of a misnomer, is a shameful twenty minutes long. It is usually spent in the gloomy staffroom-come-stockroom listening to the unpredictable bleeping of the broken door alarm. But lately I’ve been robbed of my midday falafel and Chinese Beeping Torture as every lunch break has been spent listening to the incessantly dull lounge music my internet provider plays whilst they keep me, endlessly, on hold.
It would be unprofessional, of course, to name the service provider in question. However it’s also unprofessional to hang up on a customer because you can’t find their account details. So on balance; Mr Branson and his pals at Virgin Media deserve it.
I promise you, reader, that I am not exceptionally naive when it comes to dealing with customer service lines. I don’t expect miracles. I don’t even expect much helpfulness. I’m also not unreasonable, and I understand that it takes some time to set up a broadband connection. All I really wanted to know was why I was paying for a Virgin phone line that had not been connected and that I could not use.
I dial. Before I am permitted to speak to a real person I have no less than six electronic menus to navigate. The first asks me my Virgin phone number which I, of course, do not have. I wait patiently for it to continue its course and some time, and several numerical choices, later I am asked to Press ‘1’ If I Have A Problem With My Email Account, Otherwise Hold The Line. Several seconds pass before “If you are unable to access your email we have an announcement for you…” And now I must listen to an instructional guide as to how to deal with malfunctioning messaging software if I live in the Thames Valley area.
This is not helping with my useless phone line issue. This is just making me want to cry.
Eventually I am allowed to speak to a cheerful Glaswegian called Greg who is very interested in whether it is raining in York, but not so much in my pressing quandary. In order to verify who I am (I hear identity thieves are all about making complaints to broadband providers) I reel off passwords, code numbers, security answers, bank details, the location of the Ark of the Covenant, and finally am able to progress. By which, of course, I mean be put on hold.
Inevitably it’s a premium rate number, and when myself and Greg are finally reunited I mention (politely – it isn’t his fault after all) how expensive this conversation is. Greg tells me that the calls are free from my Virgin phone line. I don’t think you’ve been listening to me, have you Greg?
I hate that I am stuck in a year-long contract with an internet provider I have no faith in. I hate that, should I have another problem, I would rather claw out my own eyes than dial that number again. I hate that I spent hours talking to unhelpful people in call centres. But most of all? I hate that Virgin Media has turned me into one of those people that rants about unhelpful people in call centres.
It’s important to remember that not all customer service phone lines are useless, just most of them.