It’s a Friday night. You’ve just jumped out of the shower, slipped into your tracky dacks and are settling in to watch *local football match* when there’s a ring.
Always at the worst moment, the phone.
Should you ignore it? It’s probably just someone selling something. What if something’s wrong? It’ll be nothing. What if it’s something?
“Hello?,” you ask a little frustrated but also worried.
“Hello sir, how are you this evening? That’s great. Have you got a moment? Good. Have you got children or loved ones? Are they prepared? Prepared for a life without you? With Acme life insurance…”
You throw the phone down in frustration and curse the bastard, his family and everyone he’s ever met.
Increasingly, it’s likely “the bastard” was based somewhere in the Indian sub-continent; where knowledge of English and low wages combine to become the perfect place to outsource your customer service or sales department.
We’ve all heard the story: “Mate, the company only reaped $4.2 billion last year. If I send the whole department to Bangladesh I can run the place for the same cost as I’d have to pay one greedy westerner. After the share price goes up, I’ll take half the savings as a bonus, blow it on cocaine and both me and shareholders will be rapt.”
What I’ve been wondering for some time though is, is the whole process accidentally making us racist?