Monday, 16 January 2017

Getting data mined or some welly socks for my wife. #BritishDadStuff



You know that you are a Great British Dad when...
...you can’t even get socks for your Wife without getting data mined.



GREAT BRITISH DAD is holding a box of socks by the TILL of a WOMEN'S CLOTHING CHAIN STORE, on a Christmas Saturday.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
I might’ve made this up in my head - but have you got them fur-lined? I think they’re welly socks?

The young MANAGER is in the chain’s branded clothing, with her “flair” covering all fingers in intricate silver gothic rings.

MANAGER:
Yes. Sorry. I know the ones. We don’t stock them.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(turns to leave)
No problem, thanks anyway--

MANAGER:
But we can order them in for you?

A whole new conversation begins.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(inside)
Ugh. Ordering them.
It means I don’t have to look any more.
I might get them somewhere else.
Or better ones?
Someone just offered to get them for me.
When will they get here though?
Find them somewhere else today and I'll have them right in my hands.
But if they order them, I'll guarantee they’ll be in my hands.

What if you see something better?
I think these socks will make my Wife happy.
I already know how bad that sounds.
That's how we live our lives.
I lose.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(out loud - to Manager)
That's great thanks.

MANAGER:
(welly socks on ipad)
Wonderful. They look lovely. Is it small medium or large?

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
Medium... I think.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(inside)
She’s just shopping on their website!
I could’ve done THAT.

MANAGER:
Would you like them sent to your home or collect from here.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(inside and out loud)
Collect from here.
Collect from here please.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(inside)
Do not give them your home address.

MANAGER:
Can I just take your email address?

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(inside)
And there it is.
The deep one-way relationship I didn’t ask for and that we do not need.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(out loud)
Sure. It’s [DIRTY EMAIL ADDRESS]
(inside)
I’ve got the dirty email address.
Exactly for times like this.
I want the socks, and I'll eat the headspace tax.

The MANAGER types the email on her ipad.

MANAGER:
And can I take a phone number?

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
Um. Do I have to?

MANAGER:
(reassuring)
Just so we can let you know when it's in.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(inside)
And there’s the corporate manual quote.
(out loud)
I’m sorry, I know it sounds weird, but I feel a bit uncomfortable about having to--

MANAGER:
(over bright)
Okay, okay, I’ll just leave the box empty.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(weak)
I’m sure I’ll find out from the email - you know.

MANAGER:
(mashing ipad)
I’m really sorry, it’s not letting the transaction go through without a number.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(inside)
Tell her. YOU’RE FED UP OF GETTING DATA MINED WHEN ALL YOU WANT IS A PAIR OF SOCKS.
TELL HER.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(out loud)
I’m so sorry...

A STORE ASSISTANT leans in.

STORE ASSISTANT:
(chirpy - to Manager)
Just put in our number.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(inside)
You are an ANGEL.

She types in the store’s phone number.

GREAT BRITISH DAD: (CONT’D)
(inside)
A fellow world-weary traveller trying to out-stagger The Man.

No, better than that.
You’re a Fifth Columnist.
A Renegade Resistance Operative helping hide me in the cellar while I try to get back home.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(like someone from Schindler’s List)
Thank you.
I’m just, you know, really fed up for giving my details to everyone. I’m trying to keep my phone clean - so I can get--

They nod in sympathy. I trail off.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(inside)
They didn’t even let me finish that thought.
They know.
Outside this shop... they’re drilled for details too.
We can’t fight it.
We’ve lost already.

AT HOME:
GREAT BRITISH DAD sidesteps round WIFE.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
By the way... um... what shoe size are you? Is it, say, medium?

WIFE:
4. That’s probably small.

INT. WOMEN’S CLOTHING CHAIN STORE - DAYS LATER

GREAT BRITISH DAD, back at the till.

ANOTHER MANAGER:
The welly boot socks!

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
You remembered! I came back and you couldn’t change the order, but I’ve got the message that they’re in?

ANOTHER MANAGER:
Here they are - so, medium isn’t the right size.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
That’s right, can I change them for small now?

She taps on the store’s IPAD.

ANOTHER MANAGER:
I’m so sorry. The small has sold out.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
Okay. I understand.
(inside)
I do not understand your poxy system.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(out loud)
Can I get a refund?

ANOTHER MANAGER:
Of course!
(then)
I just need your postcode.
And your house number.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
(crushed - filling out receipt)
Of course.

ANOTHER MANAGER:
And your signature.
Here please.

INT. MY HOUSE - CHRISTMAS DAY

GREAT BRITISH DAD with WIFE on the SOFA surrounded by STUFF.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
I tried getting those welly socks you liked.

WIFE:
Oh, don’t worry. This is all lovely.

GREAT BRITISH DAD:
I found something better instead.
A Fifth Column.
Poor employees with whom we can sympathise and give love to, who are forced to get data from us, but who also are fed up of giving their stuff to The Man because we committed the crime of wanting stuff from The Man.

Maybe together we can make the system run badly...
give them dirty data and dead telephone numbers and postcodes that are one digit out.

What if we infect the system with our rubbishness, and bring it down like in War Of The Worlds?

We can bring this down... by being humans.

ON WIFE.

WIFE:
Sure.


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