Slaves to the machine

Three strikes and you're out, according to a new survey this week on the atrocious customer service offered up by banks. I wish! Unfortunately I fall into the camp of those who swear blind that they're not putting up with it any more, decide to switch banks, then....er, do nothing at all about it until the next time.

It happened to me last week when I was so hacked off by the sullen and obstrucive attitude of the call centre operative that I finally got through to at Barclays that I ended up being put through to the head of customer services to complain. On previous occasions, I've ended up being sent bottles of wine as an apology from the office of the chairman of the bank, but it takes a lot of shouting and complaining to get that far.

And time and again they resort to the same default excuse for their bad customer management: it's all the fault of the computer! Excuse me, you've invested millions and million in customer management technology and now you're slaves to the machine and your customer service is still down the pan? That was money well spent, wasn't it?

It's not just banks of course. I had a threatening letter from Seeboard Energy the other day saying that as I had "chosen to ignore" (sic) their previous letters they would now be taking action. It arrived with the said three other letters previously sent, popped in by a neighbour from upstairs who wondered if they were mine. All four had the wrong first name and wrong surname (Lackland apparently!) as well as the wrong flat number and had been sitting in a pile in his communal hallway which is in a different part of the building.

I phoned Seeboard and pointed out that I had corrected the spelling and the address they were using on previous occasions on the phone, by email and in writing...and still they were sending mail to the wrong address. The girl on the end of the phone paused a second, then with grim inevitability, said: "The address is wrong? Are you sure? That's what's in the computer." Through gritted teeth I finally managed to convince her that I stood a better chance of knowing where I lived than her wretched computer terminal and gave her the correct address.

She changed it. I know that she changed it because another letter appeared two days later. She'd changed it from Flat 1 as I'd asked, but not to Basement Flat as I'd asked, but for some reason to flat 5a - which doesn't even exist. Encouragingly I am no longer Lackland, but am now Loughlin - which is getting closer, but still no cigar! - but my first name remains stubbornly and mysteriously simply L. What L stands for I have yet to discern - perhaps the computer will let me in on the secret some day.

Of course they are all as nothing to the Spanish Inquisition that is the TV Licensing Authority which despite being physically shown my licence on the doorstep on a previous occasion still insists I don't have one because - you guessed it! - the computer says my address is 8a while my licence - and the post office!- says it is Basement Flat, number 8. We'll send officers to question you and you could go to prison, they warn gleefully in their latest missive. Let 'em come, I think, let 'em try and find 8a, that'll keep them amused for an hour or so.

The point of all this of course is that no matter how sophisticated customer management systems become, the fundamental premise that has underpinned every computer ever invented remains true: put junk in, get junk out. If the data in those systems isn't clean and accurate, then the information they provide will be wrong. And since most call centres are paying peanuts and getting monkeys to answer the phone who stick religiously to their belief in the infallibility of the sacred computer, the end result is customer frustration and irritation.

I could change my bank. I could change my electricity supplier. But I probably won't, because it's a hassle to do - and the prime offenders know that, so there's little incentive to improve things. Instead I'll just remain frustrated and annoyed and every so often I'll get a box of wine from the chairman's office. Oh well, at least that'll come in handy at Christmas. I'll probably drink it while looking out the window watching the TV licence inspectors walking round and round the block looking for a non-existent address.