It's time to rage against the machine

DESPITE WHAT might seem like an uncaring public persona, I am actually a very nice person. So it was that a couple of years ago I decided to buy my wife a new mobile phone.

I wrote to her network supplier – O2 – and gave them six months’ notice on the contract. Then, six months later, I bought her a new phone: one of those girly, pink things, and signed up with a new company.

Stupidly I forgot to cancel my direct debit with O2 for another three months, so was immediately £60 down. But what the hell, it was my mistake, so I wrote it off. It was, after all, just two bottles of decent wine. I could cope with the loss.

All was quiet for some time. My wife was happy with her phone; I was happy that she was happy. You know how these things go. I then got a letter from O2, telling me that I was in arrears and owed them the princely sum of £41.27. So I wrote back and explained the situation, pointing out that I’d given notice on the contract nine months ago and, even if there was a procedural cock-up, I’d already paid them £60 over the odds, so let’s just call it quits and everyone’s happy. It all went quiet again.

I may have then received another O2 letter; I can’t really remember and I’ve long since adopted the policy of only opening the letters I recognise, so avoiding unpleasant surprises. The next thing was the first letter from the debt collecting company. Tiresome, but copeable-with. Or so I thought.

So I phoned them up, explained the situation, pointed out that O2 had made a mistake and said that I wouldn’t be paying them the £41.27. They didn’t seem very happy about this, and said that a debt was a debt and they’d be pursuing it until O2 called them off.

Back to O2. Got through – eventually - to the accounts department, explained situation, banged head on brick wall. There, on their computer screen, was my name. And there, alongside it, was the figure of £41.27. I therefore owed them £41.27, and no amount of explaining would change that.

OK, I thought, I’ll ignore them and they’ll go away. The reality of the situation is that they probably owe me £60, so no way am I paying them their alleged £41.27. Battle lines had been drawn.

And then the letters from the debt-collecting agency began arriving. Now these were clearly computer-generated, and sent out automatically to a set pattern, but tried hard to convey a level of personal involvement. Some were harsh, some tried to reason with me. There were pink ones, red ones, and certain words began to appear in capital letters: CREDIT RATING, BLACKLIST, BANCRUPTCY … that sort of thing.

They continued to arrive at the rate of around one a week, occasionally suddenly accelerating into a mini-climax of threats. I imagined them being delivered, Harry Potter style, by a fleet of vultures. I had THREE days left to pay, then ONE, and then SEVEN again. And then the serious threats began.

If I didn’t pay this mythical £41.27 by Tuesday, a bailiff would be sent round to enter my home and take away goods and chattels to the value of the debt. This may or may not include electrical equipment such as televisions and computers, or even vehicles if necessary. At this point I started to get rather cross. I don’t like being threatened unfairly. I also don’t like the idea of people more vulnerable than myself being intimidated by this blatantly illegal nonsense. (For the record, a bailiff cannot enter your home without permission. And you should obviously never give that.)

I tried once more to phone them, but got a woman in Hull who appeared to be auditioning for lead Dalek in the next series of Doctor Who. It’s impossible to convince a woman who spends each and every day dealing with defaulting dole scum that she’s got a bona fide member of the middle classes on the phone. Her mind had melded with the computer in front of her. It could not tell a lie.

So the letters continued. Some contained threats - “Did I know that my children could be taken away by Social Services if I didn’t cough up this £41.27?” - and some contained blatant lies: “Our agent called today but was unable to contact you …” No he didn’t. I was here all day, drinking wine and watching cricket. You’re just making it up now.

Even the computer-generated threats started to descend into bizarre abuse: “May there be a POX upon your FAMILY should you fail to settle this account.” and “Thine EYES will be plucked out by CROWS and your innards spilled into the gutter for VERMIN to feast upon.”

They’re now threatening me with county court. Bring it on, I say. I’ve got the paperwork – they’ve just got some sinister software. Only even then they’re still lying. If I don’t SETTLE up by Wednesday, I will have a county court judgment AGAINST me and my MORTGAGE may be called in for IMMEDIATE repayment. Well, no, actually … despite your protestations, I can’t be hauled up and convicted without being given the chance to defend myself – however much that might displease the computer.

And why am I telling you all this? It occurs to me that I can’t possibly be the only person in the country who’s being persecuted by a grey plastic box of misanthropy and microchips. The easy way out of this nonsense would be to just send them the £41.27 they want and they’ll go away (actually, I suspect that the minute I admit the debt, they’ll hammer me with another £1,000 in costs and charges), but why should I?

The computer may be king, but only if we allow it to be. It’s time for every good man and true to stand up and rage against the machine. Because if we don’t, the damn things will begin to believe that they’re infallible after all.