Look, as much as I may gripe about work and the shoddy vendors we deal with; the beauty of shoddy vendors is their shoddy methods of doing business.
There’s one new vendor who I often need to phone to escalate customer complaints, so he can resolve any product complaints directly with customers. The problem is that it’s like handing over John Hopoate to a locked room containing only a jumbo bottle of lube and fourteen random, quivering NRL players.
Just yesterday I phoned a new vendor we’re dealing with, and was initially pleased to hear he didn’t seem to have shot up a speedball before midday for once. ‘G’day Jeb,’ he greeted me with genuine warmth.
‘Hi mate,’ I replied. ‘Look, I’ve just received an email from a cust-’
A cacophony of squealing tyres thundered down the line. ‘Fuckin cunt!’ bellowed the vendor at the driver. ‘Learn to fuckin’ drive, ya fuckin’ mug!’
‘Err… yes,’ I continued. ‘There’s only–’
‘Watcha lookin’ at, cunteyes?’ he screamed into the phone. ‘That’s right, keep driving, fucker!’ A beautifully orchestrated symphony of car horns rose up in the background. ‘Sorry, mate. What’s up?’
‘Ummmm…’ I spoke slowly.
‘Hang on mate, I’m going through a tunnel,’ he warned. Fifteen seconds of uncharacteristic silence passed before he reemerged in a rainshower of static and threats about rearranging someone’s body parts.
‘Maybe I should call back when you’re not on the road,’ I decided. ‘Have you got handsfree? If you don’t, I wouldn’t want to get you booked or anything.’
‘Aye?’ was the confused retort. ‘What are you talking about? I’m not driving.’
These are the kind of guys I have the privilege of dealing with, every single day.