Working in a breakdown (roadside assistance) call centre, we would naturally have extremely busy periods in a day, but equally, there could be times when we wouldn’t get a call for ages. These times were useful for getting some admin work done — especially for the team leaders — but now and then there simply wouldn’t be anything to do.

In one of these rare periods, my coworkers and I are sitting about and chatting. The conversation has turned to discussing particularly memorable calls, whether for spectacular rudeness, unusual situations, or otherwise amusing conversations.

All our calls are recorded, and evidently, the team leaders keep a “hall of fame” directory in the system, and people begin requesting their favourites. The first they play is from one of our team to the recovery agent.

Teammate: “Hi, this is [Teammate] calling from [Breakdown Company]. I’m just checking in on the progress of the [car model] you’re recovering for us?”

Agent: “Ah, yes, in Harrow?”

Teammate #1: “Hello, yes, can you hear me?”

Agent: “Yes, Harrow.”

Teammate #1: “Harro, yes, can you hear me?”

This goes on for longer than you might expect.

Agent: “Mate, I’m NOT saying, ‘Hello’, I’m confirming the location of the recovery, which is in the TOWN, Harrow!”

Teammate #1: “Oh… right. Sorry!”

We stop the recording there and move on to the next one. It starts off as a pretty standard call; the driver sounds a little agitated but is polite to our teammate. Partway through taking some details, the caller suddenly explodes:

Caller: “WILL YOU STOP F****** TALKING TO ME WOMAN?!”

Teammate #2: *Who is a woman* “Erm…”

Caller: *Talking over a raised voice in the background* “Sorry [Teammate #2], I wasn’t talking to y— SHUT THE H*** UP! I’M TRYING TO TALK TO THE BREAKDOWN PEOPLE!”

There is a heated discussion between the caller and the woman in the car. Shortly, there is a sound of a car door being opened and then slammed shut.

Caller: “Sorry about that. The wife thinks it’s all my fault the car’s doing this. You know women, all a bunch of b****es, right?”

He makes a strangled noise, seemingly remembering he’s talking to both a woman and a complete stranger.

Caller: “…and men, we’re all b*****ds, too! Haha… Anyway…”

The rest of the call proceeds without incident. As it’s wrapping up:

Caller: “Okay, thanks, [Teammate #2], we’ll wait to hear from you! And sorry for calling all women b*****s! Bye!”

I have a chronic pain condition called fibromyalgia and have been taking the same high-strength painkillers for three years now. I recently moved across the city and had to register with a new general practitioner’s surgery. They have an option where patients can request medication through the national health care app, which I do on a Wednesday a week before my prescription runs out. This painkiller has serious withdrawal effects that start eight hours after the last dose and get progressively worse in a short amount of time.

On Monday evening of the following week — five days after I requested my prescription — I check the app to see that my prescription has been rejected and a note saying to call the GP. I call on my lunch break the next day, Tuesday, thinking forty-five minutes will be plenty of time to get through to reception and sort it out. More fool me; my lunch break ends and I’m still on hold.

Thankfully, my workplace (a nursery/daycare) is lax on us using our phones while on shift so long as we’re not taking photos of children or ignoring our duties, so I opt to do the washing up after lunch with an earbud in listening to the hold music.

An hour and fifteen minutes into the call, I’ve finished washing up and there’s no cleaning to do inside, so I head to the garden with my earbud still in. It’s tricky to hold a conversation with the children and my coworkers through the repetitive music still in my ear, but I manage. If it were anything else, I’d give up and call back the next day, but I only have a day’s worth of painkillers left and really don’t want to go into withdrawal. After an hour and forty-five minutes of being told I’m “number one in the queue,” I finally get through to the receptionist.

Me: “Hi. I ordered a prescription of [painkiller] through [App] last week but it’s been rejected it and says to call the GP?”

We go through the verification process to bring up my account.

Receptionist: “It looks like we released a prescription for you on Thursday of last week. Is that what you’re calling about?”

Me: “Yes, but the app says it’s been rejected, and I only have a day’s worth of my old script left.”

Receptionist: “Oh, no. It was released on Thursday; it’s waiting for you at [Preferred Pharmacy]!”

Me: “So, I’ve been on hold for nearly two hours for nothing?”

Receptionist: “Two hours?! I’m so sorry you had to wait that long. We’ve been having problems with our system, and it only notified us you were waiting a minute before I took your call!”

Me: “All right, I understand, but I don’t get why the app said it had been rejected when the two other medications I requested at the same time were approved.”

Receptionist: “I’m so sorry. That’s a really long time to wait and I do apologise. Unfortunately, we don’t have any control over the app so I couldn’t tell you why it was marked as rejected. But your prescription is ready to be collected at the pharmacy.”

Me: “All right, thank you for confirming that.”

The receptionist gave me a code to give to the pharmacy in case they didn’t have my script on their system and we hung up. I understand it wasn’t their fault that the app was wrong or that their system has a bug, but I still spent over twelve hours worrying that I wouldn’t have my painkillers before my current packet ran out and spent over an hour only half-focused on my job for nothing.

I tried to report the issue on the app, but our government-run national healthcare service apparently doesn’t have that feature, so there’s nothing I can do. I’m grateful to have tax-funded healthcare which means I pay a little under £10 a month for medications that would cost hundreds, if not thousands, in other countries, but it’s frustrating to have this or similar issues pop up every few months on what should be a simple interaction. Yet another side effect of the budget cuts destroying what was once a well-oiled machine, I guess.

About twenty years ago, I was working freelance, helping several small local businesses with their bookkeeping and data input. I was used to working in the owners’ houses on old equipment or even taking work home to deal with.

One of my clients knew of a small business whose owner had just decided to computerise their accounts system and had employed a worker who claimed to be an expert in computers and accounts, but said worker had abruptly left them after only a couple of weeks, and it was suggested I might like to take over. As it only involved a few hours each week, it fit well with my other commitments, so I went to meet the business owner.

They showed me their rather old computer, running Windows 3.1, set up in their dining room, and asked me whether that was okay with me, as their previous employee had insisted they needed an office to work in and a state-of-the-art new computer for them to use, which the business could not afford.

As soon as I moved the mouse, I realised there was a slight problem; the cursor hardly moved. I just turned the mouse upside down, removed the retaining ring, tipped the ball out, and scraped a thick layer of gunk off the rollers inside. When I put it back together, it worked perfectly. The look on the owner’s face was great — to see the “load of rubbish” made to work so easily confirmed their poor opinion of the previous employee’s expertise in computers. The computer didn’t need to go online, so the fact that it used an outdated version of Windows did not matter, and it turned out they had made a mess of setting up the accounts, too!

I worked one morning a week for that business for fifteen years until the owner decided to retire.

Most French people assume that most English don’t speak any French… which is true to a fair extent.

My father and I went into a pub in England. In there were two Frenchmen, chatting away. As well, there was a young woman serving at the bar, plus another two men at another table — seven people in all. The two Frenchmen were well-heeled, yuppyish, I guess up-and-coming managers in finance or consultancy. Actually, it was unusual to see French people in this pub; although it was a popular tourist town, this wasn’t London, and it was in an obscure part of town that many locals didn’t really know. So French people would not reasonably expect to encounter other French speakers.

I’m afraid to say I took a dislike to them — not because they were French but because they were obnoxious. As well as looking and sounding like they’d been drinking for a few hours, they would also make occasional disparaging remarks about the décor (okay, it could’ve been better), “les Anglais”, my father’s hat, etc., all while looking down their noses at us and the two men on the other table.

Although my father and I both speak some French, we just ignored them, getting on with our own chat and beer. The barperson came round the pub to pick up empties, etc. Then, she stood on the bar footrail, leaning over to reach something behind the bar. 

One of the Frenchmen, watching her bend over, exclaimed in French something very crude.

The barperson froze. My father and I froze, too, staring at the two Frenchmen. Also, the other two people stopped talking and stared. The barperson righted herself and walked back behind the bar.

The [Barperson] said something under her breath, clearly in French, maybe street French, but I didn’t quite understand.

The Frenchmen clearly understood, and I’m sure they noticed the atmosphere had changed, but they pretended not to notice and continued with their beers.

One of the men at the other table spoke up in fluent French, “So, which part of Paris are you from?”

The man’s partner, asked, also in French, “Le [Redacted]ième?” (A rough part of Paris.)

This seemed to catch the Frenchmen unawares. One of them started to reply in English, then switched to French, and he seemed about to say where they were from, but he stopped. Then, they quickly finished their pints and slid out.

So, all seven people in this obscure English pub could speak French.

I’m sat at my desk whilst a coworker is sat a few desks away and her manager is walking toward the nearby printer.

Coworker: “Whilst you’re over there, can you grab me [document]?”

Manager: “F****** h***, what did your last servant die of?”

Coworker: “She was killed by the printer, so be careful.”