writings of a writing man
Oh, my pore head
or, Life in New Britain
Life used to be so much simpler. I've just rung off from a half-hour (free) call to my phone utility to set up a new service and check the details of an existing one and I don't know whether I'm coming or going. I have three pages of close-written, scribbled out and re-written notes and even so I'm not absolutely positive I'll get what I wanted.
The first mistake I made was to go through the main enquiry number and follow through about four levels of voice menu on the touch tone pad only to be told "I'm sorry but all our specialists are busy. Please call back later." That was a good five minutes wasted. So then I went through another number, just two levels of voice menu and reached a real live person.
"Hello, my name is Tony and I'm your telephone specialist today. How may I help you?"
Then the fun started. Tony isn't there to simply answer questions and take orders. Oh no, chooky-boots. Once Tony has your attention he's obliged to tell you about all the special offers, new services, alternative deals... I knew exactly what I wanted but we still had to go through the rigmarole. Hey ho. So I sat back and joined in the fun. You may as well join in the fun. It's no fun not joining in the fun.
In Britain telephone specialists are usually Scots. Surveys have indicated that we British trust a Scots accent more than any other. You may not understand a word your telephone specialist says but if he says it in a lovely Scots brogue you know you can trust him to see you all right.
Tony, however, was a Scouse (Liverpudlian) with a diluted Scouse accent. A regional accent is also easy to trust. Now I happen to like Scousers and get on well with Scouse as she is spoke. In a trice, whatever that is, we were chatting away madly like long-lost friends. I learned that Tony had just moved house and that he and his wife hadn't connected their computer back to the Internet yet. It was on the list, but at a low priority. It seems that Tony's wife sets the priorities in Tony's household. As it should be. All right and proper. Then we got on to delve further into Tony's life, discussing his academic qualification, how his company's suggestion scheme worked, or didn't, and the TV programme we'd both seen yesterday evening where Richard Branson had given a sparkling lecture to a crowd of company directors on the subject of brand name management.
It was a lovely chat. I thoroughly enjoyed it and I'm reasonably sure that Tony enjoyed it, too.
Did I get the service changes I wanted? Well, I think so. And I'm positive I didn't sign up for anything I don't want. But we shall have to wait and see.
Telephony is complicated now. I put it all down to deregulation and exposure to market forces.
In the old days the General Post Office controlled the telephone and you knew exactly what services you were going to get. One phone, black. One line, domestic. One set telephone directories, local. One operator, Elsie. And one bill, quarterly. There were no special offers, no tariffs, no Basic Value Plans, no Extended Value Plans.
Making a phone call was a comfortable, leisurely affair. You picked up the phone, and waited for Elsie to put down her knitting. "Hello, Elsie, how are you?" "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, luv. And how's the hernia?" "Well that'll be good. I saw your Mum the other day, did she mention it?"... Elsie was part of the family. Elsie knew your business and just about everything there was to know about you. And everyone else in the village, of course. Pleasantries exchanged, you told Elsie who you wanted to call and she'd put you through. If you spoke for more than three minutes Elsie would plug in and remind you. Happy days.
Other utilities were run along the same, comfortable, no-option basis. You got your electricity from the Electricity Board, your Gas from the Gas Board and your water from the Water Board. It wasn't exciting. It probably wasn't overly efficient. But it was comfortable. You knew where you were.
Now you can buy your utility services from a multiplicity of sources, shopping around for the best prices, the best deals... you know the kind of thing.
The old Boards are still there of course, renamed, issued with eye-catching logos, privatized, floated on the stock exchange and run as regular companies in competition with incoming companies in the same line of business. All good stuff. Market forces in action.
Now, here's an amusing thought. It seems that, along with gas, British Gas supplies electricity slightly cheaper than South Western Electricity. And, would you believe it, South Western Electricity sells gas and, again, slightly cheaper than British Gas.
Are you following my devious mind? I thought you might be. I think I'll get on to the Gas Board as was, cancel my gas and order electricity. Then I'll get on to the Electric Board as was, cancel my electricity and order gas. That'll put me in the happy position of having my gas from the Electric and my electricity from the Gas.
They're not going to beat me. I'm getting the hang of this market forces stuff. New Britain here I come.
I wonder if the Water Board as was sells telephone services?
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