Whenever you’re down and out and short of a bob, there’s always some annoying git who tells you: “You can always get a job in sales.” You can also kick yourself in the privates if you drink enough Cod Liver Oil. But you don’t.
Sales is the worst occupation I have endured, despite my experiences as a bus conductor, systems analyst, refuse disposal officer, cold warehouse-man and building site labourer. Admittedly, I joined the profession at its lowest point. I was a double-glazing cold-caller in Chatham. Telesales – the very nadir of the great pit of sales.
“Good evening. Is that Mr Tomlins? And you live in Pond Avenue? Are you finding your heating bills are steadily increasing? Do you know, one very big reason can be unnecessary draughts?
“We’ve got a representative in your area all this week. Why don’t I get one of them to come round and show you how you can eliminate 95 per cent of house heat loss for pennies, and…. Hello? Hello? Have you gone?”
And that was how it went. Day after day. I lived at my cousin’s and lived on the contents of her fridge. Without her, I would have assumed a skeletal appearance and become a Goth.
I have recently encountered two gents who take a particular pleasure in baiting cold callers. Indeed, I feel it may become a popular sport among our senior citizens. It’s an opportunity to sharpen your wits with carefully chosen responses, it’s someone taking an interest in you and it’s free – as they’re calling. Let play commence.
“Would I like to upgrade my home entertainment equipment? What kind of processor do I have now? A food processor. Yes, very funny. So, a package including broadband, television, phone and you’ll chuck in an MP3? What sort of gigabyte are we talking?”
This is how my brother Michael chooses to spend the odd evening. Michael, who has still got a black and white telly, spending 15 minutes in verbal jousting with a stranger who thinks he’s going to make a sale.
Gilly’s dad employs a variety of tactics to play in his telesales people, landing them as he would a soft-mouthed mullet. When in the mood, he begins with a show of some affability. Yes, that’s who he is. Yes, that’s where he lives. Yes, he’s got a garden. Age? “Now stop there. Yes, I am a pensioner, but that doesn’t mean I’ll work for nothing. It’s an insult to us. An affront. I’m quite convinced refusing to pay pensioners for their work is contrary to the age discrimination legislation. Can I have your name?
“What do you mean, I’m not working for you? I’m answering your questions, aren’t I? I’ll take minimum wage, but nothing less. “Then put me onto your supervisor.”
His career high point was the vacuum cleaner salesman. How long had he had his cleaner? Twenty years. Was it functioning properly? Seemed OK to him. Could the current cleaner remove liquids from the floor? It could. Has it given any trouble recently? Never. “That’s quite a machine you have there, Mr Jenkins.” “My cleaner isn’t a machine, it’s Mildred who has worked for me since my wife died. I have no intention of replacing her.”
It’s not just the cold-callers, the sales people in shops are as bad. I recently decided to buy a pair of pointed-toed shoes that I knew would provide, if not podiatric comfort, at least an opportunity for satire practice from my daughters.
“They’re good shoes”, the salesman told me. “Italian. The Italians make good shoes.” I found myself instantly on the defensive. “In fact, a very small proportion of Italians make good shoes, given which, it’s a reasonable conclusion that the majority of Italians make bad shoes.”
“Well, I suppose most Italians don’t make shoes at all.”
“Which rather undermines your first claim”, I snapped. “They’re too busy driving cars like lunatics, hosting the representative of God on earth and pretending to be chest butted by French footballing artistes.”
But salespeople in shops are infinitely more tolerable than those on phones. It is an occupation that has less light at the end of the tunnel than the Large Hadron Collider. How often do you think the question: “Would you like to change your gas supplier/switch to Sky/buy a shed?’” elicits the response: “Yes please! – I’d love that. Thank you for calling”?
And then there’s political canvassing. How many views are changed by a phone call from a stranger? Simply the fact you are being rung proves neither the candidate nor his or her mates can be bothered to come round to your house to be conveniently insulted on the security of your doorstep.
The call I’m waiting for is the one seeking support for John Prescott for Labour Party treasurer. I’ve been staying at home in the evenings so as not to miss it. What will they say? “Hello, I wonder if you’ve ever considered voting for a cheating right-wing Blairite who’s abandoned his last principle by squeezing into the House of Lords, but after 13 years in power has decided he would like to be in a position of influence somewhere? He can also play croquet and mispronounce words.”
I intend to give this teleseller a shock of cardiac-inducing proportions. “Yes please”, I will say. “I’d love that. Thank you for calling.”
