Many people ask me, “Nick, what do you consider your greatest moment on this earth is? Was it winning the Nobel Prize for Literature? Was it toppling a corrupt South American government using nothing more than a telephone and your wits? Was it losing you virginity without losing your self respect or the use of a limb?”
And I say, “While all those things are good, nothing beats getting Optus to admit they’re wrong, and then getting the refund out of them.”
The saga involves a number of pieces of genius on their behalf. Here is a tiny selection of highlights:
Getting my name wrong and instead of correcting existing account, squirreling away my payments into that account and letting me go into debt on the corrected account.
Billing me twice and refunding me once, for a service I didn’t receive and then arguing about it.
Blaming the faulty wiring in the street that ensured that when it rained, we went incommunicado, on mythical 'other things'.
Insisting the man who came to fix the wiring in the street would have needed entry to our place.
After a series of excruciating screw-ups, ringing me at work for a customer satisfaction survey.
Not reading my complaint email properly and ringing up to offer exactly the wrong thing as a fix.
And it goes on and on and I won’t make you put up with it… but; up there, you see that I have prevailed, I have my cheque. It is for the grand total of $47.19 Australian (for overseas readers, that’s equal to a small, flat, brown rock at current exchange rates) and represents an hourly payment of approximately 50 cents an aggravation.
I will never, if I have anything to do with it, do business with that lousy bunch of card carrying fuckknuckles ever again. I exhort you, dear reader, to not have anything to do with them if at all possible, too.
Optus. No.
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