‘Help’ lines

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Any ‘help’ line

Why does every cunting helpline waste (even more) of my time by having a robot tell me that to protect their staff, during these challenging times, waffle waffle etc. ’wait times’ (waiting, not wait, wait is not an adjective in this sense, fuckwits) will be longer than usual? I.e. blaming Covid for under-manning their call centres to save their time and money by wasting your time? It’s bad enough having to wait without them making you wait longer while they state the bleeding obvious. Often you listen to this only for a second robot to tell you that opening times are not as advertised, we cannot answer your call (because of Covid) and cut you off.

Fuck me, I was wondering why everyone is wearing a mask, the roads are empty and queues for the Post Office are spaced at 2m, half way down the street. And I can’t go to Spain without house arrest on my return. Thanks for the fucking heads-up…

What was your twatting excuse for the years before Covid then?

Nominated by Copper nano tube

33 thoughts on “‘Help’ lines”

  1. I hate fucking “help” lines. And what I hate more than the fucking robot messages is when said fucking robot message is over, I have to talk to Gupti in Shitholia or Ahmed in Bumfuckistan and inevitably my problem ends up worse than it was before I called.

    📞

  4. •Press 1 to listen to the Covid-19 message again.
    •Press 2 to listen to us pretending we’re extremely busy but really just employing fewer people.
    •Press 3 for your call to be dropped after twenty minutes’ waiting.
    •Press 4 for a list of technical crap only an I.T. nerd would comprehend.
    •Press 5 for a caring voice to encourage you to visit their website so they can employ even fewer operators.
    •Press 6 for a unctuous Indian in Bangalore being paid 60p an hour who uses your name in every sentence though who can’t help you and who’ll tell you you’ve come to the wrong department then transfer you but you arrive at this cunty list again.
    •Press 7 for a further list of selecting your waiting muzac including Mozart’s well-known stuff, soft poodle rock from the 80s, irritating original shite that sounds like a mobile phone tone, or Enya.
    •Press 8 for suicide advice.
    •Press 9 for the menu again.

    • Makes me laugh when they want to use my name. They invariably say my Christian name wrong, and can’t pronounce my surname at all. And they’re ALL always extremely busy with calls. Yes, it’s a call centre, but at 4am on a Sunday? Stop fucking lying and answer the phone, you cunt!

      • “Hello please, Mr.Moggie. I am helping you today. I am hoping you are enjoying our service. You are being a valuable customer, Mr.Moggie. Please call again.”

  5. I have yet to hear tell of a “helpline” that wasn’t a gigantic cunt and a blood pressure cooker to boot.
    The cheapskate corporate arseholes.
    Fuck Off.

  6. Sweet Jesus spare me. Some cunt saying ‘sorry’ or ‘I apologise’ incessantly.

    Listen you cloth-eared twat I did not come here to hear vacuous platitudes.

    I came here to hear you FIXING THE FUCKING PROBLEM.

    • Heehhee!😁
      Yeah cloth eared twats!
      Speak English!
      “I am sir”
      What? What did you say?
      I demand a english speaker!
      “Sir Im speaking perfect english, im based in surrey”
      Didnt catch that, bleeding foreigners!
      You speak-a the english-o?

  7. I remember once ringing Sky, I think, and after being on hold for an hour getting a message telling me the call centre was open from 8am to 8pm. It was almost 9pm. The cunts had left me listening to fucking Vivaldi for nearly an hour after they’d fucking shut! How is that even possible? I’ve worked for a number of call centres and, when you shut, the system cleared all calls.

    • Robots and call centre pakistanis the perfect combination.
      ‘Put it in the curry’…

  8. I have never ever known a time when these jackals don’t claim to be “experiencing higher than usual call volumes.”

    It’s like DFS; when did they NOT have a sale on and when did it NOT end on bank holiday Monday?

    How long does something have to go on until it becomes the NORM?

    BT actually have a two tier system. 1st class is for business: you get Hamish in Scotland or Sarah in Bristol. 2nd class is for private customers: you get pretend “Stephen” in Bombeckistan who will tell you any lie to get you off the line quickly and up his stats.

    Wonderful service.

    • There’s another hierarchy for service speed

      1. Are you wanting to become a customer?

      2. Are you an existing customer?

  9. Happily, I extremely seldom need to interface with these gibbering half-wits but this last week I have needed to contact eBay and Vodafone, both on multiple occasions.

    More for entertainment value than anything, but I’ve found that asking the twittering and cocky little twat from the Philippines (eBay) or simpering, over-familiar chick from Cairo or Alexandria (Vodafone “technical support”) in my most gutteral Hessian dialect “Kansst Du überhaupt Deutsch, Du blöde Arschloch?” affords some respite from the jabbering.

    Particularly effective with the Egyptian chicks at Voda is then eliding into Turkish making sure to overuse words like “yane” a lot (as these are the same in modern Arabic). I must admit, they do sound very fuckable and doubtless some probably are. Small talk and rumpty rumpty were not, however, the reason for my call.

    Although obviously pretty childish and stupid, as well as totally counter-productive, in the bigger scheme it makes no difference. It had already become clear we were going nowhere in this cab. I think I may invest in a referee’s Acme Thunderer™ in the event that my German fails to stop their verbal diarrhoea. And I should know about that, eh?

  10. I will do anything rather than call a help line. My web searching skillset usually provides at least some of the information I need, and the rest is taken care of by paying up front for everything and minimising the standing orders sucking on my savings teat, only one of which has a completely useless helpline. There was one which used voice recognition, but this is tuned to a Pakistani accent, not mine, so I ditched it and now pay the bills by snail mail and cheque. Cunting endorsed, but no points for self-inflicted injury.

  11. I’m looking for a second car at the moment. I’m spending hours on Autotrader changing spec, price, mileage; headache inducing. Anyway, when I see a car I like, I usually go to the dealer’s website and invariably a chat box pops up, usually a female face, ‘such and such is here to help’, except its a bot. I think I asked one if it is possible to do a test drive and see the car in person what with all this Covid compliance crap and the bot said it would have to check with the team and get back to me so can it have my name and number. No substitute for a real person, not yet anyway.

    Don’t get me started on BT’s Support line. You need a valium before attempting to contact them.

  12. Evry fucking TV show seems to have a message at the end offering a phone number.

    “If you’ve been affected by Sweep being depicted as the naughty one in Sooty and Sweep, perhaps due to being the darkest character, please call blah blah…”

    Everyone is a right soft cunt nowadays.

    • Sweep was excellent. Noisy, cheeky, bombastic, and funnier than the other socks. Similarly, Zippy was the entertaining one in Rainbow voiced by the bloke who did the Daleks. More entertaining than the gaylord bear anyway.

      🐻 “Oh George, gimme a kiss.”

    • Even tourist attractions do it. All I wanted was a nice walk along the cliffs of Moher

      And there right at the start was a sign advertising The Samaritans (“need to talk? Call 555- etc”). I mean who wants to be distracted by a fucking phone call when walking along those crumbling cliff tops.

  13. Worst iv had recently, fucking hermies parcel cunts. They have no call center just an automated line and a fucking chat bot. Companies should not be able to run like this. Scum utter scum.

    • Hermes are manifest megacunts. Round my way Hermes is two chav wimminz and a sprog in an old estate car. Stuff can languish for weeks at their depot*, which is as you say uncontactable.

      *Probably someone’s flat

  14. It always makes my day when i have to speak to fresh Pesh from bangladesh for $3.50 per fucking minuit and have to get him to repeat every other word several times…..fucking excellent

  15. What an appropriate Cunting.

    Last night I had an accident & for my sins, was required to call the dreaded 111 service. Now, I got an english speaker, which was a plus.

    Don’t ask me how, but I missed the concrete step down into the garage – went an rolled my right ankle – in the milisecond panic, I put my left foot out to try to stop myself going straight into the stepladers, missed the step & twisted my left ankle. Went tumbling head first, my hands stopped me head-butting the concrete floor, but while this was happening, I went over on my right ankle whilst rolled & have done some real damage.

    Anyhow, after the ‘have you hit your head?’ , ‘are you bleeding?’ , ‘can you see any broken bones sticking out your feet?’, Dr.Zeuss is of the opinion that nothing sounds broken, so rest, cold compress, frozen peas, painkillers, etc & should be less painfull in 48 – 72 hours. If no improvement then, get yourself down to A&E.

    Now 24 hours later, I type this stuck in bed (which I crawled to, on my hands & knees). I cannot stand, can put no weight on either ankle. How the hell I’m going to get back down the stairs, let alone crawl & clamber into a taxi to go to A&E, I have no idea.

    So yeah… help-lines are Cunts 🙁

  16. In the 80s a young girl phoned Childline. Somehow the kid got through to Esther Rancid. The distraught girl told the ‘That’s Shite’ presenter that she was being abused by Jimmy Savile. Rantzen told her that she would look into it, but – as expected – the girl’s genuine complaints were totally ignored and nothing was done and Sir Jim’ll continued his joe roncing and evil doings.. This came out in the 2012/2013 Savile shitstorm and the aftermath of the Yewtree operation. Rantzen blubbed her crocodile tears and squirmed like a worm on a fishing hook, the fucking corrupt tombstone teeth cunt.

    Conclusive proof that ‘helplines’ are indeed crap and utterly pointelss.

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