I’ve just received (checks notes) the twentieth phone call this week from a very polite, very determined, very Indian‑sounding gentleman named Dave. Or Steve. Or occasionally John. All of whom, coincidentally, are “just calling from O2 about my contract renewal.”

Now, according to them, they’re phoning from O2 HQ itself, eager to secure me a better deal. Yet somehow, despite this alleged insider status, they never seem to know what my current deal actually is. Not a clue. Not even a guess. Their system must be absolutely dreadful. (Which, to be fair, is entirely believable, if BT’s systems are anything to go by, chaos is practically a British telecom tradition.)

Still, I’m always polite. I tell them that if they can beat my current deal, I’ll happily consider switching. And then, with the straightest face imaginable, I invent something utterly ridiculous like:

“Unlimited data and unlimited calls for £5 a month.”

Then I sit back and enjoy the silence.

There’s always a pause, long enough for me to imagine them frantically scrolling through imaginary O2 databases, before they mutter something like, “Ah… that is a very good deal… err… we don’t think we can help you… err…”

It’s glorious.

There’s a special kind of joy in confusing a scammer into speechlessness. It’s like harmless mischief for the modern age. A little victory. A small moment of chaos. And honestly? It’s often far more entertaining than outright telling them to get lost.