Bankrupt Tin-Hitlers

Ah! Memories, memories! Some years ago I had to speak to one of those manual-reading humanoid-robots in a banking call centre and it just could not take my point (although exactly what it was I forget - but I was definitely in the right). This was all a long time before the British banks went bankrupt (what pleasure there is to be found in making that observation). I recall that the robot had a thick accent - but whether it was strong, North of England "Eee-up"; Narthern Oirish, or Popadum-Asian, I don't recall. I just know that it did not help. And, I, the customer, felt short-changed by some stroppy, patronizing and obstructive smart-alec, who was probably borderline illiterate.

So, I said to the robot: "You're a t**d".

There was  a stunned silence at the other end; there being, plainly, no 'manual' response to this one. Then the robot spluttered (and I mean spluttered); well, actually it was between a splutter and a squeak:

"What did you say?"

So I refreshed his memory: "You're a t**d" I said and, pausing just long enough to hear the second round of stunned silence, I hung up, leaving him short on the old 'job satisfaction' front. Of course, by this stage, I had concluded two things. First, that, without a lot of fuss and effort (a letter of complaint and, maybe, even a reference to the toothless Ombudsman), I was not going to get a satisfactory resolution and, secondly, that it was time to change my bank.

I strongly recommend this course of action when nasty little officials go too far. It doesn't achieve any practical result but, by jingo and by jove, it makes you feel much better.