As we enter a new era of US imperialism, it is to be expected that we will have to embrace some annoying aspects of American life. Some are already here, of course, including the newfangled habit of aggressive tipping (for some bizarre reason, the Chiltern Fire House now asks you to tip your waitress twice); the hospitality industry’s inversion of service (“I can do that for you,” they say, as though they’re doing you a massive favour); and the worst of the lot, the scheduled phone call.
This, I would like to suggest, is the most egregious hangover from Covid, an irritating and completely irrational orthodoxy that was initiated by the necessity of Zoom calls during lockdown, but which has now become as natural as a bodily function.
Up until five years ago, I thought I had successfully banished them from my life, solely due to a telephone call I once had with an idiot who worked for Victoria’s Secret.
I was editing a men’s magazine at the time and had just found out that the American lingerie brand was opening a shop on the corner of Brook Street and Bond Street, coincidentally just a hundred yards from our office (it’s no longer there, although it tended to be extremely busy in the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day). I thought it would be a good idea to team up for a big marketing wheeze, involving a party of some kind, an incredibly well-funded supplement in our magazine, and lashings of free publicity.
I knew someone senior on this side of the pond, and through them organised a conference call with the American marketing team for the following week. This call was eventually postponed, followed by interminable, gushy emails from said marketing department, telling me how excited they were about the call. Not the project, mind, but the call, which I thought was more than a bit odd.
The call kept being bumped, by which time I figured they had gone cold on the idea. But still I was bombarded by these herogram emails, telling me how everyone was “SO SO EXCITED” by the prospect of our phone call. Anyway, two weeks later, the call eventually happened, a call which consisted of said American idiot telling me – at great length – how they had considered the idea, had discussed it in detail, but considering the amount of logistics involved in opening their shop (really?), that it was going to be impossible for them to collaborate on our “simply AMAZING idea”. Something that could have been delivered by email, without involving three or four people from each office, had been turned into an event in itself.
I put the phone down, and vowed never to speak to an American idiot again
This was yet another example of a team of people assuming the process is the most important part of a project, rather than the project itself. So I put the phone down, and vowed never to speak to an American idiot again.
Fat chance. Covid happened and I suddenly found myself on dozens of long, protracted and usually pointless Zoom calls, often involving American idiots. My favourite involved a project that appeared to be so important that it needed eighteen – that’s right, not two, three or four, but eighteen – people on the call. One of these people had obviously tried to convert his garage into a makeshift office, as it was full of old batteries, wires, weird electronic equipment and a suspicious looking box covered in duct tape.
As we were waiting (interminably) for the host to join our call, I asked Mr. Converted Garage if he was thinking of making a bomb. As the Brits on the call tried to stifle their laughter, all the Americans, including Mr. Anally Retentive Converted Garage, looked at me as though I’d just asked if anyone minded if I take off all my clothes.
“Er, no,” said Mr. Even More Anally Retentive Than I Thought Converted Garage, a tad unnecessarily. “I’m not making a bomb.”
“It’s a joke,” I said, equally unnecessarily.
Needless to say, the project that eighteen people spent six Zoom calls discussing never actually happened, which was probably a blessed relief to all of us. It certainly was for me.
The scheduled phone call has become an accepted part of our working lives
But it seems that the scheduled phone call has become an accepted part of our working lives, even though I’ve personally gone out of my way to avoid them. Not a day goes by without me receiving an email from someone suggesting some project or other, which invariably suggests that we schedule a call to discuss it further.
My idea of discussing it further involves someone writing a very short, concise email detailing every aspect of the project in no more than two paragraphs. Anything longer than that makes me nervous, frankly, and I soon lose interest. In my business I find having a short attention span always pays dividends, and I don’t appreciate people trying to convince me otherwise.
The worst calls are those you can’t avoid for commercial reasons, where the person on the other end tells you in e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y long sentences, exactly the same information that was contained in their original email. On these calls there obviously tends to be an upward inflection at the end of every sentence, and a pregnant pause at the end of their soliloquy, in case we all want to congratulate them for delivering it without actually falling over.
I assume these calls are scheduled because if I happen to call out of the blue I could interrupt someone doing the laundry
And now it looks as though scheduled phone calls are here to stay. Because most people in my industry seem to only work two or three days a week, I assume these calls are scheduled because if I happen to call out of the blue, say, on a Monday morning, or a Friday afternoon, I could interrupt someone walking their dog, doing the laundry or watching GB News.
I’m in the middle of a particularly sensitive negotiation at the moment, and the person I need to speak to keeps organising scheduled calls which he never makes. To make matters worse, she also schedules Zoom calls, which she also manages to miss. And as I can’t be bothered to chase her down anymore, I’m rather hoping she reads The London Standard.
Ortense (no, that’s not her real name, although I rather wish it was), if you want to call me, just call. Any time. And if I’m not busy, I’ll pick it up. Please don’t text me to arrange a call. Please don’t email me to organise a Zoom call. No. Just call. If you’re lucky, I’ll pick up. And if I don’t, then you’ll know that I’m simply sick of (not) talking to an American idiot.
Dylan Jones is the editor-at-large of the Standard
