December 16th 2003 14:30 CST

On happier times

Way back in the day, I used to do telephone support. It was a scream and was probably the best work-real life ratio I have ever had and the most enjoyable job I ever had. At the time, there was a series of journals going around about the bastard operator from hell; they were hilarious. I think the site is still available here.

Anyway, I did a parody about it being the other way round; that the users were the real bastards. I had long since forgotten about it but had it emailed to me by a friend. It's not as funny as I remembered it and it's incredibly geeky, but it's not bad...

It's Friday and I've got in especially early to continue the usual helpful service we offer. Hell, I'm only meant to be here at two, but I'm in for twelve to aid the humble user in their quest for that that they can never reach; that of being computer literate.

I fish through my snail-mail intray and find that some kind soul from Peterborough has sent me half an Amazon of debug logs. I politely sift through them, looking for half a clue as to what the problem may have been. Of course, there is no problem description; that's the way they get you...send mountains of debug then subtely drop in a little hand-written plea requesting that you call them if you need anymore information. So like the soft-arse that I am, I ring him and make caring noises about the fact that he only has a 386/16 PC with 80Mb of hard drive and 4Mb of memory. I thank him warmly for my next month's reading material that he was kind enough to send me and then stun him by hitting him with the question "So what actually is wrong with your PC?". I've got him there...I can sense the unease as he frantically thinks of the problem that I was meant to be dealing with (but he'd forgotten to mention the symptoms). You can hear the whirring as he sorts through piles of other problem report forms that he's sent off to numerous other poor support departments around the world.

He gives up...."I can't remember the exact error message but it's something like 'Windows has caused and error in your system' or something like that". He apologises for not having written it down. I reply with a stunning show of tolerance saying that it's OK and that if it ever happens again, he should write down the error message and contact me again. He murmurs his thanks and I promise that I'll keep the Amazon until he calls back. More goodbyes and then we're off the phone. I head for my first cigarette.

I return from the smoke, calling in the kitchen to see if anyone is making tea, planning that I could perhaps slip my cup next to any that were there and maybe it might get made for me. I really will buy a cup one day that has "TEA - STRONG - WHITE - TWO SUGARS - RING 212 WHEN READY" written on it.

I end up making my own tea and wander back to my desk. I'm flipping through the list of people who have called begging for help this morning, when the phone rings. It's one of the sales people panicing because some bright MIS manager has realised that there's more to buying software than asking it's functionality. "Do we have our product for HP-UX 9.0. Has it been ported yet?". I congratulate him on his knowledge of the terminology and then politely point out that the piece of software he is referring to is actually PC based.

I ring a few people who were having problems, pointing some in the right direction, hand-holding others over the phone whilst they install with trepidation. What a life - with patience like this, I should have been in the Salvation Army or a social worker or something.

I smoke another cig and relax with computer weekly wondering whether or not the people who write this are IT professionals or A level Art students who have been retrained into "Science". It's obviously the latter - noone in the IT industry could really give a shit about who Bill Gates has married and what colour the labels on the new DEC UK manager's socks are. I throw it at the Marketing staff in disgust and they dutifully absorb its contents. What it must be like!

It's five o'clock and I'm starting to get hungry so I sneak off to the chippy on the corner and buy the biggest lot of fish, chips and peas possible. Being the Haloed Operator from Heaven, I've bought the rest of the guys in support a bag of chips.

Just as I wander in the front door and am heading for the kitchen for a knife and fork, the receptionist calls me back and says happily "I've got a call from a man who I didn't get the name of from a company I couldn't understand but I made out he wanted support. I've tried the general number but they all seem to be busy. Will you take it?". I reply in the affirmative and rush round the building to my desk, throwing the bag of chips for the rest onto a table where they can all gorge themselves, and answer the phone. I consent to the call getting through and introduce myself. "How can I help you?" I enquire with all the diplomacy of Terry Waite.

"I've just upgraded your software and it doesn't work any more. Do you think you could help me?" he says meakly. I look at my fish, chips and peas with longing and reply "Yes - no problem - what is not working?".

"Your software" he murmurs.

Being the Sainted Operator from Support, I remember to log the call so ask him what his name is. "John Jones from Computer Experts" comes the response. So what is so difficult about that, that reception didn't manage to understand it? Hmmm.

"What are the messages it's giving you?" I ask. He replies and I start to have some idea of the level of computer literacy we are dealing with here. Ie NOT. The errors he describe sound pretty terminal to me, so rather than hack it all back together, I go for the 're-install' approach. By now, my chips and fish and peas are shivering.

I purr that he should delete the software completely and start again from scratch. His response chokes me - "I've actually got a demo on Monday morning and I really need this working by then...do you think you could talk me through it. It was working (one of my techies did it), but I decided to reinstall it just in case". Gut wrench, head bang! It's him. It's the bastard user from hell. It's the patronising sales guy of the century and he's got a demo on Monday morning. What posesses them to play with working systems? Who gives them root permission so that they can go around reeking havoc and then plague the world's saintly tech support personnel? Why me?

I dutifully ask him to leave windows and to delete the software, coaxing him through keypress by keypress.

I'm beaten and sit for half an hour talking the dummy at the other end of the phone through a series of mouse clicks on boxes that have really difficult questions to answer, like 'Would you like to install the software'. He says it's not doing anything, so I ask him to reply 'Yes'. He does. This goes on for ages while I estimate when the install program will prompt for the next disk.

Now we try again...his PC is now meant to be talking to his UNIX box. We've got a little further but he hasn't realised yet. All he sees is that he's still getting error messages. I ask him whether his network software is working? "How can I tell?" he predictably replies. I talk him through the incredible intricacies of ping and the syntax of it's usage; "Type ping, P-I-N-G space, then the name of your host machine." He does it. Nothing. "Hello?" I venture, seeing if he's still awake. He responds saying that he is waiting for further instruction. I ask him to press the return key. He does and no sooner has he done it than he gets the error that tells me that he's not got a hosts file.

"Have you got a hosts file on your PC?" I ask

"Yes - there was a small one there, but I copied the bigger one from the directory SAMPLES as it must have more hosts in it over the top of the original."

"OK - delete that file please". I'm pissed now - not only has he been playing with our software, he's buggered his network software as well!!! Ahh! "Now, please edit the file hosts".

"But I haven't got one now - we've just deleted it".

"Yes - just do it please". I talk him through the creation of the hosts file and wait while he runs around the office like a headless salesman trying to find out from his 'little techies' what the IP addresses of his PC and UNIX box are.

My chips and fish are still cold, but the peas are starting to turn green and furry.

We are now planes ahead of the first exchange...we can actually talk to his machine now. I begin to think that I may actually leave at ten o'clock, we're doing *that* well.

The new error message tells me that something on his host machine does not like the rexec call that it's getting from the PC. I toy with the idea of fixing his host machine but decide that if there is one thing more dangerous than a salesman with a PC, it's one with a UNIX box and root priviledge. I decide instead to make sure that he can't break his UNIX machine as well as his PC and opt for the soft approach - I talk him through changing the execution method from rexec to rsh and then realise that I've blown it. He's going to need a .rhosts file and it was written that this guy will not know how to use vi. I begrudgingly talk him through the creation of his .rhosts file, stating every keypress in vi with such careful accuracy that he cannot fail. Of course he does and I end up using the phrase most used with anyone of this standard "Hit the escape button now hit the colon button, now type q followed by an exclamation mark". he follows this to the letter of course and so we still have no .rhosts file. After two more attempts we finally have a .rhosts with the name of his PC in it.

We move back to the PC and it works! He snivels his gratitude and thanks me profusely for my patience. He asks whether I want to know if he gets the 1000 user deal that this demo has been set up to tempt. I decline saying that the elixir of my life is not the sale, but the knowledge and satisfaction that I have battled against the wind. Having a computer you cannot see, operated by a baboon you cannot see who cannot conceptualise a computer who is at the end of a phone means you really are up against it and on occasions like this one, I think you can quietly sit back and feel bloody smug that you managed it even though the odds were stacked against you. Shit, we're good guys - the Florence Nightingales of the Technophobe era.

I glimpse at my watch and realise that the time is gone 7.00. I've been on the phone for nearly two hours. My chips, fish and peas are now living with neural networks spanning the place where once my peas lived. Everyone else has gone home.

I smoke a cig and head for the kitchen for a well deserved cup of tea. As I pass the fax machine it starts ringing. It's for me...another salesman with a demo on Monday asking that I call him and help him as he has been ringing for the last two hours without a response.

I dig out my copy of the bastard operator from hell and dream of the day when I too, will have learned the ways of the wizard. I aspire to have an article publicised in "kill -9", but until that day, I will routinely converse with cabbages, liase with artichokes and generally have a shit time!

I leave work at 10 and manage to just make it to the pub for last orders. I sit down with my pint of Greenalls and light a cig. Bliss.

"Hi" shouts a voice from the other side of the bar....I look over and my heart sinks. It's the ameteur PC user from Hades - the one who has a PC for playing Lemmings on but loves the parlance and taking it to bits so he can upgrade his 286 to a 386, 2 meg to 4 etc. He starts telling me about this new display card he has and the wonderful drivers he got with it. I politely enthuse and get the hell out of there.

I arrive home and remember that bottle of Claret I've been saving for a desperate time. I drink it. And that Drambuie. And that Whiskey.

Clunk.