CUSTOMER DISSERVICE
CUSTOMER DISSERVICE
One day I was living in paradise. A place with warmth and light, where whatever you wanted was available whenever you want it.
The next day I was back in England. Service with a sneer. A place where you got what they wanted, when they felt it, if they felt like it, and they made you feel lucky that they designed to serve you.
But yesterday I came across the worst example of it in my thirty years on the planet.
THE CUSTOMER IS NEVER RIGHT
Let me set the scene.
Here we are again. Service with a sneer. One against one, man against man. And I don’t even want a war. I just want the guy to sell me something. Now maybe I’m arrogant (maybe, wouldn’t be the first time somebody thought that about me, and it probably wouldn’t be the first time they were right), but I have this outdated, ancient notion. Tell me if I’m wrong.
Generally, the customer is right, and generally, he who pays the piper calls the tune. Maybe I’m wrong but I don’t think so. And therefore, if someone wants to buy something, generally, they should be treated with respect, courtesy, and a bit of humanity. Boy am I wrong.
In England, customers are vermin. Scum. And businesses don’t need customers, hell no. Customers are merely an inconvenience. At least, that’s how they see us.
He's behind a glass partition. Kind of like a prisoner. And I'm on the other side. It's not going well. He wants me to beg him to serve me.
LET US MAKE LEGENDS
OK, lets backtrack. It's 7.29pm. I have a train at 7.31. I have money in my hand. I have a machine in front of me. But since I'm not in the habit of carrying perfectly, crisp £10 notes on me, the note is spat back.
There are, of course, no credit or debit card facilities by which one may buy tickets, irrespective of the fact that mere yards away, should I want an Underground pass I can have one, but should I want to use a card for overland travel I plainly cannot. See. It’s bureaucracy gone mad.
I'm waiting for my man, 10 pounds in my hand... So I queue. Queuing is the English disease. We wait. Hurry up and wait is the story of time in this country. There's one person on the till and four people in the queue. Every person in the queue seems to be taking forever to buy tickets. Maybe it’s the complete fuckwittery of people. Or maybe, it’s the guy behind the counter. Far be it for me to cast aspersions on anyone yet. The case will prove itself.
The guy behind the counter is a typical British Rail employee. The kind of guy who think you’re lucky to be served by him. The kind of guy with more chips on his shoulder than a general. The kind of person who has lines and wrinkles. And hair receding from view faster than a getaway car.
Hey, I’m in no hurry now. I’ve spent long enough here. I've already missed my train. I've already spent twelve minutes to travel a matter of maybe six foot just for the privilege of spending money to get somewhere far away from here. I'm not in the best mood.
So now I'm face to face with my adversary. I tell him my destination, the fact that I'm going one night, coming back the next.
"You do know that that will be two separate single tickets?" He asks.
"Yes, that’s fine. Get on with it."
OK, so I'm a little stressed. But telling me that is kinda like telling me my name is Mark. I know it already. Lets move on. Lets get on with it. Besides which, do I look stupid enough to not know that a journey like that would require two separate single tickets? Come on. The fact that he thinks I’m as stupid as him is pretty darn insulting. But I keep my mouth shut. I want to get my ticket and go. I want out.
"I'm not serving you. Be abusive to the machine." He says.
WHAT THE FUCK?
Of course, now I'm thinking abusive words. If I had an elastic jaw it would drop to the floor. Frankly, the impudence of this stupid serf. He has no idea what kind of abuse I’m capable of, but he certainly knows what abuse is because he’s abusing his position right now. He obviously read the sign that said Our Staff Have The Right To Work Without Fear of Assault far too well. As if I’d assault him, even if he wasn’t behind a glass cage. He’s not worth it.
Maybe I caught him on a bad hair day, maybe. I don’t particularly care. I just don’t want to be here. And I don’t particularly want to be served by him anyway.
"I'm sorry?" I say. I can't believe I'm hearing this. All I want to do is buy my ticket and fuck off.
This isn't, by the way, the first time he's spoken to customers like that. It might very well be the last.
"I'm not serving you."
"Hang on a minute. I haven't sworn at you or called you names. I just want to buy my ticket."
"Then you'll have to buy it somewhere else, sir". Oh, the grating little thrill calling someone sir must give them. I bet he's going to go home and wank off about it. He might think I’m a jerk, I know he’s an asshole. There’s a world of difference, and knowledge is power.
"I did try the machine, but somehow it wouldn't take my money. All I want to do is buy my ticket. Please."
So basically this snivelling little shit is making me beg for him to serve me. I bet that thrills him. What a pathetic state where I have to flatter the ego of a balding, podgy forty something failure just so I can spend money with him.
Eventually he serves me. Two singles, one going out, one coming back. I get my ticket. I get the address of 'Customer Services', I get their phone number. I know his name.
All well, all good. A harsh letter. A serious string of words at a later date to a customer service manager. All will be well.
As I leave I remind him to "Get some manners next time". And which point he replies "Get some manners yourself, sir.". The word I'm thinking of now is Prick. I mean. I have manners. I just don’t tolerate assholes talking down to me.
Come The Fuck On. Where does he get off on this? All I did was try to buy a ticket. And Captain Insecure had to have his precious ego stroked. Still, an idiot and his job are easily parted.
THE DAY AFTER
FFWD to :
The Next Day. Feeding a ticket into the machine. Ticket is spat back out. Try again. Spat out again.
That fucking imebcile deliberately sold me the wrong ticket, sold me two single tickets for the same day so I couldn't get home. Even though he knew damn well I was buying tickets for separate days. He knew damn well I was coming back the next day. So I had to buy another ticket. From a machine. That didn't answer back or fuck up. But you know, I don’t have time for that kind of bullshit.
Sure I might seem a nasty vindictive piece of shit, but you know? At least I'm not sat behind a glass partition getting a cheap thrill from every last tiny bit of power I can squeeze out of my chair.
I'm better than that. And they'll employ someone better than him soon.
So, welcome to England, home of Service with a sneer. A place where they’ll sell you the most expensive ticket they possibly can to tourists, and then you know… wonder why a lot of tourists don’t come back. The kind of place where customers are seen as some kind of scum, some lower level of life. And the thing that makes them think they’re better than everyone else is precisely the one thing that doesn’t make them better than anyone else.
He who pays the piper calls the tune. And we all want a different song. Are you listening, fuckheads?
© copyright Mark Reed, 1991-2004 except where indicated