Insult my loft

Got a cold call just now from some random company about insulating my loft. We’ve had these merchants before: the long delay, the Skype cutouts making it hard to understand, the Indian call centre, the language barrier: I’m sure you know the drill.

The call went like this:

Her: Is that Mr Dawson?
Me: Speaking.
Her: I’m calling from {indecipherable company} and I’m wanting to know when your loft was last insulated.
Me: Over ten years ago, but can I just say that we’re with the Telephone Preference Service so we shouldn’t be getting unsolicited calls like this.
Her: If it was over ten years ago then you definitely need your loft insulating again.
Me: No I don’t, thanks anyway.

I put the phone down. It’s Friday night for goodness sake and I want to put my feet up.

The phone rang again immediately. A man this time.

Him: Is that Mr Dawson?
Me: No.
Him: What?
Me: No.
Him: Oh. May I be knowing who I am speaking to?
Me: No.
Him: Are you ill? You keep saying ‘No’.
Me: No.
Him: No. No NO! Fucking asshole you shouldn’t have a fucking… {end of sentence lost as he must have torn his headset off then the line went dead}

I was cracking up at this point. The phone rang again about ten seconds later and my wife decided to answer it just to really fox them. She’s good at this stuff: she once quizzed a man trying to sell us insurance on whether he preferred cats or badgers. But this time she followed my approach.

Him: Is this Mrs Dawson?
Wife: No.
Him: Can I be knowing who I am speaking to?
Wife: No.
Him: Do you own {our address}
Wife: No.
Him: Yeah you should be living on the fucking streets, you mad bitch.

And he slammed the phone down. We just fell about laughing. Seriously, is that the best customer service reps they’ve got? I hope they were recording it for “quality and training purposes”.

Of course no inbound number was recorded. Always the way with these companies that employ an offshore workforce to get round the TPS. Bring on the next one, I say. You’ll get nothing from me.