Persona Non Gratis to Vodafone's Deli Counter
Every three months I make it a habit of popping into a Vodafone store and checking to see whether their system will give me an account.
The world’s favourite mobile operator and I had a disagreement — one that I held very closely to heart. Vodafone, on the other hand, a huge corporate titan, didn’t give a stuff. It shouldn’t. It’s not Vodafone’s problem. Vodafone sets its corporate policies, it’s computer system ensures they are carried out and it’s staffers are relegated to indentured servitude — “computer says no”.
After the billing disagreement — I think it was 700 quid’s worth of outstanding charges that I duly paid off — my phone number was recycled immediately into the hands of a poor lady in the midlands who began getting continual phone calls throughout the day from my array of contacts (many of whom refused to update my number in their phonebooks).
I popped into Voda’s shop and … well, every three months, it’s a bit of a ritual. The sales people laugh and joke with me, I keep a stern, certain face, “No, seriously, I’m pretty confident your computer system will not let me back,” I say.
“Oh no sir, it will be fine — SEE — you’re here!”
We go through the rigmarole. We go through the check.
Despite a million quid mortgage and a Range Rover in the drive, I’m still considered a massive, massive credit risk to Vodafone.
Yesterday I tried again. Three months had past since the last attempt. There’s nothing like standing in a public store, decked out in a pinstripe and all your finery, watching whilst an old Chinese lady, speaking in broken English, is signed-up to a £75/month contract — at the same time as the surprised Vodafone staffer exclaims, ‘Errrr, no? Weird. No, errr sorry.’
It was quite interesting this time as I sat to the right of the chap whilst he was navigating through the computer menus. Yes there I was on the system. Yes they’ve got me. Yes they know where I live. Yes, I was right. I’m still Persona Non Gratis.
I think it still does bother me a little bit.
Let’s be clear, there’s absolutely no way I want to pay 35p a minute to phone anyone. But, you know.
The worst thing about Vodafone’s new shop layouts? The deli counter.
Take a number.
Yup no kidding.
Humilating.
This is my number! Look! I pressed some buttons on the point-of-sale machine. New customer? Yes. Business? Whatever. Click, click, point… print. Out came my number..
I just reached for my phone to document the humiliation when a Vodafone lady came running out of a side office of the shop screaming:
NUMBAAAAA FORRRTEEEEE?
‘Shit. Shit that’s me,’ I thought.
She hoped on the spot for a few moments.
NUMBER FORTY?
Shiiiiiiiiit. She’ll let it go in a minute.
Let’s just be clear: The last time I arsed around with tickets and numbers, I was 6 years old standing next to my mum at a ‘FineFare’ Tesco-style shop’s deli counter. (“Can I take the ticket, mum?”)
NUMBER FORTY?
Arse. She wasn’t dropping it. She was beginning to stride around the shop floor.
NUMBER FORTY? ANYONE? ANYONE? WHO IS NUMBER FORTY?
‘Geez,’ I thought, as her tone began to move into an accusatory scream.
My predicament was made worse by the fact I was already talking to a guy. He’d just come up and asked if I needed any help and I was busy skewering him on the finer points of Vodafone’s data policies when the NUMBER FORTY??? issue arose.
NUMBER FORTY?
She screamed it again – slight desperation in her voice now. I thought I better ‘fess up.
‘Er, that’s me — I’m number forty,’ I explained, across the store, holding up my ticket.
As soon as I spoke, her head snapped round and she fixed me.
YOU’RE NUMBER FORTY?
Oh geez. People in the store were looking. This Voda staffer lady was not impressed. I’d screwed up the system by talking to another staffer. HE TALKED TO ME FIRST.
So.
It might be an effective and efficient crowd-control measure, but I can’t handle the take-a-ticket thing. No Sir. Have you tried it yet?
