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Dear EE.
As you are aware, I have a phone contract with you. I'd like to take this opportunity to emphasise that word "contract", because that is what it is. A contract. It is not, as your telesales department appear to believe, some kind of Faustian pact in which I have granted you my immortal soul. Let me stress from the very outset that I am not your ***** as a result of having one of your phones, OK?
I do not use you for broadband. I use another company for that. No, I'm not going to tell you who they are, no matter how many times your telesales team ask me, for one very simple and very clear reason. It's none of their ****ing business. Frankly the company I use for broadband are a buch of charmless mercenary *****, but at least they've got the sense to leave me the hell alone by allowing a few months of peace between phone calls.
That brings me, rather neatly, to the point of this letter. The answer to the question "Would you like our broadband?" isn't one that's going to change on a frequent basis. The answers to some questions certainly might- ones like "Would you like a sandwich?" or "Would sir care for a "happy ending" today?" are questions that are susceptible to daily whims. But not "Would you like our broadband?". It's not a question that you need to ask me every other day. If the answer was "No" two days ago, it's still going to be "No" today, unless it's turned into "**** off and leave me alone" in the intervening 48 hours.
And yet every other day some chirpy little bastard is phoning me at while I'm at work to try whoring broadband. I am diving away from my desk to take personal calls so frequently that my workmates are convinced I'm having an affair. In their eyes I have transformed from "Model family man" to "Filthy syphilitic animal. HIs poor wife!" and all because your call centre pimps seem flatly incapable of understanding the words "Leave me alone or I'll stick this ****ing phone up your arse and claim on the insurance".
I have no idea how many sales this "Harass the ****ers until they dissolve into a puddle of snot and tears and cave in to our demands" school of marketing nets you, but it's failed here. See my arsehole? Do you see it, in all its virgin glory? My lovely arsehole? Well, you're not having it. NO. It's mine, I like it and you're not having it. There is a line that separates "ethical sales" from "harassment by a pack of rapacious ****s" and you have not so much stepped over it as hurtled clear over it like Evel ****ing Knievel.
May you, your sales team and all your board of directors all be savaged to death by crab lice. You appalling bastards.
Love,
BFB
As you are aware, I have a phone contract with you. I'd like to take this opportunity to emphasise that word "contract", because that is what it is. A contract. It is not, as your telesales department appear to believe, some kind of Faustian pact in which I have granted you my immortal soul. Let me stress from the very outset that I am not your ***** as a result of having one of your phones, OK?
I do not use you for broadband. I use another company for that. No, I'm not going to tell you who they are, no matter how many times your telesales team ask me, for one very simple and very clear reason. It's none of their ****ing business. Frankly the company I use for broadband are a buch of charmless mercenary *****, but at least they've got the sense to leave me the hell alone by allowing a few months of peace between phone calls.
That brings me, rather neatly, to the point of this letter. The answer to the question "Would you like our broadband?" isn't one that's going to change on a frequent basis. The answers to some questions certainly might- ones like "Would you like a sandwich?" or "Would sir care for a "happy ending" today?" are questions that are susceptible to daily whims. But not "Would you like our broadband?". It's not a question that you need to ask me every other day. If the answer was "No" two days ago, it's still going to be "No" today, unless it's turned into "**** off and leave me alone" in the intervening 48 hours.
And yet every other day some chirpy little bastard is phoning me at while I'm at work to try whoring broadband. I am diving away from my desk to take personal calls so frequently that my workmates are convinced I'm having an affair. In their eyes I have transformed from "Model family man" to "Filthy syphilitic animal. HIs poor wife!" and all because your call centre pimps seem flatly incapable of understanding the words "Leave me alone or I'll stick this ****ing phone up your arse and claim on the insurance".
I have no idea how many sales this "Harass the ****ers until they dissolve into a puddle of snot and tears and cave in to our demands" school of marketing nets you, but it's failed here. See my arsehole? Do you see it, in all its virgin glory? My lovely arsehole? Well, you're not having it. NO. It's mine, I like it and you're not having it. There is a line that separates "ethical sales" from "harassment by a pack of rapacious ****s" and you have not so much stepped over it as hurtled clear over it like Evel ****ing Knievel.
May you, your sales team and all your board of directors all be savaged to death by crab lice. You appalling bastards.
Love,
BFB
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