The worst examples of customer service I’ve ever suffered have been at the hands of technology companies.

There was the time I bought a pay-per-view football match from NTL… only to spend 105 minutes (the 90 minutes of the match, plus 15 of half time) in a call queue trying to find out why they haven’t activated the channel. I never did get my money back.

Then there was the time my new Apple iBook’s keyboard broke, and Apple took two months to get it back to me repaired. There was never any question of being compensated for the loss of use of that computer.

I feel another bad episode brewing, so I’m going - ala Jeff Jarvis and his notorious Dell Hell - to document it. It’s to do with Philips, and a new Philips Cineos TV that I bought a couple of months back.

Saturday
– Telly dies. It’s simply not turning on – I’m just getting a little red light, and a little blue light, on the front. Swear. It was working fine last night! Swear again. Add it to extensive evidence of conspiracy against self. Swear again. Stomp around house in a sulk. Swear again. Try Philips website. Fecking useless. “It’s getting better”? Feck off.

– Find service line number, for 15p a minute. Long discussion with call centre person - is this a deliberate conspiracy to prize 15p payments from me? Swear, inwardly to self.

– Call centre person concludes “it sounds like you have a problem.” Would like to congratulate operator by nicknaming Clouseau, but refrain. Console self by remembering that accepting I have a problem is probably Philips first step to overcoming it.

– Call centre person suggests I take TV back to the where I bought it. I point out I bought it via the interweb. He suggests I post it back.

– I’m lost for words. I point out it weighs 20kg, and that I don’t have the original packing. It may, I warn, arrive back at Philips in a worse-than-hoped-for-state.

– He’s lost for words. Long spell on hold. Is this a deliberate conspiracy to prize 15p payments from me?

– Call centre person finally gives me the service centre number. Give them a call, says operator. They’ll sort you out.

– I picture kindly man with moustache and tool kit, who will come round to tighten something and get it all working.

– It’s not a kindly man in a van. Instead, the service centre call centre is closed - for the weekend. This must be the only call centre on God’s earth that works Monday to Friday, 9am to 5pm. Swear.

– Rest of Saturday: stew. Fetch old TV from upstairs. Struggle with cables.

Sunday:
– Stew, while watching TV on old set that came free with some dodgy kitchen cabinets five years ago. At least it works.

Monday:
– First thing, call call centre. Hear dread phrase “you… are… in… queue… position… … … six”.

– Wait.

– Get through. They demand a serial number to go any further.

Tuesday
– Call call centre again. Enter queue at position four - result!

– Wait.

– Call centre asks me to send a three-page fax explaining everything I could - and did - tell them on the phone.

– They can’t collect - note, not fix - until Thursday, and can only do “at some point in the day” pickups - in other words, you have to take a day off to meet them. I can’t do that, so it’s a £30 fee for a Saturday collection. And I’ll have to stay in - they only collect “at some point in the day”.

– Send fax.

– Wait.

– No response. I still don’t know how long my expensive TV will be away.

– Wonder: what consumer protection do we have against procrastinating corporations who charge us to diagnose and take away their faulty products?

Watch - if you can bear it - this space.

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