Hardly Revolutionary
Differences Resolved
I've been spending just over a month now getting back in the habit of getting back into old habits. I'm paying tax again, which is never to be enjoyed, though it at least means I can feel justified in complaining about things of which I care little but am contributing to in some minuscule way.
I'm tootling along at a blistering 60mph on my little motorbike most mornings, while the cold North Wales winds do their utmost to prize my fingers from their joints. I long for the day I can get a bigger bike. One that can have heated grips. Probably should pass my test first though. And get more money.
Minor amusement this week saw the end of the latest series of X-Factor, with the prospect of this year's winner (a boy with a name of some description) potentially being denied the top spot of the nations hit parade by virtue of a significant number of people who, tired of the formulaic approach to the annual inevitability, have set about purchasing an alternate track. Nothing says anarchic quite like orchestrated co-ordination.
Much has been made of the fact both artists are on the Sony label, so whichever way it goes the label are having extra stuffing balls with this year's turkey. I've likened it to deciding to stick it to the man by not buying Coke any more and buying Sprite instead. It's also the concept in itself and the choice of track. All the people urging others to buy Rage Against The Machine, and this little voice in the back of my head is screaming "Fuck you I won't do what you tell me!"
Having said that, it remains a fantastic track and has lost nothing with age, so ultimately I bleat like a sheep and do my bit. If for no other reason that a part of me longs for the Xmas albums of tomorrow, where 'Killing In The Name' nestles between Bowie/Bing's rendition of 'Little Drummer Boy' and McCartney's 'Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Time'. What a beautiful world that would be.
I don't like X-Factor. I think it's a pimply wart on the shittiest arse TV has to offer. Only marginally better than the anal rape that is Big Brother.
My reasons for loathing this travesty is the pretence that it has ever been a singing or talent competition. This has been highlighted recently by what I'm told is called, Jedward. Jedward. The cunning blend of the names John and Edward. Except it isn't at all really is it? They've simply put a J on Edward. Jodward could have worked and would have been more credible as a blending of the two names than Jedward. Jedward. What lazy simpleton farted that out?
Anyway, I love Jedward. I obviously don't love them enough to pick up a phone and vote for them, or any other contestant for that matter. I'm not a complete cabbage. I love that tone deaf foetuses get to writhe around a stage every week, and as a nation we collectively applaud. Some in the belief that their continued presence is in some way anarchic. Others because they genuinely enjoy their performance. I don't know which group I pity more.
From its Pop Idol beginnings the show was about giving society's deluded the opportunity to be told how awful they really are and how Mummy and Daddy had filled their heads with impossible dreams. It also meant monkeys could watch their telly and laugh, immersed in their superiority as they pointed a mocking finger at the pathetic fools who dared to try and realise their ambition rather than staying at home shrouded in ignorance.
Once voting is opened up to the public any semblance of true competition is lost. Sure, some of viewers are drug addled miscreants, filled with self pity and a staunch belief that the world owes them a living, but that alone doesn't make them A&R people or qualified to judge artistic and commercial potential.
With tribal voting we see people supporting someone they feel they should by virtue of geography, irrespective of whether they believe in their ability. Armies of pubescent girls will blow their weekly mobile top up by endlessly punching in the pretty boy's number, while their boyfriends simply want to punch in the pretty boy. Middle aged women dampen their couches salivating over the mid twenties gay one.
Of course it's all kicked off this week because Simon Cowell didn't eliminate Jedward. What amazes me is that people are surprised. To see morons on the street happily telling GMTV and it's ilk that Cowell is a coward and that it's supposed to be a singing competition is almost as annoying as the show itself. Wake up people, it was never a singing competition. It's Saturday night karaoke entertainment for the masses. The stay at home and vegetate in front of mediocrity at its most banal masses.
I think it's fair to say that all of us on occasion are bothered by telesales calls at inappropriate times. When you have an ex-directory number it becomes alarming as it suggests someone you deal with is selling on your details. Every now and then though there is the opportunity for a tiny piece of payback .
Yesterday evening I was sitting at the computer reading through forums posts and Twitter updates when the phone rings. On answering a very cheery fellow told me he was from Space Kitchens and asked me how I was.
I used to get quite irate at these calls and constantly asking, and being ignored, to be removed from their call list, but now I mostly remain silent. It's interesting (to me anyway) how their resolve and dedication to getting that sale varies. Some give it a couple more hellos and then give up. Some give it a couple of hellos, pause, give it a couple of questioning hellos, then give up. Or like the chap from Space Kitchens keep going for quite some time, presumably confused by the silence and possibly assuming there's a problem with the phone that will magically rectify itself and the most eager kitchen purchaser they are ever likely to speak to is moments away. They do hang up in the end though.
Once the line is dead I give it a quick 1471 to check the number and search online to verify who the call was from. The reason for this is that some company's will use a third party call centre for a fixed period campaign, so it just verifies who is calling.
In this case it was indeed Space Kitchens, who according to a number of testimonials are quite rude and offensive to people who refuse their offer of a free quotation or ask not to be bothered again. I noticed that they had a freephone number on their website. A plot hatches.
While freephone numbers are, by definition, free for the caller, they obviously cost the company. Most seem to have a monthly rental price which has a number of inclusive minutes over which any additional minutes are charged at a rate similar to local calls.
So while I'm enjoying my online time, I ring their freephone number and when answered remain silent. The chap on the other end was obviously confused, I mean, what kind of idiot rings a number and then doesn't speak? When he eventually hung up I put the phone on the desk and hit redial. The phone is loud enough that I can make out if someone is talking without putting it on speaker phone, so I can carry on with my internet diversion, just stabbing the redial button when I hear the line go dead. After a few calls a Scottish woman answered who actually had a conversation with me. She asked me how I was, gave me a few Uh-huhs and yeses, apologised that they couldn't do that (do what I have no clue, though I'd like to think she imagined I asked her to smother me in marmalade while holding aloft a picture of Gordon Brown and singing Aqua's 1997 UK number one hit Barbie Girl.) and suggested I ring head office before giving me a cheery goodbye (obviously head office is where all the marmalade fetishists are). I don't understand why she felt the need to have that conversation with a silent person, but I really liked her for it. The next few calls received a couple of hellos before hang ups, but then they seemed to start getting annoyed. At one point the person asked if I had nothing better to do. I love it when people ask that, as if I'm suddenly going to turn around and say, “Yes actually, I have to fly off to Fiji and get those silly military types to have elections. I'm so glad you asked as I'd have forgotten otherwise. Have an apricot.”
A few more calls and I was told in a very stern voice that she didn't mind me wasting my time as she gets paid to answer the phone. A few more calls and I was back with my Scottish friend who started doing the kind of train impression you'd do for children, with plenty of choo-choos and chuff, chuff, chuff, chuffs.
Presumably they had caller display as it seemed that they stopped biting after about twenty minutes and either just left the phone connected for a short while, or gave some form of raspberry noise as soon as they picked up and hung up immediately afterwards. Curiously though, at no point did anyone ask me to stop calling.
I kept stabbing the redial for just over an hour until I had finished my reading and did actually have something better to do. In terms of cost to the company it would have been insignificant, and at best tying up one of the lines may have caused a modicum of disruption to their business in preventing a genuine customer calling. It did however put a big smile on my face, and maybe, just maybe, they'll think twice before calling here again.
Oh, and if you fancy hearing a truly great choo-choo impression, just call 0800 2888 888.
