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.

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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.