DELHI CALLING
© Tom McILveen
Winner, 2019 Humorous Section Silver Quill, State Championships, Toodyay WA.
I am sick and tired of taking calls from strangers overseas
who annoy me any time of day or night.
They provoke me and confuse me any time they damn well please,
and then wonder why a bloke gets so uptight.
‘I am calling you from Delhi Sir, regarding N.B.N,
and to tell you why your internet is slow.
You will need a calculator and some paper and a pen,
and a statement from your current Teleco.
They are calling me Raytaji here, but you can call me Ray…
as I’m thinking it’s appropriate for you.
It’s Australian for Raytaji and is easier to say,
and I’m thinking it is sounding truer blue!.’
‘They can call you Raj or Raymond mate, I couldn’t give a stuff,
just as long as you are leaving me alone.
If my internet is getting slow and running out of puff,
then I’ll use my trusty Telstra telephone.’
‘Oh my gracious, goodness crikey, you cannot be doing this!
It is very unreliable I think!
Your provider’s internet is very often hit and miss,
and your telephone will soon be on the blink!
I am telling you this offering will not be lasting soon,
and is better than our bundles from the past.
It will only be in place until tomorrow afternoon,
and is definitely much too good to last!’
‘I will call you back Rahtaji, when you’re finished for the day,
and relaxing with a cup of chilli tea.
I will wait until you’re dozing and about to hit the hay,
and you’re sick of fleecing silly sods like me’.
‘Oh my goodness gracious crikey, you cannot be doing that…
I am working for a major Teleco.
I am not available for everybody’s chitty chat –
I am qualified professional you know!’
‘You can stick your calculator mate, your paper and your pen,
and your super-duper fibre optic line.
You can put them in a bundle with your fancy N.B.N,
and can shove’ em where the Delhi sun don’t shine!’
So I grabbed the phone and slammed it down in anger and disgust,
and then hoicked it just as far as I could throw.
I could feel my ulcer bleeding as I ranted, raved and cussed
every rotten, foreign, mongrel Teleco.
But as soon as I had settled down and started to unwind,
I was rousted by an unfamiliar sound.
It was coming from beneath the lounge or somewhere close behind –
but the lousy thing was nowhere to be found!
When I’d finally retrieved it from behind the kitchen door,
it was screeching like a wounded cockatoo.
So I picked it up and answered with a God Almighty roar…
‘Have you bludgers nothing better else to do?’
Then a foreign voice resounded through the broken telephone…
‘we have booked you in for Friday afternoon.
You will need to N.B.M until the lab results are known,
from the medical we gave you back in June.’
‘I have had a flamin’ gutful mate, of you and N.B.N,
and your Teleco’s and fibre optic line.
For the last and final time Raytaj, I’m telling you again –
you can stick ‘em where the Delhi sun don’t shine!’
‘I am Doctor Maharaji Sir, from Sydney’s Royal South,
and I’m phoning with a standard pre-op clause.
As the N.B.M I’m speaking of refers to ‘Nil By Mouth’
and is standard in procedures such as yours.
I am cancelling your surgery as you are quite distressed,
and delirious as far as I can tell.
I’m prescribing pharmaceuticals, with seven days of rest,
and a psychiatric sedative as well.’
‘I am sorry Doc, I didn’t realise that it was you!
I mistook you for a foreign Teleco.
I had absolutely no idea who I was talking to…
are you there? Hello ? Hello ? Hello ? Oh noooooo!!!!’
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