An honest account of working in a call centre

Job interviews. Does anyone really enjoy them?

You stand there looking a little gormless at your reflection. You’ve wound, then rewound your tie to the point it looks more like a hipster scarf, of which is now limiting your supply of oxygen. Your digestive system is being slightly rebellious. Is it a xenomorph in the belly? Or maybe just a big bundle of nerves?

For me, in September 2009, it was interview fright.

My hair was slicked back like James Dean or James ‘Arg’ Argent. I had squeezed into my smart size 30 trousers by taking in a deep intake of breath.  Any bending over in these threads, and there could be a split.

I was going for an interview as a sales advisor at Sky Repair Services.

I didn’t know that much about Sky. Back at school, Sky was this mysterious concept that only the cool, rich kids had, the ones with Super Mario watches, Nike Air trainers and hair gel. They’d exclaim around the schoolyard they had spent the weekend watching Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network on the fabled Sky, their faces swelling up with excessive boasting.
My television entertainment consisted of me fighting with my TV aerial in an attempt to watch a rather grainy Channel 5 back in the late 90s.

I digress. I was going to give the world of call centres a try, working shifts from 2 ’til 8. Sadly I didn’t realise it would be my work nadir and my sanity would be sapped away. My voice was about to be the most reviled in teatime history.

It’s a smile, but Kirsty is actually dead on the inside.

Call centres, I discovered, are a rite of passage for many a new adult.  Somewhere in between liberating traffic cones during a night out or buying your first alcopop at a dubious looking off-licence.
As I arrived to my interview, I was looking around for a handle on the door and all I can find was a lonely buzzer. I pressed it and distortion spat at me through an intercom. ‘Push the door,’ the buzzer crackled and I went in.

The floor resembled a glass tank of desks, ties, pencil skirts and heels. Black chairs and beige desks, all accompanied by clunky phones that belonged in the last century.

The iPhone of 1983

The interview was easy. The lady simply asked about my skills and competency. She explained how amazing the company was and all the money that I could earn. The more sign-ups I would get, the more income I could take home.
Money! I silently exclaimed. My only source of income previously had been birthday card cheques from forgotten relatives or selling PlayStation games to my schoolyard chums when they weren’t talking about Sky.

I must have made a really good impression at the interview, I fathomed. Either that or the lady was swayed by my post teenage scent of optimism and Lynx Africa.

Later I went to see my girlfriend at the time who worked at the supermarket. She prepared lasagne at the ASDA cafe; my charms had won her over by complimenting her on her decorative name badge and culinary acumen. Halfway between our embrace, I got a call saying I had got the job!

I began on Monday, where I was greeted to the office by a man named Tristan. He was Devil merged with My Family thespian Kris Marshall.  Or just a twit in a black suit.

Dressed in a black shirt, black tie, black trousers  and a head of streaky peroxide white hair. He had scary bulging eyes with a sinister gaze that would pierce through your soul and deep into your nightmares.
His own soul had been buried underneath years of PPI sales jobs and sophisticated phone begging. He strode around the office, checking up on people to make sure they weren’t slacking. The day would start with his cringey motivational speeches.
Tristan would get everyone to stand on the feet and demand a roll call.

“I wanna hear a HELL YEAH”
“Hell Yeah!” We replied.
“Come on – you can do better than that. Let’s try again.  HELL YEAH!”

“HELL YEAH!!”

Hell, no, my brain thought, as I looked down in disdain of my glorious leader.

The first two days were training us, a group of mostly acne-ridden recruits. There was an inane dance track in the background, possibly composed by acne-ridden GCSE Music Tech students. Pumping through the office stereo, I couldn’t make out what Tristan was saying. I asked him to turn it down. He walked over, pretended to press a button on the stereo,  then started the training again.

Luckily, the music was improved the week after with the Kevin and Perry Go Large soundtrack, and then Kings of Leon, aptly the album featuring song ‘I’m on Call.’

During training, we learnt the art of pestering people by not actually given them a choice to say no, through role play.
I had to pretend to phone another colleague, Wilma. My face went bright red, burning with embarrassment as I had to act it out in front of our group. My memory has intelligently repressed this moment out of existence, so I can’t share their scenario with you. Wilma didn’t come back the following day, I hoped our acting didn’t terrify her!

Despite the training, I had no real clue what I was doing. By taking on so much information, my brain, like a popular bacon crisp brand, was Frazzled. Combined with anxiety about even picking up a phone, I dreaded to make my first call. Sadly for me, calling people was the job.

I was shaking when Tristan slammed a list of hundreds of phone numbers onto my desk. I was given a multi-page script, with an objection leaflet, where I’d be directed to say previous paragraphs over and over again and hammer home the benefits of Sky Repair Services.
Such included why am I giving you my card details ? Our response was this is the easiest way to do things.

I put the receiver to my ear in fear. Luckily, my first few calls rang away and no one picked up.  I eventually got through to someone. “Hello,” I meekly spluttered.

My recipients were frustrated about being cold called, demanding where I got their number.  It wasn’t a good start and I hated the thought of annoying innocent people.

Some would say no thankyou. Being shy and young, with not even a flicker of chest hair nor beard yet, I felt self-conscious hearing my voice read out the script. I was effectively bulldozing my way through their afternoons with hundreds of sales words in the vain hope they would be stupid enough to relinquish their card details to me.

Each call only had one question,  we didn’t even stop for a breath. This limited the chance they would say ‘no’ by not giving them the chance to answer anything:

“Hello Mrs Brady Bean

This is Rupert from Sky Response Services. On our records you have a cover plan for your sky satellite package. Is this correct?

Um, urr yes

Excellent. We are calling you to inform  you can now pay just £4.12 per month… that’s just £16.50 per quarter. All you have to do is cancel your current direct debit at the bank. This is a simple process,  you will have peace of mind. We have a speedy response service team, if we can’t see to you today, then we can definitely see  you tomorrow. 

We cover everything that might happen to your sky box, including accidental breakage, cable problems or damage to the remote control. The only we don’t cover is swinging around on your satellite dish, which I’m sure you don’t do is (insert name) (pause for laughter)

We can replace all parts with items as good as new. Now before we set you up with this cheaper option, we just need to take the long card number on the front and the three digits on the back. Now if you can read out those numbers for me…”

Customer phone numbers came to us as they had previously not ticked a box about third party companies. There were fuming when they found out. Further snarling was caused due to the fact we were called Sky Repair Services, yet had nothing to do with Sky!

If they dared to question us,  we would repeat how amazing we were. They could say ‘no’ up to three times. I felt bad calling people up. I didn’t get any sales in the first few days, and Tristan started hammering down on my script with his fingers . Tap tap. His devil eyes were glaring at me.

I dialled hundreds of people per day, my fingers losing feeling. Most people were annoyed, or if I was lucky, I’d get a reprieve by hearing an annoying array of answer phone messages.

My favourite was the Martins, who couldn’t come to the phone right due to an invasion of enlarged and enraged hamsters, but please take a message and we’ll get back to you once we’ve fended them off.”

Sound familar, Martins?

Some customers would be pensioners who’d tell me various life stories as I was their first human contact all year. I can probably still recount tales of how Hitler didn’t seem that bad at the beginning of the war or how Snickers used to be called Marathon Bars.

Another guy couldn’t move off his bed due to an immense back injury. He was trying to desperately fumble for his bank card, which was on a nearby table, to tell us his card details.

My soul was being consumed by the money-making machine of this company. When we made a sale, we would announce it to the team leaders with a swift hand in the air, like a prefect in the classroom. A white board with a red marked tally next to our names would display the most sales. Seeing a couple of my measly dashes compared to an army of others marks was quite humiliating. I felt disenchanted and alone.

My only acquaintance was Darren, a ginger haired chav. He looked amiss in smart clothes that he had probably bought from a day in a court. He sat kneeled on top of his chair like an orangutan, swinging, rear in the air, phone in his ear. I sometimes joined his cigarette crew outside, the threat of lung cancer would be less scary than spending more time in the office. Darren admitted to the smoker’s clan that he bought his girlfriend a toy of of some kind, but was jealous that she enjoyed it more than his own company.
I was relieved when we finished at 8 that day.

I accumulated some sales, I felt I was leading the high life. Sadly, they had run out of prizes. Normally if I got 2 sales I could earn a bag of fruit. 4 sales, chocolates. 10, wine.

Monday and Thursday were for the new starters, and staff would mysteriously disappear each day. There was also the big leagues table, for those who amassed great sales. The fabled floor above was only for the sales kingpins, we could not set foot up there.

The best day, I got a sale before each smoking break – clawing a total of 4. Sometimes, a sale was deleted – a slip of paper was left on my  desk in the morning with a big stamp in red saying FAIL/DECLINE.
Basically, some people had cottoned onto the fact we weren’t actually Sky. Or we had unwittingly phoned up teenagers, who had decided to become captains of their own household to prove how adult they were, but weren’t actually thus when Mum and Dad found out.

I felt lifeless and drained of all feeling. A bit like daytime television. I was feeling anxious each time I picked up the phone and embarrassed at my lack of points on the tally chart. Not even Tristan’s sinister glaring or his rousing Hell Yeah’s could help me rise above it.

My mood lowered further when my girlfriend texted me saying that day saying, ‘We need to talk about us.’ Apparently she was going through a crossroads in her life and just wanted to be single whilst she sorted her future out. I’ve used that one since.

Darren had enlisted his chavvy mates to the call centre, he was talking about football and all things Darren, how amazing he etc. His missus met him outside and he proclaimed out to everyone – this is my girlfriend, she’s well fit isn’t she!
l couldn’t take it anymore.

It was finally Friday, the dirty data day – the scraps from people on the call list that we had harassed and received no reply. I didn’t make any sales. I was disheartened further by seeing bags of fruit and chocolate being thrown around the office. Someone had won a casket of champagne. I imagined myself in a casket of my own.

My last call was a truly fiendish customer who emitted a sharp siren-like noise down the phone. If it was an attempt to deafen me, it worked, and I winced in pain and held on to my poor ear in anguish. I don’t know if this was to ward off potential cold callers.Luckily, it was the weekend and I could get some healthy distraction from the likes of Peep Show and Lost.

Tristan phoned me up on the Monday morning. He told me that things weren’t working out. I didn’t need to come in anymore and that I would get paid for the work I had done.

I had lasted a total of 7 working days. I wanted to jump with joy and I truly felt that the world of the call centres was not for me.

Luckily my next job was a lot better for the soul and my endorphins. Luckily I had kept a weekend job at a Sweet shop – Wintons Confectionary. That was a real HELL YEAH where I was allowed to try a few sweetie samples.

That job had left a sweet taste in my mouth. And a filling.

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