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| ‘I fought the urge to scream and cut her off.’ Writers on their worst phone calls | |
| (35 minutes later) | |
| Alastair Campbell: The president heard me saying ‘God, I wish they would get to the point’ | |
| I was once listening in to a call between Tony Blair and Bill Clinton but I must have been either exhausted or not concentrating because not once but several times I confused the button for mute and the one to end the call. | |
| So at one point the President of the United States and the Prime Minister of Great Britain could hear me asking my secretary for a cup of tea, and at another saying: “God I wish they would get to the point” to a colleague waiting for me in my office. | |
| Jonathan Powell sent me a message saying I was on the call and could I go on silent. I then hit the end call button and everyone was cut off. We got reconnected and I did it again. I decided not to take part the next time ... | |
| Piers Morgan slammed the phone down on me a few times, like when he heard the Sun had got his scoop on Cherie being pregnant, and when he found a version of an exclusive piece I had organised for him by Clinton was also going to the Sun. Rebekah Wade also hung up on me when I did a TV interview saying what I thought about phone hacking, telling me that I would regret it. | |
| Simon Hattenstone: I heard him ranting to his wife about me. And I just couldn’t bring myself to put the phone down | Simon Hattenstone: I heard him ranting to his wife about me. And I just couldn’t bring myself to put the phone down |
| It was around 20 years ago. I was cracking up anyway. My best friend had recently killed herself and I hadn’t got to grips with it – not absorbed it, not taken time off work, just pushed through. I was working in a commissioning job at the Guardian as the film editor – thinking up features and interview ideas, then asking writers to execute them. | It was around 20 years ago. I was cracking up anyway. My best friend had recently killed herself and I hadn’t got to grips with it – not absorbed it, not taken time off work, just pushed through. I was working in a commissioning job at the Guardian as the film editor – thinking up features and interview ideas, then asking writers to execute them. |
| I had asked a prominent, senior journalist to write a piece, and felt it could do with some improvements – so I suggested them. He wasn’t overly enthusiastic – in fact he was pretty rude – but he agreed to make the changes. He then put the phone down ... only he didn’t. I should have put the phone down at my end – only I didn’t. | I had asked a prominent, senior journalist to write a piece, and felt it could do with some improvements – so I suggested them. He wasn’t overly enthusiastic – in fact he was pretty rude – but he agreed to make the changes. He then put the phone down ... only he didn’t. I should have put the phone down at my end – only I didn’t. |
| I heard him ranting to his wife. “That Hattenstone is a cunt. He’s mentally ill, retarded, thick. A fucking idiot. What are people like that doing working at the Guardian?” It went on and on. He got angrier and angrier, and more and more abusive. Mostly about me being deranged. And I just couldn’t bring myself to put the phone down. “Yes, I know he’s a fucking retard,” his wife said, “but it’s not worth getting yourself so worked up.” | I heard him ranting to his wife. “That Hattenstone is a cunt. He’s mentally ill, retarded, thick. A fucking idiot. What are people like that doing working at the Guardian?” It went on and on. He got angrier and angrier, and more and more abusive. Mostly about me being deranged. And I just couldn’t bring myself to put the phone down. “Yes, I know he’s a fucking retard,” his wife said, “but it’s not worth getting yourself so worked up.” |
| As it happens, I was mentally ill at the time with crippling depression (but it didn’t impair my judgment on his crap piece). Overhearing the conversation made me considerably worse. I had a breakdown shortly afterwards. It was probably a good thing, a necessary thing. Two decades on, it’s still the most disturbing call I can remember. But rather than cursing him for bringing on a breakdown, I’d like to thank him for speeding it up and getting it out of the way. | As it happens, I was mentally ill at the time with crippling depression (but it didn’t impair my judgment on his crap piece). Overhearing the conversation made me considerably worse. I had a breakdown shortly afterwards. It was probably a good thing, a necessary thing. Two decades on, it’s still the most disturbing call I can remember. But rather than cursing him for bringing on a breakdown, I’d like to thank him for speeding it up and getting it out of the way. |
| Daisy Buchanan: If I’m not making any headway on the phone, I’m always tempted to hang up | Daisy Buchanan: If I’m not making any headway on the phone, I’m always tempted to hang up |
| It could be argued that I’m a little bit like Donald Trump. I’m crap at dealing with confrontation – I become histrionic, emotional, aggressive and defensive when my views are challenged. If I’m not making any headway on the telephone, I’m always tempted to hang up, although I’ve been known not to execute the act with any elegance. | It could be argued that I’m a little bit like Donald Trump. I’m crap at dealing with confrontation – I become histrionic, emotional, aggressive and defensive when my views are challenged. If I’m not making any headway on the telephone, I’m always tempted to hang up, although I’ve been known not to execute the act with any elegance. |
| I have five little sisters, and I adore them all, but the one who is closest to me in age is the one who pushes my buttons the hardest. She knows my nuclear codes, and detonates them frequently. A few years ago, she was experimenting with a period of extreme frugality, and considering a move to eastern Europe. She liked to tell me about how terrible my extravagant London life was, which became a bit wearing. However, when she rang immediately after I’d had a massage, I thought that I was relaxed and calm enough to deal with any controversial conversation topics. I was wrong. | I have five little sisters, and I adore them all, but the one who is closest to me in age is the one who pushes my buttons the hardest. She knows my nuclear codes, and detonates them frequently. A few years ago, she was experimenting with a period of extreme frugality, and considering a move to eastern Europe. She liked to tell me about how terrible my extravagant London life was, which became a bit wearing. However, when she rang immediately after I’d had a massage, I thought that I was relaxed and calm enough to deal with any controversial conversation topics. I was wrong. |
| In response to “Really good, thanks, just had a massage – how are you?” I was lectured on how wrong it was to spend my Sunday wasting money on a beauty treatment when I could be bulk-cooking a stew or repairing my laddered tights. At one point, I’m convinced she used the phrase “decadent western ways”. | In response to “Really good, thanks, just had a massage – how are you?” I was lectured on how wrong it was to spend my Sunday wasting money on a beauty treatment when I could be bulk-cooking a stew or repairing my laddered tights. At one point, I’m convinced she used the phrase “decadent western ways”. |
| It was hard to fight the urge to scream expletives and put the phone down. I found a diplomatic alternative. Standing in the middle of a busy street in Covent Garden, I yelled “I have to go! I need the toilet! URGENTLY!” The anxious looks I received from confused tourists were embarrassing, but they were a price I was happy to pay for the sake of avoiding an argument. | It was hard to fight the urge to scream expletives and put the phone down. I found a diplomatic alternative. Standing in the middle of a busy street in Covent Garden, I yelled “I have to go! I need the toilet! URGENTLY!” The anxious looks I received from confused tourists were embarrassing, but they were a price I was happy to pay for the sake of avoiding an argument. |
| Poppy Noor: I called my mum to tell her I was miserable at Cambridge. I was met with silence. | Poppy Noor: I called my mum to tell her I was miserable at Cambridge. I was met with silence. |
| My mum is a funny woman. She wears a burqa, has a cockney accent and likes the way it confuses people down at Green Street market. If I ever asked her what was for dinner, I’d always get the same answer: “shit and sugar”. It was her way of telling me that I should be damn well happy with what I’ve got. So when I called her after my first week at Cambridge, I didn’t really know what to expect. | My mum is a funny woman. She wears a burqa, has a cockney accent and likes the way it confuses people down at Green Street market. If I ever asked her what was for dinner, I’d always get the same answer: “shit and sugar”. It was her way of telling me that I should be damn well happy with what I’ve got. So when I called her after my first week at Cambridge, I didn’t really know what to expect. |
| “Owh, babes, how’s it going? How’s the brightest one in the family?” She said, with a rushed and naive excitement. Neither of my parents had finished school, and I’d done the whole thing while living in homeless hostels. They thought I was a prodigy. I don’t think she was expecting broken sobs on the other end of the phone. | “Owh, babes, how’s it going? How’s the brightest one in the family?” She said, with a rushed and naive excitement. Neither of my parents had finished school, and I’d done the whole thing while living in homeless hostels. They thought I was a prodigy. I don’t think she was expecting broken sobs on the other end of the phone. |
| I had spent a week realising that people were going to try their hardest not to like me. On the first night, I sat in a great hall full of pictures of old white men sceptically looking down on me. It seemed regal beyond all measure. Back in hostels, my treat was a bottle of Tabasco to go with the packets of 3p noodles that made up my weeks’ worth of dinners. Now people were telling me off for using the wrong cutlery. | I had spent a week realising that people were going to try their hardest not to like me. On the first night, I sat in a great hall full of pictures of old white men sceptically looking down on me. It seemed regal beyond all measure. Back in hostels, my treat was a bottle of Tabasco to go with the packets of 3p noodles that made up my weeks’ worth of dinners. Now people were telling me off for using the wrong cutlery. |
| I told her how I’d imagined people would think I had done well for getting there, but instead people kept telling me I’d only got in because I was poor, not white, and a woman. To the sound of silence I continued, urgently explaining how a boy scoffed at me for having non-working parents, even though my dad had gone to prison multiple times and my mum was schizophrenic. That one would be sure to make her incensed, I thought. | I told her how I’d imagined people would think I had done well for getting there, but instead people kept telling me I’d only got in because I was poor, not white, and a woman. To the sound of silence I continued, urgently explaining how a boy scoffed at me for having non-working parents, even though my dad had gone to prison multiple times and my mum was schizophrenic. That one would be sure to make her incensed, I thought. |
| Nothing. | Nothing. |
| “I’ve cried under my desk in a ball every night, Mum. I don’t want to be here. People hate me. I want to leave.” | “I’ve cried under my desk in a ball every night, Mum. I don’t want to be here. People hate me. I want to leave.” |
| And at this, I finally got a response. | And at this, I finally got a response. |
| “Stop complaining,” she said. “Suck it up and get out of there with your degree. You can tell me all about how bad it was after.” | “Stop complaining,” she said. “Suck it up and get out of there with your degree. You can tell me all about how bad it was after.” |
| It hurt at the time. But three years later, when I finished with a 2.1, I thanked her. | It hurt at the time. But three years later, when I finished with a 2.1, I thanked her. |
| Sam Sedgman | |
| My first job was in a call-centre, selling wine over the phone. It was a decent job, and people seemed to really enjoy calling the company to order wine. They loved to talk, and to show off how much they knew about the subject. “Don’t you agree Rioja is just as bland and disappointing as the land it comes from?” | |
| “Mm”’ I would say, nodding into my headset, having only learned how to pronounce “Roija” four days earlier. | |
| One day I had a call from a woman who was having trouble opening a bottle of champagne. She had tried, she explained, to open it using a corkscrew, and it had “taken me by surprise, and made a terrible mess”. Was there something wrong with the bottle, she wanted to know. Had she done something wrong? | |
| She sounded old. Grandmother old. I wondered how she had come through life never encountering a bottle of fizzy wine. She explained that her husband had always opened the wine for her, “but he’s gone now”. | |
| It was her birthday, and she was celebrating alone. I tried to explain, as best I could, how champagne is made, and how gas builds up inside the bottle and causes pressure. How you have to take the metal cage off the top, hold the cork in one hand and twist the bottle with the other. | |
| She wanted to talk more, but I had other calls to take. I think I was the only person she had spoken to all day. I wished her a happy birthday and hung up. I still remember her, all these years later, a bottle of champagne exploding on her carpet on her first birthday alone without her husband. How many people there are like that, calling up about their gas bills or phone contracts or council tax, just to have someone with whom to talk. |