So, yes. The ongoing saga of the starship Vodafone,
and its continuing mission to be as crap as possible. To boldly go where no man
– where no one – has gone before, except maybe Southern Rail. They’ve been
there. They’ve been there a few times. In fact they’ve been there so often they
really should have a season ticket, which would cost them a small fortune and
leave them feeling dissatisfied and disappointed, like coming home to find that
someone’s eaten all the chocolate hobnobs and there’s only a stale digestive
left.
But this isn’t about Southern Rail. This is about
Vodafone, and their continuing mission to surpass every previously accepted
norm of incompetence, like they’ve dug up Norris McWhirter and are trying
desperately to revive him so he can create a whole new Guinness Book of Records
entry for Most Pathetically Useless Company in the Western World.
Vodafone, you are truly, absolutely, mind-boggingly
shit.
You already know about the ridiculous bill they’ve landed
me with, as a result of La Child doing whatever the hell it is adolescent
children do with their phones, but ever since complaining bitterly to Vodafone
about it the company has managed to dig ever bigger holes. ‘Don’t send texts to
La Child,’ I told them, ‘because she’s a child. If you can’t send texts to me,
then at least send them to the number registered as the account holder.’
‘Yes, yes,’ they say, grinning like a local asked by a
tourist for directions in a language they don’t understand, and of course an
hour later La Child tells me she’s had the most bizarre conversation with
someone from Vodafone who wanted to talk about ‘the complaint’.
Yes, after having been told that that particular
number went directly through to an 11 year old child with neither the
competence nor the authority to deal with the account, Vodafone called that very
child to discuss why it is they’d allowed an 11 year old child to incur such
horrific charges. You couldn’t make it up. So I call Vodafone again. ‘Seriously,
lads, don’t call la Child. She’s a child. She’s 11. If she walked into your shop
and asked you for a phone you’d tell her to run off and play with her dolls.
Come on, cease with the silliness now.’
‘Yes, yes,’ they say, grinning like a… you get the
picture. So I try a different tack. ‘OK, we’re getting nowhere now. So I tell
you what we’re going to do. I’m cancelling my direct debit. I’ll pay you what I’d
normally pay you, plus what I’d have to have paid up front you to use all that
nice extra data. But I’m not paying you the balance. You want to talk about
that, call me.’
And lo, the direct debit was cancelled, and today la
Wife – la Wife, note, the number registered to the account holder at least but
still not the number I’ve told them to call – got a text. ‘Oh,’ it said, ‘you
appear not to have paid your bill this month. Would you mind awfully going to www.vodafoneareapileofshit.com
to pay it please?’
As it happens, Vodafone, yes, yes I would mind. You
can take your bill and you can shove it so far up your router cable that you might,
just, possibly, start to take note of how very pissed off I am. I try to
contact them again, specifically to tell them that their bill does roll up nice
and tight and can therefore be used for anal filling purposes, but the website
is down. So instead I wander over to twitter to vent. Vodafone respond with
this: ‘have you tried our online chat service?’ Er, yes, I believe I have. And
calling. Over the past two weeks I’ve spent about 4 hours on the phone to you
cretins, and here we still are, no further forwards. ‘Oh,’ say Vodafone, ‘how
about, er, our chat service?’
Fuck me with a big stick marked “Really?”
So Vodafone. Let me spell this out for you in words
you might actually understand: DO NOT CALL LA CHILD. DO NOT CALL LA WIFE. CALL
ME. UNTIL THIS IS RESOLVED I NO PAY YOU NO MONEY. You have my number, and so
does the ombudsman.
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