'Wishing I Was in the Thick of It'

I’ve recently re-discovered The Thick of It, BBC 4’s brilliant comedy set in a fictitious government department. I caught a couple of episodes about two years ago, but lost track of it until the new series emerged last week. It is painfully funny, superbly executed and takes the most revealing and disturbing look at civil servants and politicians since Yes, Minister. The back-stabbing, the spin, the arse-licking and the cover-ups help worsen an already poor opinion of all who weald power or are trying to gain power in Westminster. So, it’s satire with a painfully real insight that helps us hate and scrutinize some of the bastards in Whitehall a little bit more; which is a good thing, I think.

But watching it did make me sad. Well, not sad really, just envious.

The main protagonist, Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications at Number 10, uses some of the most amazing put-downs and swear-riddled ‘verbal colonics’ I’ve ever witnessed. He specialises in spin and battering any minister or civil servant that aggravates him or doesn’t tow the party line. He tears people to shreds, whether they really ‘deserve’ it or not, and it’s a joy to watch. But I imagine it’s more fun to actually do it.

In my role in a call centre, I have to face a great deal of abuse, stupidity and utter tedium thanks to the callers and the procedures my company has to follow (to do with insurance claims, bonds, pensions etc). In the environment of customer service, you cannot, under any circumstances, point out just how wrong the customer is. It doesn’t matter if they talk like a lobotomized dog with a speech impediment and have all the common sense of a hedgehog crossing the M40; they are ‘always right’ and we have to treat them with respect.

I’d like just one day of amnesty where I can let my natural misanthropy flow and really put some of the utter cretins that call me in their place. Whether it’s the snooty Daily Mail reader who can’t seem to read or accept the small print (the ones that cry ‘Watchdog!’ the second something doesn’t go their way), or the financial advisor that talks like they know more about your own product than you do (a lot of IFAs are often work-shy, glorified car salesmen who are terrified of their clients). I just want one chance to really tear them a new one and make them understand just how stupid some of their questions are.

E.g. ‘If you don’t listen to what I’m saying and follow our reasonable instructions for making this claim, I will be forced to roll up your policy terms and conditions into a tight baton, then force it so far up your arse that you’ll be spitting paperclips when you blow out the candles on your 70th.’

Or something like that, it’ll come to me when I’ve actually got the unsuspecting dolt on the phone. Now, to anyone who sees what I just wrote as a little harsh; spend just one Monday morning in this office and see just how quickly your contempt for mankind will rise. You’ll be cursing an IFA’s unborn children before your first break at 11. I suppose I’m in the wrong business really. I can do the job more than competently and professionally, I just hate it.

On second thought, it would be dangerous to give me that ‘free-reign’ to abuse and put down even if it’s just for a day. For one thing, we’d receive more complaints the following day than a Jane Moir article after Elton John’s funeral. Worse still, I’d probably become addicted to the thrill of just saying what I want. I’d get hooked on letting the angst I normally have to mask just take flight, like some venomous bird from Hades.

I’d become unemployable in any public-facing role and I’d wind up in an office worker’s rehab facility; slowly chewing my own tongue off and swearing at all the radiators. Worst case scenario is I get a job in the civil service instead. Might not need to sew my tongue back on either; I could lick MPs arses and lie to the press at the same time.