They value my call

I've just spent about seven fucking hours listening to some automaton telling me how much they value my call, although that value evidently stops just short of paying someone to actually answer the fucking thing,
eventually to be told that I'd got through to the wrong department, which must be just about impossible given how bloody specific I had to be when navigating through those fucking pathetic menus which might as well say "press seven if you want to piss away another precious hour of your life whilst listening to Vivaldi played on a child's organ," so that finally when I get through to someone I ought to be speaking to the person whose sole job it is to alter the dates of direct debits and nothing else, yet somehow I'm in the wrong pissing department so I have to be transferred from one 17 year old fucking retard to another, based at some other human battery farm where you are only allowed to speak the words written out for you in a script and where if you dare to show so much as one, measly ounce of humanity, you are crushed like a fucking fly by the corporate machine, and I wan't to go round there personally and machine gun every last fucking one of them but inside I know its not really their fault because they are just trying to fund their cannabis habits on minimum wage, which isn't easy, so I end up apologising to them for asking such an awkward question as "please can you change my direct debit?" and then I feel dirty and ashamed at being a part of this ridiculous charade, whilst a £4 billion computer whirs away in the background, singularly failing to properly action my miniscule request, a failure which will eventually find its way onto one of those "tell us about our service" feedback questionnaires which serve no purpose other than to employ a few £500 per hour fucking business process consultants who can use them to produce a poxy graph to present to the board which says "good" and has a line going upwards, so that they can all pat each other on the back and give themselves an extra bloody dividend that will pay for the Chief Executive's daughter Jemima to spend eight months in Tuscany "finding herself" before going to Oxford by shagging a swarthy farm hand in the back of an artisan's tractor, and before I can even put the bloody phone down I have to spend another two minutes being thanked for my call by this fucking idiot who sounds like he's reading out the "terms and conditions may apply, all offers subject to availability..." bit you hear at the end of radio adverts and when I finally do put the phone down, my will to live is gone and I just want to curl up in a little ball and cry like a baby.