Review: O2Everyone knows that it’s humanity versus the mobile phone networks, but no one’s prepared to put their MoD where their mouth is and declare all-out war. I could respect a government that effected regime change in the dark and faraway country of the O2 boardroom, international law be damned. The public could really get behind that kind of illegal war.
O2 has taken to charging me sums of money that it has plucked out of thin air and disconnecting my phone at random, for the hell of it. Rather than link my charges to my calls, they employ shamanic soothsayers to go deep into the forest, drop acid, and emerge days later, hands aloft, crying, “Eskimo’s bill is £120.87!” What am I going to do about it? They’ve got my figurative balls in a vice: I’m an addict. I get twitchy if I can’t check my voicemail. I send text messages of such breathtaking inconsequentiality that they’re almost profound, eg: Hi! I'm on the bus. Just saw two pigeons having sex.
In my hour-long phone calls to O2, I’ve adopted the worst kind of relationship tactics: bursting into tears, threatening to leave, making spiteful little comments about how things were when we first met. All this is only occasionally effective: more often, the harassed call centre monkey explains, sounding affronted, that it’s not their fault. Whose fault is it? God’s? Should I treat my phone company like a powerful deity, cringing under its whimsical natural disasters and cravenly grateful for its occasional acts of munificence? Oh, wait, I already do.
O2: The devil is among us, but he’s going to have to put you on hold for a moment. 1 out of 10.