Rory Gibson: My battle with modern customer support

Is there anything more infuriating than when technology breaks and you have to deal with a human who essentially asks you the generic ‘have you tried turning it on and off again?’

Rory Gibson on the frustrating experience of dealing with customer support.

My TV shat itself a couple of days ago. Just stopped working in the middle of a gripping episode of a series I’ve been binge-watching for two weeks now.

It’s dead, the telly. Just went lights out at a crucial moment in the middle of season four of Poldark. I am bereft, but not because my viewing pleasure has been extinguished.

No, it’s because there’s nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear (cheers Slim) than to deal with a corporation allegedly offering customer service in the event their product snuffs it.

At first I did what every man does in these circumstances – I pushed as many buttons as I could stab a finger at. The remote. The telly. The toaster.

Still dead.

Desperate to know whether the marriage between Captain Ross and Demelza survives the latest attempt by the evil Warleggans to destroy their lives I turned to the manual’s troubleshooting section, which as everyone knows is a pitiful exercise.

Here are just some of the handy, high-level tech wisdoms it suggested:

“Ensure the power cable is plugged in.” Thank you, Sherlock. I also ensured the TV wasn’t underwater and I hadn’t inserted the HDMI cable into a dog.

“Turn the television off and wait five minutes before turning it on again.”

Five minutes? What am I supposed to do in that time, read Tolstoy?

“If the issue persists, reset the television to factory settings.”

Ah, the nuclear option. Very helpful when the TV won’t even turn on. That’s like telling someone whose car has exploded to try putting it in reverse.

After ticking all the unhelpful boxes and failing to revive my fallen friend, I sought human help – which in 2025 is a bit like trying to adopt a unicorn.

I rang the customer support number. I reckon the words “customer support” gained their initial popularity on signs above Stasi interrogation rooms, inside which the goal was to break you.

After being put on hold longer than the average marriage lasts, I was finally blessed with a human voice. At least I think it was human. The accent was so thick I wasn’t sure if I was talking to a person, a parrot or someone trying to swallow a trombone.

Eventually I was assured they’d be sending a technician sometime between 8am Tuesday and Christmas. Promises promises. So now I sit staring at a blank screen, locked in a standoff. Me with my useless remote, it with its dead-eyed glare.

At least there’s no ads.

Originally published as Rory Gibson: My battle with modern customer support