I walk into the temple of customer service, the neon altar of broken promises, and the high priest whispers: “Your call is important to us.”
Cool. Then answer it.
Optus is the gym membership of telcos—great at sign-up, invisible at show-up. You press 1 for billing, 2 for technical, 3 for “something else,” which is corporate for “abandon hope.” The hold music is a torture instrument tuned to “You Will Comply.” It’s three notes and a migraine. Ten minutes in, you start bargaining with the universe. Twenty minutes, you’re writing a memoir. Thirty minutes, you’ve aged into a different tax bracket.
Meanwhile, the chatbot pops up like a Hallmark rectangle with a fake smile:
“I can help with that!”
No you can’t, Clippy With a Wig. You can barely spell “SIM swap,” let alone fix one. You’re a decorative screen saver with delusions of adequacy.
Optus loves a “case number.” You collect them like Pokémon cards. Each one is a tiny tombstone for a conversation that died in captivity. You tell your story five times to five different people in five different departments who all say the same thing: “Mmm, that’s unusual.” Brother, nothing about this is unusual. This is your business model.
And let’s talk about the big red button: 000. The one phone call that must work even when the apocalypse is running late. Optus looked at the emergency line like it was a Netflix suggestion. “Maybe later.” The line drops, the nation gasps, the press conference begins. There’s a carefully ironed suit, a podium, and a word salad about “complex network events” that translates to “we kicked the plug and nobody knew where the socket was.”
Data breach? Oh yeah. Optus decided to cosplay as a confetti cannon and showered the country with personal details. Names, birthdays, addresses—your identity reduced to party trash. They offered apologies and credit monitoring, which is like handing you an umbrella after they bulldozed your roof. “We’re learning.” Learning what? That computers connect to the internet? That security should be better than a screen door on a submarine?
Then came the nationwide outage—the moment the carrier pigeon industry looked cutting-edge. Eftpos dies, small businesses cry, and the Help Desk says, “Have you tried turning it off and on again?” Mate, the nation is off. Who’s got the switch?
Walk into a store and the vibe is hostage negotiation with fluorescent lighting. “Do you have an appointment?” I have a heartbeat and a malfunctioning phone. “We can book you for next Thursday at approximately sometime between dawn and the heat death of the universe.” You stand there holding your sad, silent handset like a wet sock while a pinboard of “Top Up Here!” posters judges you for wanting the bare minimum: a dial tone and dignity.
Every email is a riddle wrapped in buzzwords. “We value your feedback.” You value it so much you filed it under “Deleted Items,” right next to “Accountability” and “Change Control.” The refunds arrive as store credit for a store that sells apologies. “We’ve credited you two dollars and an inspirational quote.” Thanks, I’ll frame it next to my broken router.
Singtel—the parent—sits there like a tired teacher at parent-teacher night:
“So, Optus… how’s class?”
“Well, they eat glue and set the fire alarm off during nap time.”
“And homework?”
“They wrote ‘we are reviewing our processes’ on a napkin.”
Stunning. Inspirational. A masterclass in doing laps in a paddling pool and calling it the Olympics.
Zoom out and Temasek’s the grandparent at the back, sunglasses on, reading the report card. The question is simple: Are we running a telecom or a public art installation titled “Man Screaming Into Phone Forever”? Because the market doesn’t care about feelings; it prices confidence. And confidence doesn’t come from catchphrases—it comes from networks that don’t die and humans who pick up the phone.
Here’s the comedy special Optus keeps performing, night after night, two-drink minimum:
- “We apologise for any inconvenience” (drumroll) — while you’ve been on hold long enough to grow a beard and a new personality.
- “We’re experiencing higher than usual call volumes” — yeah, because people are calling to tell you the phones don’t work.
- “Please visit our website for updates” — which is down, because irony is alive and thriving.
- “Your issue has been escalated” — to where, Mount Doom?
I want boring. Give me a telco so dull it’s practically beige. Give me 000 on two physically separate networks with more backups than a doomsday bunker. Give me change control so tight the engineers wear white gloves and sign in blood. Give me a customer service team with the power to help and the authority to fix—first call, human voice, done. No treasure map of menus. No chatbot that thinks empathy is an emoji.
Until then, Optus is the airline that loses your luggage and sends you a coupon for a future crash. They’re the gym that bills you during a fire drill. They’re the neighbor who borrows your mower and returns a toaster.
So here’s your new slogan, free of charge:
Optus: Yes—eventually, maybe, if the stars align and our hold music reaches enlightenment.
Optus: We put the “oh no” in 000.
Optus: Your call is important to us; our answer is optional.
Pick one, embroider it on a lanyard, staple it to the corporate soul.
Because this isn’t complicated. It’s electricity, copper, fiber, and responsibility. You carry the heartbeat, you answer the call. Every time. No excuses. No poetry. No buzzwords. Just the sound every Australian expects when they dial out into the void:
A human voice that says, “I’ve got you.” And then actually does.
– The Hollow Centre
