» Call Centres

Never miss out on a good pearoast opportunity...
    I no longer work at this call centre, and don't believe I'll ever work in one again - it's given me a sort of Pavlov's dog-like aversion to the sound of a phone ringing. As you read, you will undoubtably think I am somewhat of a cretin (you are absolutely correct of course), but believe me I was small-fry compared to some of the uber olympic-level wasters on the other end of the line.
   Since it's a bit of an epic pea, I've "re-imagined" some parts, like what shite bands do when they wanna re-release an album, with the added bonus of some heroically wank b-side.
   So here it is, a little window on the world of a Stan James telephone gamble monkey. If you have had a lovely day, all kittens and fwuffies, I would make like a tree and fuck off, it'll only get you down. If you are into your bitter hate-filled diatribes, you're onto a winner...

1. Opening the Call

a) OK, best not to start with the opening gambits of "Would you like my account number?" - no, I'd like to fucking guess it sir - or "Can I have a bet?" - You've. Rung. A. Betline. See, the answers I really want to give to both questions are invariably "no", so just give me your account number and let's get this over with.

b) About that account number. It is six digits long, there is no need to pause after each one. I'm a big boy, I can take it all.

c) Shockingly enough, I need the account information before I can place the bet. If your race is going off, and you are angry that I must ask for said information, there is a simple remedy, RING 20 SECONDS EARLIER YOU LAZY CUNT.

d) Think about the events that are about to transpire, your best course of action. Trackside at the Moto GP? Don't call. Eating food? Don't call. Actually taking an actual shit while we're ACTUALLY talking? What sort of man are you!? Don't call. When all the above criteria are met, and you are somewhere quiet and free from interruption, I can just barely tolerate you. This is as good as it gets.

Sometimes this happens - "You want the account number? *sigh* Hang on I'll just get my card" - this will make my heart hurt. Preparation is the buzzword here, more on this later.

2. Right, We're In

a) Oh, where to start. This is where things begin to go seriously wrong. For starters, don't cut me off during my "Hello Mr Shroodgambler, what can I do for you?" spiel - can't you see I'm being courteous, you fucker.

b) At this point, don't wander off for a conversation with your friend/partner/child. It's crucial we talk, so the important business of betting happens.

c) Now I can't stress this one enough - have some idea of what your bet is before you ring up.

I am not here to hold your hand. I am not here to slip into a dress with you and listen to George Michael. I am not, as the saying goes, a beautiful blonde with big tits and an ass that tastes like vanilla ice cream. So stop trying to fuck me. Trawling through the Botswanan 2nd Division lacrosse prices to find you a filthy 1/3 shot makes me cry actual blood tears.

d) Shouty calls are great. If there's one thing I love, it's repeating every word I say simply because you can't be arsed to leave the pub. Similarly it's brilliant fun when you whisper, due to fear of reprisal from wife/boss/Allah.

e) There are a select band of miscreants who are only allowed to get a bet on when confirmed by the card holder. You know, the type of guy who isn't allowed his own bank account. It is generally "the missus" who does the deed, but there is at least one individual who needs the confirmation of his mum. However, even he was trumped by the chap who needed his prison officer to open the call to explain the legalities of what was about to occur.

3. Bad Bets

a) Too many years gambling, and too long working here, has made me quite snobbish about certain bets. There are a few specifics which I will mention later, but for now, a quick rundown on some of my favourite crap bets. Oooh it's like the chart show isn't it:

- Betting less than a fiver on an odds on shot. Get away from me you gypo, quite frankly.
- Placepots in which you pick every bloody horse running, for 5p stakes.
- Through-the-card forecasts on the dogs. I mean, what leads you to believe trap 1 will beat trap 2 in every. single. race? If you hate money that much, give it to charity.

b) Each way betting is a type of bet used to back long odds. There are two parts to the bet - the win, and the place. Without boring you with too much detail, if you back short odds, you lose money on the place. Anything below 5/1 is a bit silly. So when you go e/w on even money shots and less, my face looks something akin to a bulldog licking piss off a nettle.

c) But we make it hard to just go all out for the win. Myriad bets on a plethora of sports, it can be confusing. But sometimes you just wonder at the thought process of someone putting their cold hard sterling on the assumption there will be over five first half corners in a Belgian League 2 match. Just WHY?

d) I'll lump the rest all in together, as they all tend to come from a very distinct type of customer - the ones we make all the money off.

If you do any of the following -

Back the next fav off without even knowing what it is, when it's off, what sport it's even in.
Ask for what's "in-running" due to the urgent need of betting on something RIGHT NOW.
Ask for the score, get told to ring the results line, then go "Ahh sod it, I'll just have £500 on the short price".
Are unable to pronounce the name of whatever filth you are backing - this one is always a sure sign of the amount of in depth study that has gone into a selection. And don't worry if you can't quite get it, we accept anything from words that sound a bit like the one you're trying to say, to mild racism ("gimme a hundred on that chinky bird")

- any of these, and I will instantly want to ritually slaughter your first born.

4. Things I Don't Need To Know

a) I just need the name of the horse. Dear God. We have this cracking little index thing that means I can just type the fucker in, and everything magically happens. I don't need to know where it's running, who the jockey is, the trainer, what price it was this morning, how it did when it ran out last saturday, what ground it prefers - you might as well tell me its birth mother and date of conception.

b) Personal facts. I don't wanna hear about your life as an accountant for the largest Kellog import/export depot in Europe, about your theory on gay people, whether you've recently shagged a prostitute, the death of all your close family, or how that recent trip to the hospital went.

I'll be blunt, having to hack your voice for one second longer than necessary has me reaching for the staplegun, its destination, MY FACE. I HATE YOU. This is maybe a point I should've raised earlier.

c) Anything else but the bet really. When I give you a price, and you say "but Ladbrokes are doing 3/1!!", what exactly d'you want me to say? Good for them sir!? Just have a bet, or fuck off, is the rule I'm implying.

Also, our company perhaps works differently from those you have encountered previously. Your opinions on our prices/markets/anything else? Quite useless. Utterly without value. I mean that sincerely. If I say something, it's right. If you don't agree, you're wrong. In todays crazy world of asbos and credit crunches, it's nice to see a pure black and white fact.

d) The jokes. Oh the jokes.
"What can I do for you sir?"..."Well, you could find me a winner! hohoho chortle chortle!"
"Would you like 3/1?"..."I'd prefer 20s! hohoho guffaw!"
"D'you do prices for the marathon?"..."Why of course, who were you..."..."Wassa price of the bloke in the diving suit AHAHAHAH CHORTLE LOLZ!!one"

5. Almost Home

a) OK, almost there, but not quite. One of the most crucial parts of the call is about to happen - reading the bet back, and calling "Bet's on". I have to do this. I don't wanna, but I must. So don't talk over the top of me. Don't talk to someone else as I do this, then ask what the bet was again. Don't allow me to go all the way through, dial for the money, strike the bet, then go "Errr, actually I wanted it like this". Just be cool.

b) When I say "Anything else Sir?" that's your cue to get involved, should you want anymore gamble. When you wait until I finish the bet and go "Oh there was something else", my teeth actually curl back on themselves, and reroot into my gums, and blood froths from my mouth. It's a terrible sight.

c) DONT HANG UP ON ME. NOT WHEN IM READING THE BET BACK, NOT AFTER I GIVE YOU A PRICE YOU DONT LIKE, NOT AS IM DIALLING THROUGH, NOT AFTER IVE TAKEN THE FUCKING TIME TO PUT YOUR SHIT FUCKING BET ON AND LISTEN TO URFUCKING INANE TWIITERINGFUCKIN CUNT YOU FUCK ARGJRHG DONT HANGUPVP;]ORGRSLSR DONT. HANGUPSKUDHG[#KJBZE DONTFUCK INHG]DHANG UP CUNTSKU,.;AB;EFKEW. #]. Don't do it.
(Mon 7th Sep 2009, 18:17, More)

» School Projects

nobtionary
There's that bit in Superbad, where the main kid reveals a secret shame of his childhood. A love of a particular art form, a dark and mysterious technique. He basically drew a lot of cocks. Well my chums, I was that kid.

I say kid, I was probably 14/15 at the height of my career as a pro-nobbler. All the usual stuff; speednob, the heavily-inked-nob-on-rubber-then-stamped-on-someones-face trick, tightly co-ordinated homework attacks just before they were handed in. It was the the sheer volume that was most impressive. During those glory-days I was a pioneer, a rogue nobslinger, people genuinely feared where the next cock was coming from. One beautiful moment came as a teacher walked around class to check on our illiterate stylings.
*teacher approaching at far end of table*
"Ian, if you don't look over there you're gay"
*Ian looks away, rampant and proud felt-tip cock is drawn over Ian's homework*
"LOL"
*utter desolation on Ian's face. Ian looks at cock. Teacher looks at cock. Ian looks at teacher. Teacher looks away. Ian looks at cock.*

So you're getting it. I was into cock. There's really no other way of saying it. But this is meant to be about projects, not cock. Well, I found a way to combine the two. I made The Nobtionary.

It was designed to cover every type of nob imaginable. A referencing aid, or as I tended to think of it, a biblical tome. It started off innocently enough, with some fairly tame deviations from the basic form, as hopefully illustrated below:
*sadly not orginal nobtionary artwork, merely a recreation what I knocked up moments ago - that's right, I still got it*
L-R: nob, inverse nob, hotdog special, mushroom cap, spermchain, wrinkled ranger



These were small variations on a standard theme, and initially you could get about 10-15 on a page. Over time though, things started to get a bit more abstract, a lot more elaborate. It was heavily influenced by popular culture, from childrens T.V. (budgie the little nobcopter, thomas the wank engine), to action films (the sperminator, robonob, rammed-bo). Even Norse mythology was accounted for (thor's wanger). By the end things were getting out of hand, with the hugely technical drawings (ie vein detail) taking an entire sheet of A4 each. Some of these wonders included McNob (bagpipes for balls, wearing tam o'shanter on head), the hanging nobs of babylon (a visual feast let me assure you), and the infamous paedophiles revenge.

I would dearly love to show you all these. I'm genuinely proud of the effort that was put in, by far and away the most I applied myself to anything during school. Sadly I cannot, as after 3 years of dilligent creation, I left my bag at the bustop, where it were kicked and abused by ruffians. The Nobtionary was nowhere to be seen in the aftermath, and the heroism of the book was passed on into myth. After it was lost there were rumours going round that one kid or other had hold of it, maybe a teacher had found it, and it was now passed round in the staff room to alternating reactions of horror and merriment. I miss it. If you find it, tell me. You'll know it because it has 'nobtionary' written on the front, and inside is full of cocks.

ps Joe if there are any truth in the rumours and you are reading this I WANT MY COCKS BACK PLEASE

length? NOB B=====D~~
(Fri 14th Aug 2009, 4:03, More)

» Customers from Hell

Roasting peas...
I don't work here anymore, but when darkness falls I STILL HEAR THEM SCREAMING...

I am hopeful this loving piece will give you hoo-mans a little insight into the world of a Stan James telephone gamble monkey. Having said that, sensible people should probably stop reading now; if you're into your bitter, hate filled diatribes, crack on!

1. Opening the Call

a) OK, best not to start with the opening gambits of "Would you like my account number?" - no, I'd like to fucking guess it sir - or "Can I have a bet?" - You've. Rung. A. Betline. See, the answers I really want to give to both questions are invariably "no", so just give me your account number and let's get this over with.

b) About that account number. It is six digits long, there is no need to pause after each one. I'm a big boy, I can take it all.

c) Shockingly enough, I need the account information before I can place the bet. If your race is going off, and you are angry that I must ask for said information, there is a simple remedy, RING 20 SECONDS EARLIER YOU LAZY CUNT.

d) Think about the events that are about to transpire, your best course of action. Trackside at the Moto GP? Don't call. Eating food? Don't call. Actually taking an actual shit while we're ACTUALLY talking? Dear Lord, have some shame man. Don't call. When all the above criteria are met, and you are somewhere quiet and free from interruption, I can just barely tolerate you. This is as good as it gets.

Sometimes this happens - "You want the account number? *sigh* Hang on I'll just get my card" - this will make my heart hurt. Preparation is the buzzword here, more on this later.

2. Right, We're In

a) Oh, where to start. This is where things begin to go seriously wrong. For starters, don't cut me off during my "Hello Mr Shroodgambler, what can I do for you?" spiel - can't you see I'm being courteous, you fucker.

b) At this point, don't wander off for a conversation with your friend/partner/child. It's crucial we talk, so the important business of betting happens.

c) Now I can't stress this one enough - have some idea of what your bet is before you ring up.

You don't walk into a betting shop, wandering around asking people what to throw your money at, do you. Do you? Spending hours trawling through Lithuanian table tennis prices just so you can find some streaky 2/7 shot makes me cry blood tears.

d) Shouty calls are great. If there's one thing I love, it's repeating every word I say simply because you can't be arsed to leave the pub. Similarly it's brilliant fun when you whisper, due to fear of reprisal from wife/boss/Allah.

e) There are a select band of miscreants who are only allowed to get a bet on when confirmed by the card holder. The type of guy who isn't allowed his own bank account. It is generally "the missus" who does the deed (says the alpha-male type who opens the call - ok pal, move along, let your wife get the bet on), but there is at least one individual who needs the confirmation of his mum. Time to give it up imo.

3. Bad Bets

a) Too many years gambling, and too long working here, has made me quite snobbish about certain bets. There are a few specifics which I will mention later, but for now, a quick rundown on some of my favourite crap bets. Oooh it's like the chart show isn't it:

- Betting less than a fiver on an odds on shot. Get away from me you gypo, quite frankly.
- Placepots in which you pick every bloody horse running, for 5p stakes.
- Through-the-card forecasts on the dogs. I mean, what leads you to believe trap 1 will beat trap 2 in every. single. race? If you hate money that much, give it to charity.

b) Each way betting is a type of bet used to back long odds. There are two parts to the bet - the win, and the place. Without boring you with too much detail, if you back short odds, you lose money on the place. Anything below 5/1 is a bit silly. So when you go e/w on even money shots and less, my face looks something akin to a bulldog licking piss off a nettle.

c) But we make it hard to just go all out for the win. Myriad bets on a plethora of sports, it can be confusing. But sometimes you just wonder at the thought process of someone putting their cold hard sterling on the assumption there will be over five first half corners in a Belgian League 2 match. Just WHY?

d) I'll lump the rest all in together, as they all tend to come from a very distinct type of customer - the ones we make all the money off.

If you do any of the following -

Back the next fav off without even knowing what it is, when it's off, what sport it's even in.
Ask for what's "in-running" due to the urgent need of betting on something RIGHT NOW.
Ask for the score, get told to ring the results line, then go "Ahh sod it, I'll just have £500 on the short price".
Are unable to pronounce the name of whatever filth you are backing - this one is always a sure sign of the amount of in depth study that has gone into a selection. And don't worry if you can't quite get it, we accept anything from words that sound a bit like the one you're trying to say, to mild racism ("gimme a hundred on that chinky bird")

- any of these, and I will instantly want to ritually slaughter your first born.

4. Things I Don't Need To Know

a) I just need the name of the horse. Dear God. We have this cracking little index thing that means I can just type the fucker in, and everything magically happens. I don't need to know where it's running, who the jockey is, the trainer, what price it was this morning, how it did when it ran out last saturday, what ground it prefers - you might as well tell me its birth mother and date of conception.

b) Personal facts. I don't wanna hear about your life as an accountant for the largest Kellog import/export depot in Europe, about your theory on gay people, whether you've recently shagged a prostitute, the death of all your close family, or how that recent trip to the hospital went.

I'll be blunt, having to hack your voice for one second longer than necessary has me reaching for the staplegun, its destination, MY FACE. I HATE YOU. This is maybe a point I should've raised earlier.

c) Anything else but the bet really. When I give you a price, and you say "but Ladbrokes are doing 3/1!!", what exactly d'you want me to say? Good for them sir!? Just have a bet, or fuck off, is the rule I'm implying.

Also, our company perhaps works differently from those you have encountered previously. Your opinions on our prices/markets/anything else? Quite useless. Utterly without value. I mean that sincerely. If I say something, it's right. If you don't agree, you're wrong. In todays crazy world, it's nice to see a pure black/white fact.

d) The jokes. Oh the jokes.
"What can I do for you sir?"..."Well you could find me a winner! hohoho chortle chortle!"
"Would you like 3/1?"..."I'd prefer 20s hohoho guffaw!"
"D'you do prices for the marathon?"..."Why of course, who were you..."..."Wassa price of the bloke in the diving suit AHAHAHAH CHORTLE LOLZ!!one"

5. Almost Home

a) OK, almost there, but not quite. One of the most crucial parts of the call is about to happen - reading the bet back, and calling "Bet's on". I have to do this. I don't wanna, but I must. So don't talk over the top of me. Don't talk to someone else as I do this, then ask what the bet was again. Don't allow me to go all the way through, dial for the money, strike the bet, then go "Errr, actually I wanted it like this". Just be cool.

b) When I say "Anything else Sir?" that's your cue to get involved, should you want anymore gamble. When you wait until I finish the bet and go "Oh there was something else", my teeth actually curl back on themselves, and reroot into my gums, and blood froths from my mouth. It's a terrible sight.

c) DONT HANG UP ON ME. NOT WHEN IM READING THE BET BACK, NOT AFTER I GIVE YOU A PRICE YOU DONT LIKE, NOT AS IM DIALLING THROUGH, NOT AFTER IVE TAKEN THE FUCKING TIME TO PUT YOUR SHIT FUCKING BET ON AND LISTEN TO URFUCKING INANE TWIITERINGFUCKIN CUNT YOU FUCK ARGJRHG DONT HANGUPVP;]ORGRSLSR DONT. HANGUPSKUDHG[#KJBZE DONTFUCK INHG]DHANG UP CUNTSKU,.;AB;EFKEW. #]. Don't do it.
(Sat 6th Sep 2008, 6:02, More)

» Thrown away: The stuff you loved and lost.

Erm, well, porn actually...
...and it wasn't particularly good porn either. But there are one or two elements here that maybe perk the cliche up.

First, my age at the time - Seven? Eight? Yes, it sounds bad, but...well, no 'but' I guess.

Second, the aesthetics. The dirty pr0n in question? Page 3 lovelies gleaned from my father's sultry copies of The Sun. Occasionally my collection would be suplemented by judicious use of the Littlewoods catalogue, depending on the time of year. As you can see, the bacontrout of yore had no small amount of class. And where to keep such a bounty of mammary!? Why, my very own official brand A-Team lunchbox thanks!

I kept this lunchbox under my bed, a bunk type contraption without the lower bunk. Instead, it had a sort of crawlspace, that by day was a useful place for toys and the like. Come the night, and it's time to break out my Fwap Commando Unit (Murdock and Face looking on approvingly) for...well I don't really know. This was an age before fwapping. To be blunt, I have never really questioned my motives at this delicate time, as who knows where that might go. Instead, I will explain it all away by merit of my vaguely obsessive collecting and categorising nature (think Lance in 'Neighbours' when he collects all those cricket stats. In fact don't, you'll feel better), coupled with my undeniable boob envy.

So, having regaled you for some time with a fairly obscure moment in my smut career, lets cut to it.

Of course my mum finds it. Of course she does. That much is obvious. How? Exactly, who fucking cares. She's my mum, it's her job. What is of note is the ensuing conversation...

*a cherubic bacontrout gambols through the front door, fresh from a days "top to bottom and flick and cross" (ahh good ole Zig-Zag - there is an obvious link between it's discontinuation and the rise in knife crime I feel), only to see his mum holding in her hand THE END OF HIS LIFE AS HE KNOWS IT (Murdock disapproving now)*

Mum - "Bacon, what are you supposed..." - these are the first fucking words out of her mouth, mind - "what are you supposed to put in your lunchbox?"

Me (looking down and swivelling my right toe into the floor) - "Sandwiches..."

Mum - "And what don't I want to find in there?"

*sigh*

Me - "Boobies."

Which was all a bit of a moot point really, as I never got the lunchbox back. She must have presumed it was designed for the job, and no other receptacle would do. In some respects, she was probably right.

So remember kids, if you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire...The Fwap Team DA DADA DAAAA DA DA DADAAAAAA
(Fri 15th Aug 2008, 3:25, More)

» Food sabotage

FOOD RELATED JOKE
Question - What is the difference between JAM and MARMALADE?

Answer - You can't MARMALADE your cock up someone's arse.

i go now.
(Fri 19th Sep 2008, 1:53, More)