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Such a load of nonsense that even Jesus was pissed...

Since last night I’ve lost all faith in humanity, become a currency-hating Commie, frozen my balls off, and given myself a concussion. And it’s all Natwest’s fault. Here’s why...

So there I am on my way home from work, freezing my bollocks off in the kind of temperatures that make you honestly believe God has it in for all of mankind. I’m walking home through Manchester, trying to get back before my teeth start chattering so hard they crack like the ice beneath my feet. I stop by a cash machine to get beer money, only to be told that 'your bank is refusing service.' Very odd.

It struck me how suddenly a bank’s perception can of you can change – if they’ve got your money, there’s no limit to the backflips these suited Mafioso looking toss-rags will go through to help you - to the extent where I wouldn’t be surprised to see billboards advertising the new Barclays Blowjob Account. But as soon as the slightest thing goes wrong, you’re in the shit. ‘Your bank refuses service’ is basically their way of saying “we don’t serve peasants like you, serf. You want US to give YOU money?! Insolent wretch! Get back to the turnip fields immediately, before I have you flogged!” All the more interesting, considering I hadn’t done anything wrong...

So I finally drag my skinny white ass home after enduring the kind of hazardous conditions that would have even Indiana Jones shitting his underoos in fear, and so begins the inquisition. I’m pissed off – they’re withholding my money (which is technically extortion and theft in my book), preventing me from my essential xmas shopping and generally shafting me so hard I’m surprised my lungs don’t fall out my asshole. Not only that, but they’re stopping me buying beer. BEER, DAMMIT! Even Jesus would be pissed.

I get on the phone, the wrath of God firmly on my side, demanding answers. Further illustrating why banks are up there on God’s shit list alongside the child molesters and used car salesmen, my bank give me the full treatment. They put me on hold, torturing my ears with the kind of instrumental ass-fisting that would have Vivaldi turning in his grave. They transfer me down the line three times, each time passing me off to a slightly less educated minion, happy to take down my every detail, randomly typing random shit into a computer, then putting me through to the gargling, crazed, flesh-craving Yetti that lives beneath the stairs. They even go international on my ass, passing me from Liverpool, all the way down to London, then up to Manchester, then all the way to Aberdeen, just for the hell of it. By now I’m having a fucking blast.

Finally I get through to the one employee with an IQ in the triple-digits, who kindly explains they’ve blocked my account, locked me out and frozen my card because of ‘suspicious behaviour’ – interesting. ‘What suspicious behaviour?’ I ask, picturing some shady buck-toothed computer thief hurriedly trying to hack into my current account, or maybe some team of covert ninjas hammering away at a cash machine in an effort to give yours truly the high hard one. What she actually came up with, however, was even more unusual:

‘The suspicious activity was by some company called Blockbuster’ she said, a tone in her voice as if she were speaking of Ze Devil himself. ‘Any idea who they are?’

I couldn’t believe it, and actually had to stop for a second just to make sure I wasn’t being hearing things. ‘Blockbuster?’ I said, struggling to believe I wasn’t actually on the line with Marvo The Amazing Talking Monkey. ‘That’s the multi-national video rental firm, the one with thousands of branches throughout Britain. The one I’ve been dealing with for over 7 months? That one?’ Then she hits the jackpot:

‘Who’s Blockbuster?’ Wow. If this were a cartoon you’d hear a piano falling down the stairs about now. I slap my forehead so hard I actually begin to see sound.

‘It’s just that the money went out your account at 2:18am, and we found that a little strange.’ She said, unable to hear the sound of me repeatedly smashing my own face into the wall in frustration. ‘They’re American. It’s called a time delay.’ I was expecting her to say something amazing like ‘What’s America’ but she didn’t. (Thankyou modern-day education. Another mountain climbed.)

‘But a transfer at that hour; it’s very suspicious.’ By this point I’m feeling infected by her stupidity, as if every mumbled word she utters is leaping into my ear, down my body, and then taking it in turns to kick me in the nuts.

‘No, no it isn’t. Not for £14.99 it isn’t. You see, just because it’s dark outside doesn’t mean that people stop spending money. If Blockbuster are taking money from me, it’s probably for buying things, not for funding terrorism, or drugs, or the mafia. But thanks, because lets face it, who needs money this close to Yuletide anyway?’ Even The Grinch wasn’t this hard to deal with.

Yes folks, they really did block my entire account 6 days before xmas because I rented a DVD. Nice work fuck-stick. Thanks Natwest. Thanks Blockbuster. You fuckers.

Because of your bumbling exploits I now can’t buy presents for my family, which means they’ll be angry all day, which means they’ll be too busy sulking to celebrate Jesus’s birthday, which means ol’ JC will be pissed at me forever, which means I’m going to Hell. All because of you and Marvo The Trained Monkey who didn’t know what a video store was. Merry xmas to you too!

Fascism lives

I guess if anything I’ve learned that:

1.) People who answer phones for a living aren’t actually fully human. They’re like cyborgs, but cheaper. It’s a little-known fact that during training, they remove the employee’s brain, throw it in the gutter, and then invite local children to take turns shitting on it. Then they microwave the remains until the lumpen, sweaty piles of poo form a nice impenetrable crust, which is then lobotomized for good luck. It’s then all stuck back in with crazyglue, and re-started with a car battery. Only then can the call-centre employee provide ‘true customer satisfaction.’

2.) These marginally-retarded cyborgs are also free to wander the street. Given their amusingly limited intelligence, this is actually quite worrying – as these cyborgs are also legally allowed to vote. And drive cars. And join our armed forces (face it, would you want one of these driving our battleships?) We even let the silly sods breed, guaranteeing that the gene-pool will be gradually diluted, until we all reach the stage of sub-retardation also known as Iowa.

3.) Blockbuster are secretly in league with the mafia, armed ninjas, geeky internet hackers, terrorists and even ol’ Lucifer himself. The crafty sods.

4.) Banks are not to be trusted. They hate you, just like humans hate roaches, like vegans hate MacDonald’s, like Christians hate Rockstar Games, etc. They hate it when you make them actually work for a living. It’s also clear that if the law allowed it, banks would have their own private death squads for people like me who dare to shop near xmas.

5.) Shopping online for your rental DVDs scares people, and brings the whole banking system to its knees. Don’t do it, for fear of accidentally starting some kind of alien invasion or nuclear apocalypse, or for fear of a thousand bank tellers leaping to their deaths.

People here in the UK often complain that all the call centre jobs are being outsourced to Calcutta, that service levels are plummeting. The truth is, however, that we’re not much better here ourselves. I lost access to all my money just days before xmas, all because some moron didn’t understand that money can be pulled out as well as shoved in, (which is a pretty good metaphor for the way I feel right now...)

If this is the best they can come up with, then we’re all in deep shit.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

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