Thursday, 21st April 2005.

Eat your heart out, Alexander

Bloody hell. Result from B.T.

After two days of numerous lengthy phone calls, clearing out emails while listening to badly played Mozart concertos while on hold, arguing with different customer service technicians who not only give conflicting advice but also don't have a clue what other departments are doing...I rang this afternoon and spoke to a friendly, polite and efficient young Indian chap in the cancellations department. Within five minutes of connection (if you count the automated selection system that greets you when you dial the helpline) he'd told me what was going on, why it had happened and reassured me that the problem had resolved itself. He explained the way the accounts worked and seemed to know more about migration than all the other customer service reps put together. He was polite, friendly and easy to understand - and the best thing is I actually believed him.

Fourteen years of lousy third-rate service from British Telecom has hardened me against anything actually going right when I call them up, meaning that an outcome like this is almost unprecedented. It's one of those things that you dream about, but that never actually happens. It's an episode of Doctor Who where Christopher Eccleston doesn't fold his arms. It's a nourishing and satisfying McDonalds meal. It's the Jewish mob turning to Jesus and saying "All right, we've decided not to crucify you today".