Bombay Calling (from the faraway zone...)

Today, I am an angry overweight man from Hingerland, who, quite frankly, has had his fill of the cosmopolitan world that seems to be unable to function correctly. Don't get me wrong; given a choice right now I'd be on top of the Rex Hotel in Saigon sipping a 333 beer. I do appreciate all that the multi-cultural whirligig of life has to offer. However, today I want to be a Hingerlish man, in Hingerland, talking Hingerlish to other Hingerlish speakers. Why? Because I've been on the bloody phone all day, to Bombay. Did it get me anywhere? Did it fuck!

Now, I can imagine right now that several Pinkos will be marking my card. As well as being labelled a child abuser by them because this blog carries a comedy Terry Thomas-style picture on a brat being spanked (my cease and desist notice is currently winging its merry way from my wig-wearing friend), I'll no doubt be a racist and an imperialist to boot. Yes, I know it's Mumbai, but today it feels like bloody Bombay.

What am I rabbiting on about, you might ask? Lets be honest, if you need to ask, then you haven't bought financial services, insurance, healthcare cover or any products from a major supplier and needed to discuss anything with them in the last five years. Yes indeed, I've been on to the Indian call centre.

Now, let me make one thing very very clear; I don't care if I'm talking to Indians in Bombay, Pakistanis in Islamabad, Chinese in Beijing, Jews in Jerusalem or, God forbid, French in Paris. I don't care who they are, because I don't want to bloody talk to them. Not now, not ever. I did business with an English company, in England, with English money, to form a contract recognised in English law. Is it too much to ask to talk to someone in England about my English problem?

No disrespect to the Indians; their English is much better than my Punjabi. That said, when reporting storm damage once, I underlined my plight by pointing out I had to put a bucket under a leaking roof. The response was a slightly confused: "Excuse me, what is bucket?"

Anyway, yes, their English is decent enough, but they have no concept of accountability, urgency or the Hingerlish expectation that as a customer, we demand a supplier take ownership of problems. They tell you next to nothing, do less, and then fuck off to lunch.

There is also the fact that they are employed as telephone answerers. They don't understand the inner workings of whatever they are supporting. They just look on the checklist and respond accordingly. If your query isn't on the checklist, you're royally fucked. Ask for a supervisor, and you enter the Indian version of pass-the-parcel. In a call centre manned by six men and a goat, in the middle of the night, the supervisor is often who ever else is awake.

It's not their fault; I'd love them to run a call centre for other Indians, or even for the Pinkos. It's just that I don't want to waste my life talking to them. They aren't at fault; the companies that offshore call centres are!

There is another issue here; in a recession, I want to do business with companies that give English jobs to English workers. While unemployment rises, I want to spend my money with someone who offers local jobs. I want the economy to recover. I want to help my fellow countrymen to rise from the shit that Labour has dumped us in. So what if it costs more to employ local labour? Fuck the expense, give me service at a high level, and give me Hingerlish workers, taking accountability for the job and seeing it through to end.

Zurich Insurance, today you have been found wanting. Say goodbye to my business; you, and your offshore cheap and nasty call centres.