Saturday (I don't want to blog about politics) night

Dick Puddlecote had an excellent post up last night, you must go and read it. It really made my night, particularly,
Still, at least you still get to keep that £8 towards your Managing Director's huge bonus. I hope he doesn't spend it all at once.
I wish I had hundreds of thousands of pounds to withdraw from a bank when they pissed me off. I just didn't concentrate that well at school. I did make a buck in my high school years selling fags to my classmates, but that entrepreneurial streak didn't last much after everyone else became tall enough to get served with their own down the corner shop.

I once has a run in with a bank and their 'computer says no' attitude. Back in the day I was working as an assistant manager in a pub and I got paid weekly in cash. Tax was still deducted at source so it was perfectly legal, but nevertheless, the practice was frowned upon. When I switched jobs to a pubco, they only paid into a bank account so I had to open one.

Being used to cash rather than cards, all I wanted was a bog standard account with an ATM card so I could take my wage out each week. (We were renting at the time and everything worth paying we paid in cash, even the council tax at the town hall counter)

I went to the local Natwest to open an account but was told I had to make an appointment. I though we could just do it there and then but was very wrong.

I dutifully went to my appointment and took my driving licence and passport as told. The interrogator customer services officer said she also needed to see my wage slips for the last three months. I couldn't understand why because I wasn't asking to borrow money or be trusted with a debit card, I only wanted to deposit my wage for twenty four hours or so per week.

She said - get this- it was to prove I wasn't a terrorist. Apparently new rules had come in since 9/11.

Me pointing out that I was the wrong colour, didn't have a beard and didn't wear baggy clothing didn't work, she was adamant. (Not Adam Ant).

I changed tactics and told her that because I was asking for them to look after my money, I would need to see their year end accounts for the last three years.

She changed tactics and asked if I had any debts.

At this point I no longer wanted the bank account so I decided to have some fun. I told her that I was totally drowning in debt; that I was up to my eyeballs in it and couldn't see the light at the end.

She said - get this - In that case we can only offer you a basic account with no overdraft, no chequebook and no debit card, only an ATM card.

Bingo! That's just what I came in for.

I didn't have to show my wage slips in the end, and a week later when all my details came through, the silly buggers sent me a debit card anyway.

Since then my account has been upgraded to bronze, gold, platinum, all the stages that million selling artists go through, I've even been offered loans and mortgages.

If you're a terrorist and want to open a bank account, just tell the dumb shits that you have debts.



I got a new toy today. Leg-Iron gave me his old air rifle and it arrived in the post this morning. It came at 8am and by 9 O'clock I was in Bolton at the gun shop buying ammo. I don't think I've ever been up and out at that time on a Saturday morning but toys is toys and must be played with.

I used to be a dead shot with an air rifle when I was a kid. I won countless teddies on fairgrounds before the shooting galleries mysteriously disappeared and were replaced with them things that fire corks. I couldn't hit a fat guy at five paces with one of those. I think they abandoned the air rifle galleries when the kids started holding the carnies at gunpoint and nicking the teddies rather than winning them.

I lined up some of last nights beer cans in the back yard to try my aim. Seven cans, seven shots and seven kills. Still got it! And Leggy gave me the impression that this gun was a pretty poor shot.

I didn't fare so well on round two though. I lined them up again, took a shot at the first, missed and the pellet zinged off into orbit. The law says you can shoot on your own property as long as the pellets don't leave the boundaries. I was only pure luck that this one landed back in my yard after it's trip round the moon.

I've decided to knock the home target shooting on the head until I can make a suitable backstop. I don't want Mr Youcan'tparkthere from down the street calling the cops on me. I have to keep my nose clean to preserve my licence for real guns. That is until some clay pigeon rights activist has them banned. (Or turned into cork guns).


I managed to get something productive done in the yard too. Spring has sprung so I've moved my turnip shoots outside and replaced the seed trays in the windows with tobacco seeds. I'm hoping to grow enough food this year to sell at market so I can buy some magic beans and go to the incredible land of the unicorns where they have hot and cold running beer, and the high viz jobsworths clean your apartment for 50 peso's and pinch of half shag per week. Or something.

We're off to my sisters tonight so I will be mainly beating everyone at pool on her table. I'm on fire at the moment.

Happy Saturday!

10 Comments:

D-Rex said...

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