SCARY FACTS AND STORIES

Why I stopped Prank-Calling Telemarketers

I've gotta admit, if there's one thing that really gets under my skin, it's telemarketers. When I voice this opinion aloud, people always look at me funny and say something like "but Liz, they're just doing their jobs." And while that's true, so were the Nazis. I rest my case, your honour.

This hatred isn't unjustified, either. For a whole few years of my life, they felt like the bane of my existence, calling incessantly whenever I was home. Perhaps I joined the wrong mailing list once or ticked the wrong box on an online contract, and my phone numbers got bulk-sold to every unscrupulous call centre this side of Antarctica. Maybe I'm just unlucky, who knows.

Whatever the case may be, the one thing that couldn't be denied was that I was being beset by a plague of telemarketing bullshit on an almost hourly basis. If I had a pound for every time someone called me about some PPI money I was entitled to, I'd never need any money ever again.

However, the telemarketers made the grave error of underestimating how petty I can be when annoyed. Not wanting to be defeated, I decided I'd turn the tables and take the fight to them.

To begin with, I started confidently speaking in utter gibberish until they hung up on me. While the bastard on the other end of the line was trying to wrap his head around what the hell a "splegnerf" or some other such neologism might be, I was laughing my ass off. It was an incredible act in catharsis, a new step into the realm of low-brow revenge.

It's not right, I can acknowledge that. It was bitter of me, but by god was it satisfying. Like a serial killer, I soon found myself escalating my methods - getting more complex, more ridiculous.

I'd started trying to sell my own fictional lines of products to the callers, shilling "weaponised bread" and "chewable anthrax tablets" before they even had a chance to make their pitch. Other times I'd make a concerted effort to make myself appear tense and fearful during the call, before abruptly screaming and hanging up.

By the time I was asking detergent salesmen whether their product could get massive quantities of human blood out of my living room carpet, I realised that I'd refined this particular brand of petty assholery into an art form. I was the Rembrandt of antagonising telemarketers.

Two days before my twenty-seventh birthday, after what felt like a long period of radio silence, I got another call from a telemarketer. I didn't even dread them anymore, I rather looked forward to the challenge.

"Hello, ma'am, my name is Chester. Today I'd like to speak to you about-"

I decided I'd hit him with the gibberish language first. It rolled off the tongue now, perfectly formulated reams of absolute crap that made sense to nobody, not even me. Chester remained silent throughout the tirade.

"Are you done, ma'am?" Chester asked, strangely not a hint of condescension in his voice, "If you're having some kind of stroke, I can contact the medical authorities. If not, I'd very much like to discuss-"

Somewhat annoyed that my nonsense didn't deter him, I launched into a spiel about a special waterproof toaster I'd "invented" specifically for use in the bath. You'd never have to soak without the pleasures of warm buttery toast ever again!

Chester didn't seem to acknowledge this fact.

"That's wonderful, ma'am. Now, can we please talk about-"

Nothing seemed to affect him, all my old tricks just rolled off of his back. So, I decided I'd pull out the big guns: I suddenly affected a shocked tone and started hissing panicked whispers about "someone in the house" down the line. Once I felt that I'd perfected the illusion, I screamed loudly, ready to eject myself from the situation.