Everybody loves an underdog. Trouble is, ‘underdog’ status is generally well deserved and anyone stuck with the title is more likely to suffer an absolute trouncing than they are to triumph against the odds. This is especially so when your adversary is not another person or even a team but a corporation. When doing battle against a company, you are not merely pitting yourself against a brand name and logo but the very establishment that permits big business to get away with murder of not only the blue, but red, beige and turquoise variety also. When faced with such a foe, it is very much a case of ‘the underdog’ versus ‘The Man.’
Everybody loves an underdog. Trouble is, ‘underdog’ status is generally well deserved and anyone stuck with the title is more likely to suffer an absolute trouncing than they are to triumph against the odds. This is especially so when your adversary is not another person or even a team but a corporation. When doing battle against a company, you are not merely pitting yourself against a brand name and logo but the very establishment that permits big business to get away with murder of not only the blue, but red, beige and turquoise variety also. When faced with such a foe, it is very much a case of ‘the underdog’ versus ‘The Man.’
In his masterpiece, ‘1984’, George Orwell wrote about an all-powerful authoritarian figure he called ‘Big Brother’ and, for decades, this term symbolised tyranny and general awfulness. Then, in act of supreme irony, it was turned into a TV show so putrid that people looked back with fondness to a time when ‘Big Brother’ represented oppression and not a soul-sapping time sink where the lowest common denominator digs itself a basement for the sole purpose of descending even lower. My only hope is that the producers of the television show will return to the source and conclude the series by ensuring that Big Brother does to the housemates what he did to Winston in 1984.
Given that the term ‘Big Brother’ is currently in use, we must now refer to ‘The Man’. In broad terms, ‘The Man’ represents all that you and I are born to resist. ‘The Man’ is to blame for everything wrong in the world; from the melting of the polar ice caps to the new Miley Cyrus album, through to the fact that the car spaces at your local supermarket are ever so slightly too small to fit a standard sized car. It’s ‘The Man’ who gave us Hyper-colour t-shirts and, in a fit of pique, took them away again, before later deciding that hipster jeans might be a good idea. The Man is cruel, unkind and dedicated to making your life more difficult. ‘The Man’ was also to blame for airing ‘Breaking Bad’ on pay television rather than free to air.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I became addicted to the adventures of Walter White in ‘Breaking Bad’. So much so that I was reduced to downloading episodes as soon as they were available for sale rather than waiting for the DVD. It became something of a ritual. I would arrive home on a Tuesday, download the next episode, then watch it on the computer. It was, so I thought, perfect. Until it all went wrong.
I was purchasing the show from a very large company that, for the sake of anonymity, I’ll refer to as ‘Orange.’ Frankly, I’m still getting used to the idea of being able to purchase movies and music without getting up off the couch. When it works, it’s incredible. But when something goes wrong, it’s like being robbed of a superpower. At first, everything seemed fine. I clicked the ‘purchase’ button and was greeted by the standard and, no doubt, foolproof warning that, ‘This purchase may contain objectionable material,’ and asking me to vouch that I was over fifteen with my mouse. But without warning, I was told there was a problem and the purchase could not be completed. I was marooned.
I was directed to check my account. It declared that there was a problem with the previous purchase and informed me that I was now in debt to Orange Corporation to the tune of three bucks ninety five. All it could suggest was that I get another credit card. This sounded like an over-reaction. I decided to call. Problem was, finding a number was akin to trying to find a needle in a haystack. Granted, I could have downloaded the ‘Needle In A Haystack’ app from the Orange store, but it would have set me back another ninety-nine cents and, in any event, I couldn’t because there’s a problem with the account. Eventually, after several links whose sole purpose it was to discourage human contact, I found a phone number.
I can still remember an era before call centres existed. I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure people were happier then. There were fewer wars, the sun shone and butterflies filled the air. As is the way with call centres, I was first placed on hold for about forty minutes during which the same thirty seconds of music were played repeatedly on a loop. For a company that sells and has access to millions of pieces of music, this seemed deliberately provocative.
When I eventually got through, it was like being transported to a magical far-away land. Judging by the accent, the magical kingdom in question was New Zealand. After explaining myself, the call centre staff member looked at my account before returning to tell me that it wasn’t working. This much I had figured out for myself. Indeed, had this not already dawned on me, I would have been unlikely to have subjected myself to eighty consecutive performances of ‘guitar noodle’ in the hope of getting through. She then promised to escalate it and I assumed she meant to the United Nations or Geneva but, as it turns out, she meant to India. I was told they would be in touch. I immediately looked to the heavens to see if they’d already activated the Bat-signal before she said they’d email me. I could only wait.