The Zappa song title could be applied to any dead-end job, but lends itself particularly well to the Call Centre - it even has the same number of syllables (and note to the Zappa estate, I'm quoting the song title, not the lyrics, so you can't have all my worldly goods and my first-born just yet).
They are the Dante's Inferno of gainful employment, but like schools and prisons, also a fascinating laboratory of Life. And now I find myself working in one. Go figure, as they say Stateside.
So what are the downsides? The staff? No, all human life is there, especially if multiple languages are involved. The hours? Yeah, well they can suck but thankfully weekends are no longer required at my place. The bosses? Go figure. The customers? Bingo!
I work with the UK market so we're dealing with a particular strain of warped. And it's not their fault. In the past the Brits were the best customers on the planet, polite to the point of self-harm. Even if they weren't happy with the service, if a waitress asked if everything was alright, they would trot out "Oh yes thanks!" in a knee-jerk Pavlovian auto-response with plastic smiles, then grumble and mutter as she walked away.
And then the BBC stepped in. At first there was a quirky 70s show that dealt with consumer rights called 'That's Life'. It tried hard to be serious and outraged about shoddy builders and non-existent refunds, but couldn't help slipping into self parody and eye-rolling,and then after sniggering at bawdy misprints in newspaper ads, a man came on with a yorkshire terrier that could say "sausages".
Then along came Anne Robinson with her show 'Watchdog'. Consumer rights now outranked human rights on every Home Counties suburban fridge-magnet agenda. You had a right to good service and if you didn't get it you could bloody well insist on it - and that's swearing! Suddenly the meek weren't just inheriting the Earth, they were demanding a discount on the wonky extension they'd had built on it. Anne was so good at playing frosty House Matron that they gave her her own quiz show (The Weakest Link), transforming her into a Nazi-Dominatrix-Darth Vader. Believing her own hype, she rapidly developed from being playfully stern to outright offensive to contestants, accusing the fat girl of eating her own body weight in pies, and baiting the Goth for lack of social skills. But she doesn't mean it viewers because she always gives us that saucy theatrical wink at the end.
Now the Watchdog generation are firmly entrenched. I can hear it over the phone, from the multi-tasking mother of three who addresses the entire world like they're a dozy teenager who didn't put his sports kit in the wash basket. She's crying out for a t-shirt that says "As if I don't have enough to do already!" She needs this item for her son's birthday, that's why she only ordered it two days ago. The condescending veiled insults and audible sighs soon give way to frustration, blame-shifting, ultimatums and abuse.
The Mackie-D generation have been programmed to expect their slightest whim to be catered for, or God Dang! They'll go elsewhere! The sheer miracle of clicking a few buttons on the tube on the way home, and voila it's ordered, paid for and on its way, seems to have passed them by. Thank God I live in a country where customer service consists of being barely tolerated and largely ignored.
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