First of all: fuck you.
A while ago I made the mistake of opening an account with you. Oh excuse me, I mean a while ago I made the mistake of selling my soul to you.
I opened my account a week before I was supposed to go on holiday to the Karoo. Your staff assured me that my data will be loaded and ready by the time I hit the road.
Before I went to the Karoo I filled out the HUNDRED THOUSAND papers you asked me to, because you know, it’s 1991 and we don’t live in the digital age.
SIDE NOTE: MY MOTHER IS MORE TECHNOLOGICALLY ADVANCED THAN YOU.
Anyway, your super clever shop assistants accidentally gave me a carbon copy to write on. So they called me and asked me to come back to the shop to write on the right paper – without apologising for their brain fart.
Then I asked them to give me my iPad’s number. I bought the SIM card ages ago and never bothered to find out what its number is, because dealing with you is like swallowing razors.
Your shop assistants then gave me an eleven digit number. ELEVEN. Your stupid form, which I had to write by hand because you’re scared of computers, doesn’t even HAVE SPACE FOR ELEVEN DIGITS.
I asked your shop assistant if we even have eleven digits in South Africa. She said yes, and told me to write the extra digit next to the ten allocated blocks. So that’s what I did, and then I went on my well deserved holiday, trusting that I’ll have data to Instagram the shit out of my trip.
Two weeks later I got a call from one of your shop assistants, telling me that my application was unsuccessful because I gave them an eleven digit number.
This is the number shop assistant one gave me: 07606511495
This is the number shop assistant two gave me: 0606511485
People have learned how to do brain transplants, but your shop assistants are struggling to read numbers.
After a month, they finally managed to set up my account – with the debit order linked to my savings account. I asked your assistants multiple times to confirm if it’s okay that it’s going off my savings account. Yes, they said. It’ll be fine, they said.
Three months later I got a warning letter out of the blue, saying that I’ve failed to pay my account for three months. This warning letter was attached to an email, without a subject line that says anything like, “Urgent” or “Warning”. No, because that is of course too technologically advanced for you.
I would NEVER, EVER, IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, not pay my accounts. So I immediately called one of your shop assistants, who mumbled something about FNB. To this day I still don’t know what went wrong with that debit order. None of your shop assistants could give me an answer.
I settled it immediately, and everything was fine after that.
But then you sent me a newsletter and attached my MOTHER’S invoice to it.
Firstly, nobody reads newsletters. Especially not yours.
Secondly, my mom and I have different names and account numbers. So how did you manage to fuck that up?
Thirdly, my mom’s name is SONJA. Not Ionja. How many times does she need to ask you to change it?
This morning a R330 debit order went off my account without any explanation. I called your accounts department, and was on hold for half an hour.
As if waiting for half an hour isn’t bad enough, you made me listen to Robbie Wessels and Gangnam Style.
This is all I wanted to do:
It was a colossal waste of my time, because your operator was unable to explain why I was paying R200 extra this month. So I called my local Vodacom who promised to get back to me.
They still haven’t.
So you see, Vodacom, I am beyond fed up with you. You don’t listen to your customers, you take money as you please, and you make people listen to Gangnam Style.
Thanks for nothing, assholes.
P.S. The only good employee you have is Barend, who works at Paarl Mall. You should promote him to CEO. Maybe then your brand won’t make me want to do this.