“Spamageddon — or How I Learned to Stop Hanging Up and Start Performing” (A Love Letter to the Unsung Heroes of Pointless Conversations)

There comes a point in adult life when you realise that you are, in fact, on more international watchlists than Osama bin Laden’s dentist.

And there was a time — a simpler, more civilised era — when a ringing phone brought excitement. It might have been a friend. A job offer. A relative calling to tell you they’d finally learned how to program the VCR. But now, in our advanced age of digital despair, when the phone rings, the collective mood is one of suspicion, fatigue, and mild existential dread.

Because we all know who it is.

It’s not Mum. It’s not the doctor. It’s Dave from the Refund Department of Microsoft Technical Windows Amazon HMRC Broadband Solar Savings Ltd. And he’s calling because there has been some “suspicious activity” on your account.

He doesn’t specify which account. You’re meant to panic and fill in the blanks yourself. “Oh my God,” you think, “which account? The one I use for groceries, or the one I use to fund my secret llama farm in Surrey?”

I used to hang up. I used to say “no, thank you” in the tone of a man who still believed in civility. But then I hit fifty, discovered that hair grows faster in the ears than on the head, and realised that life is too short not to weaponise your madness.

So now, I play.

When they call, I answer with the enthusiasm of a man auditioning for Britain’s Got Tinnitus. I make up syndromes on the spot. “Ah yes,” I say, “thank you for calling, I’ve been expecting you. I’ve just been diagnosed with IHS — Itchy Hair Syndrome. Terrible thing. The follicles think they’re in a perpetual state of mild confusion, do you know that IHS affects one in every one household, and that there is no known cure? What department did you say you were from again? Medical research? Excellent, perhaps you can help me.”

There’s usually a pause then, a tiny electronic sigh as the scammer recalibrates their life choices. Sometimes they hang up. Sometimes they stay, out of morbid curiosity.

My finest hour came when a man claiming to be from “the Internet Security Team” told me that my computer had been compromised. I gasped, told him I was shocked, and then whispered, “Between you and me, it’s been very emotional for both of us.” He didn’t hang up, bless him. He wanted to know what I meant.

“Well,” I said, “the computer and I have been through a lot together. Long nights. Updates that went nowhere. You can’t just say it’s been compromised and expect me not to feel something.”

By the time I’d reached the part where the computer had left me for an iPad, he was gone.

But the best — the pièce de résistance — was the day I put one on hold. “Please hold,” I said in my most officious tone, “while I transfer you to the Suspicious Minds Department.” And then, with all the subtlety of a karaoke drunk uncle at a wedding, I began:

🎵 We’re caught in a trap… 🎵

I went full Elvis. Off-key. Overly dramatic. I threw in background harmonies that didn’t exist. I was halfway through the bridge when I realised my wife was standing watching, frozen between amusement and alarm.

The scammer? Stayed for the entire song. Didn’t say a word. Then, softly, “Sir, do you want to fix your account?”

“No,” I said, “I want to fix your soul.”

Click. Gone.

The joy, of course, isn’t just in the mischief. It’s in reclaiming your peace of mind — or at least, replacing mild annoyance with roaring laughter. Every time I serenade a scammer or discuss the fictional side effects of “Chronic Moist Sock Disorder,” I’m taking back a little control in an uncontrollable world.

And the best part? Everyone in earshot wins. Family, colleagues, neighbours — they’ve all learned that when my phone rings, it might not be a conversation. It might be performance art. My friend once spat coffee across the table when he heard me explaining to “Officer Steve from Interpol” that my alibi was airtight because I was busy knitting emotional support jumpers for goblins in Liechtenstein.

Sometimes I go the long route. When they ask how I’m doing, I tell them. In great detail. “Well, Raj, funny you should ask mate. The left knee’s playing up, the cat’s been passive-aggressive since Thursday, and I think my fridge is haunted. But apart from that, tremendous. How’s your mother?”

You’d be amazed how quickly they find another number to dial.

I’ve even started keeping score:

·       1 point for a hang-up in under 10 seconds (cowards).

·       3 points for staying through a song.

·       10 points if they apologise to me.

·       Bonus round: If they call back, I pretend to be my own receptionist. “Ah, you’ve reached Barry’s Personal Affairs Department — he’s currently in a meeting with a man about a haunted yoghurt. Can I take a message?”

Look, life is exhausting. Bills, bad news, traffic, the fact that Lurpak now costs more than gold. You can’t control much, but you can control how you deal with nonsense. These calls are a chance to turn the mundane into the magnificent. To rewrite the script.

Because deep down, the spammer and I are both performing. He’s pretending to be from the Microsoft Customer Services, and I’m pretending to be sane. It’s a level playing field, really.

And maybe that’s the point. A Life Rewired isn’t about perfection — it’s about seeing how far you can bend the absurdity of the world before it snaps. It’s about taking the small irritations that peck at your peace whilst turning them into theatre.

So, when the next call comes in, and the robot voice solemnly tells you your “National Insurance number has been suspended,” don’t hang up. Clear your throat. Channel your inner Elvis, or your inner Shakespearean madman, and deliver the performance of your life.

Because if you can make a scammer question their own life choices, my friend, you’ve truly rewired your day.