The Battle With BT
Battersby's recent move reminded me of a battle I had last year: -
The day had arrived! After a two month wait British Telecom, on behalf of Sky Media, were knocking on my door. I was going to get my telephone and broadband connected and, finally, I would be able to get on line and re-establish contact with some long time friends.
Two chaps, both resplendent in scruffy civvies and workman-like boots, stood on my doorstep. The first guy looked to be in his mid thirties, he was stocky and stood about 170cm tall; a local lad judging by his accent. The other was tall and wiry, he had a thin weatherbeaten face, eyebrows like established gorse bushes and a head of unruly grey/black hair. It was no surprise, when he eventually introduced himself, to find he was Scottish.
I stood there, excitement writ large all over my face. ‘You’ve come to fit my telephone and broadband!’ I exclaimed.
As only they can, the Scot looked dour. ‘We maybe have na a wee problem there sir,’ he informed me.
‘You haven’t got a telegraph pole,’ added the small one.
At first I wasn’t sure whether that was a statement or a question., all I could blurt out was, ‘a telegraph pole?’
‘Yes sir, you haven’t got one,’ replied the small one. ‘We’ll have to phone our supervisor.’
I must admit that at this point I did cast a suspicious eye around the small Close in which I live to see if Ant & Dec were giggling in the cab of one of the vans which were parked therein.
I was tempted to sarcastically point out that as he, (Small and Stocky) didn’t have a telegraph pole either, he would find it difficult to phone his Supervisor. Suffice to say, I didn’t; after all it was 2012 and you would expect everyone to have a mobile phone wouldn’t you? Anyway, as if to prove a point, they both produced mobile phones. The Scot moved five paces to my right and made a call while the short one moved six paces to my left to make his call. I had to presume that they were both calling their respective supervisors as they each had their own van and I naturally thought that as the vans were totally different then each man had a different task to perform. Why pay one man when you can pay two? In it together and all that!
Dour Scot was in charge of a big and, somewhat, ugly van; the small one was in a standard, white Ford Transit van with ‘BT Openreach’ emblazoned on each side. Small and Stocky finished his call first and walked over to the Scotsman who was still talking into his mobile phone. The small one was obviously a patient man because he stood two paces from the tall one and waited. The Scot took his phone from his ear and held it in front of him and stared at it for a good thirty seconds. I surmised that it must be one of those prototype telepathic phones and he was willing the call to end. Eventually, he puts the phone into his pocket and gestures to the small one.
They then do a circuit of the big ugly van before walking over to the smaller Ford Transit, There, they stop and strike up an animated conversation with much pointing of fingers at various aspects of the Close in which we live. Dour Scot shrugs his shoulders and looks pleadingly at the small stocky one. At this point I’m still not worried because Small and Stocky has left his tool bag on my doorstep, a basic schoolboy error as I can easily take it hostage should they persist in their view that they can’t carry out the programmed work.
Small and Stocky walks over to me, I am standing on my front doorstep in anticipation of good news.
‘Sorry sir, it’s as I thought; you haven’t got a telegraph pole!’
‘And you can tell this because?’ I answer flippantly.
The Scot comes to the aid of his confused little colleague, ‘you shouldnae need a telegraph pole.’ He informs me. He can clearly see the confusion clouding my face because he quickly adds, ‘all new build should have underground cables trunked tae the property yer ken.’
I should interject here and say that I had moved into a new bungalow.
Little stocky one is nodding his head vigorously and edging towards his toolbag. I nonchalantly step in front of it, denying him access. Dour Scot has got a point but I’m loathe to agree with him because doing so would give them the go ahead to get back into their respective vans and disappear. Instead I point out to them that my neighbour had his phone installed by BT just two days ago and he didn’t have a telegraph pole either. Check mate, I thought.
‘Aye, but his neighbour has one in his garden and we were given permission tae go into his garden and run a line from the pole to your neighbour’s bungalow.’ Answers the Scot pointedly.
‘Did you happen to notice that the bungalows are semi detached?’ I ask
‘Och off course sir,’ he answers, patronisingly, ‘the problem is, your bungalow is further away and we cannae get a line across to you.’
Small and Stocky tries to be helpful, ‘couldn’t we erect a pole at the side of this gentleman’s bungalow and run a cable to it?’
Dour Scot, emphatically. ‘No!’ I knew he meant it because he'd dropped the accent.
‘Oh’.
‘Hang on’, I say. ‘why not? It seems like a plausible solution to me and I gladly give you permission.’ You see, I can be helpful, I’m not always obstructive.
Dour Scot, ‘makes nae difference sir, we’ve phoned it in.’
‘Why would that make no difference?’ I ask.
‘When we phone in, they cancel the docket,’ he replies triumphantly.
‘So, what happens now?’ I ask.
‘Your guess is as good as mine sir, our supervisor will have to get in touch with you and make a decision.’
The temptation was too great, I reply. ‘I’m taking it that your supervisor can’t make a decision on his own which is why he will need my input.’
‘I dinna unnersand,’ replies dour Scot, reverting to native Glaswegian.
Before I answer I fend off Small and Stocky as he tries to snake an arm around my legs in order to retrieve his toolbag.
‘Whilst I admire the chain of command which you obviously have to adhere to, I can’t help but wonder if you manage to complete any jobs at all.’ I say in answer to the Dour one. ‘Do you not communicate with the builder on new build projects?’
‘It’s nae good ye geein it ta me, yer ken? We an just fitters!’ Replies the Dour one, getting ever closer to his Gorbals heritage.
Small and Stocky joins in at this point, ‘the supervisor will ring you tomorrow (Friday) or it could be Monday.’ He tells me; however, his intervention proves to be but a crafty ploy because as I turn to answer him Dour Scot sneaks in on my blind side and snatches the toolbag.
‘They will contact you with another appointment once the Supervisor has spoken to you,’ says, a now smiling, Small and Stocky one.
I close the door on them, the bitter taste of defeat in my mouth. Round one to BT!
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