Constantly Furious

CF's daughters all have their own bank accounts, young though they are.

A junior bank account is pretty limited: just a cashpoint card, really, but does at least allow them ready access to the cash they need for bus fares and the purchase of underaged WKD's from dodgy newsagents.

CF-ette #2 has somehow managed to snap her card in two - hopefully not by chopping cocaine on it - and render it utterly unusable.

Since she is 15, CF phoned the bank on her behalf earlier in the week, and explained the situation. "I'm sorry", said the affectedly nasal 12 year old on the other end of the line, "..we will have to talk to her in person."

Why? Why? Oh, please God, why? CF set the fucking account up on her behalf - guess why? because she's under 16 - and has to be a guarantor on it. The account is with the exactly the same bank - NatWest - that CF has been unfortunate and lazy enough to remain banking with for over 20 fucking years.

Has anyone thought this through? Of course not. There's no thinking. No, speak with her they must.

So, come the weekend, CF calls again, this time with the relevant child at hand.

When put on to speak with them, CF-ette #2, unused to dealing with this kind of fucking insane bureaucracy, fluffs her lines and gets her own date of birth wrong.

Nooooo. Oh shit. Now we're really in trouble. The imbecile at the other end consults their laminated process checklist, and announces she can help us no further. You can sense her eyes raised to the ceiling about the transparency of the crime we're trying to commit.

We cannot request a replacement card, because we are 'not authorised' to even talk about the fucking account anymore. And, no, we cannot talk to anyone else in the call-centre. No, sorry.

"Is there anything else I can help you with today?". Well, you could fucking choke yourself with your headset flex, you hopeless bitch.

After a few minutes fuming, we decide to ring a different one of the 15 or so different phone numbers plastered all over the endless dead tree that keeps being flung through the letter box, and have another go.

But no, they're too quick. "Computer says nooo". There's already a record of the last attempt to bust this account wide open and get access to the twenty fucking eight fucking quid that is languishing in there. Just stop it would you, you pathetically obvious fraudsters? That money is locked away, safe from everyone.

So what, you fucking gormless, slack-jawed NatWest cretins, should we do? We just want another cashpoint card. Please?

"Well..", replies the umpteenth mouth-breathing moron, "..you need to drop in at one of our branches next week, and bring some ID"

Oh, for fuck's sake.

And what ID should we bring, you fucking steaming idiots? Shall we bring CF-ette's birth certificate? Oh no, we can't. Because you, NatWest, managed to fucking lose it during the process of applying for this account originally, didn't you? Yeah, you did.

Shall we bring her driving licence? Oh no, wait. She's fifteen fucking years old. Dear God.

But, equally importantly, NatWest keyboard monkeys, how the fuck does a child of 15 - who is, obviously, still at fucking school - 'drop in' to one of your branches during the week? Give me fucking strength.

Nationalise the banks? Nah.

Set light to them, and machine-gun the fucking staff as they come running out.


All the money goes under the mattress from now on.

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