b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Banks » Popular | Search
This is a question Banks

Your Ginger Fuhrer froths, "I hate my bank. Not because of debt or anything but because I hate being sold to - possibly pathologically so - and everytime I speak to them they try and sell me services. Gold cards, isas, insurance, you know the crap. It drives me insane. I ALREADY BANK WITH YOU. STOP IT. YOU MAKE ME FRIGHTED TO DO MY NORMAL BANKING. I'm angry even thinking about them."

So, tell us your banking stories of woe.

No doubt at least one of you has shagged in the vault, shat on a counter or thrown up in a cash machine. Or something

(, Thu 16 Jul 2009, 13:15)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Long story of stubborn coppery hell
Years of collecting coppers in a big jar until it finally reached the top. Conscientious as I am, I separate all the different denominations into different bags before toddling down to my local branch.

At the counter I pop down the first bag (full of 2 pences): "Could you change this for notes please?

"Sorry sir, you’ll have to put £1 of 2 pences into each of these little bags" - to which I am presented a handful of little plastic bags. A ball ache but fair enough. I take the time to count 50 two pences into a bag and hand it over before starting on the next one.

Whilst counting, I notice the clerk opens the first little bag and pours the contents into a counting machine which rattles through the lot in under a second, confirming I had counted correctly. Hmm, I spot a potential time saving solution:

"Can’t you use the counting machine to count the money and save me doing it ?"

"No sir, you have to put the money into the little bags".

"but you take it out the little bags and count it anyway."

"I’m sorry sir, you have to put the money into the little bags"

Pah ! Bollocks to this. I stick my hand into the big bag of 2ps, grab a handful and stick them in a plastic bag:

"There you go that’s a pound"

"No it isn’t. You didn’t count it"

"Yes I did. Why don’t you check with your machine."

To which the frowning clerk pours the contents into the machine and tells me its only 88p. I grab another random amount of 2 pences and add them to the little bag.

"Can you check again please ?"

"You didn’t count it"

"Yes I did. Why don’t you check ?"

And so I spent the best part of an hour in what became a war of attrition. Each time I grabbed a random amount of coinage - each time she would count it and tell me it was the incorrect amount, each time I would grab another random amount... She didn’t want to break procedure and I wanted to prove my point. Again. And Again. And Again.

Got there in the end but I cant help noticing some people are so stubborn.
(, Thu 16 Jul 2009, 15:34, 14 replies)
I Robbed a Bank Once
I worked for a car and truck rental company while in college. The downtown office was in an area that had been neglected when the city "urban renewed", so the owners were fanatical about security and leaving cash about.

One Friday I worked alone due to the manager leaving early for a family event. She gave me a list with explicit instructions for making the bank deposit that afternoon. We had a fair number of cash deposit customers for the rental trucks, so a lot of cash on hand.

I almost forgot until too late, but I managed to lock up, grab the cash and deposit bag, hop into one of our new cars, and race to the bank just in time. I went in, filled out the deposit slip per the instructions on Florences note, and handed everything to a teller. She seemed a little shaken up, I assumed because of the large amount of cash -- it certainly had me shaken up. I recall it being several thousand dollars, at a time when $20 was a good days pay. I had never done a business deposit before, and the teller position gave me a nice view into the vault. I was fairly salivating at the amount of cash I could see!

Anyway, she handed me my bag back, and I noticed right away that it seemed rather full, but not having any idea what to expect I shrugged it off. I did have to ask the teller for my note back, I needed the office safe combination from the note.

Leaving the bank I was kind of in a hurry -- I was going camping for the weekend with my girl. I hopped in the car, zipped around the block, down the alley, and used my remote to open the garage door of the truck rental garage. I parked the new car in between a couple 28' trucks, stripped off my coveralls, and slipped into the office to put the bag in the safe.

That done, I got into my pickup, drove home, and headed off into the wilds of Idaho for a 4-day weekend.

When I got back to work, Florence was really pissed off! Apparently I had handed Florences note to the teller along with the deposit slip -- the note said, among other things:




As these instructions were the only ones in all caps (with CASH & SERIOUS underlined), the teller read those lines and assumed I was robbing the bank. Some $75,000, plus our original deposit, had spent the weekend in our company safe. I had to give a statement to the FBI, but was fortunately off their wanted list by the time I got back to civilization.
(, Thu 16 Jul 2009, 19:09, 7 replies)
Ahhh banks....
A long time ago - about six or seven years now, I had a bank account with a bank that was somewhat smaller than most - and a subsidiary of one of the biggest in the world.

One Christmas, I had trouble paying a loan payment to them - the moment I realised I'd fucked up, I phoned them and said, I simply don't have the full amount, but I can pop in and give you £xxx rather than nothing.

"Fine", they said, "you're not the first to fuck up, and we glad you offered us something rather than nothing" - or words to that effect.

So, in I go, pay in the money - all is very jovial and friendly.

Until the following Saturday when I get a loan statement from them telling me I'm being charged 25 quid.

Oh well, so be it, I think and just pay when the time comes.

So, about a week later I get a phone call from one of their personal wankers; "do you want to come in to discuss the state of your account and to see what we can do to help you out?"

I blatently don't - but being under the thumb at the time and having to do as my misses told me to do, I went along; just to listen to the twat try to sell me a secured loan (a loan I didn't and don't want).

Anyway, he completely convinces the misses, leaving me with little choice but to sign away my life and soul.

I asked him what to do about the current loan as this was soon to be swallowed up by the 'secured loan'. He tells me he will 'put a note on my account' and tells me not to make any more payments into that loan account.

So, I don't.

Several months pass without me paying, and without me hearing from him. I get several other calls from his colleagues per day, asking why I am not paying the loan and there is no sign of a 'note on my account'.

Eventually, after lying about my name when phoning his branch, I finally get him to answer the phone. He tells me at this point that they are not going to give the secured loan due to me not paying the full monthly amount over Christmas (now around 5 months ago), and so if I could just pay the outstanding amount, all will be fine.

Well, I simply cannot afford to do that, plus their 25 quids here and there for penalising me for not paying the loan on this blokes instructions.

I think about this for some time and get more and more angry - after all, all I was doing was as I was instructed to do by this donkey, and because of that, I end up several hundreds out of pocket and harrassed daily by phone by his work mates.

So I wrote a stinking letter to him, the ombudsman and frankly, anyone who looked like they might listen. In the letter, I basically stated that they had coerced me into defaulting on my loan so that I would incur charges, and that I couldn't believe that it was legal.

All of a sudden, he phones me on my mobile and says that he will 'knock 50 quid off the top of the loan' as a gesture of goodwill.

The people in Gillingham Tesco must have though I was mad when I started banging my phone on the conveyor belt and shouting "What? I.CAN'T.HEAR.YOU.," and "I could have sworn you only said 50 quid..." etc...

He ups the deal to 100 quid, then 150. Bare in mind, I owe around 8 grand.

Eventually, he agrees to me sending them 100 quid and we'll pretend we never met.

Seven weeks later, he phones, sounding all hurt and put out and says "are you going to send this money then, I thought we had a deal" to which I reply, "Oh, yes...in another weeks time. You took 8 weeks to reply to my letter, I'm taking 8 weeks to reply to you. I thought that was your protocol..."

Now...that sounds like a great result; and it was. But it started me thinking.

After I sent the stinking letter, they caved almost instantly and ran backwards as fast as they could, showering me with money until I went away.

Now, why would a bank do that, I mused?

It's not like banks are there to help people; they only help themselves, don't they?

I scanned the letter that I sent, and the only thing that struck a chord was the part about the legalities of what they were doing.

I started to research penalties in contracts between two parties and discovered that it's not legal for any one party to penalise another for a breach of contract. There's stacks of case law bouncing around all over the net (particulary now).

So, I was also having trouble with a bank that rhymes with 'Scabby Bashfull' - I'd changed jobs and due to my new employer not being able to tell the truth/pay on time - ended up with a shed load of similar charges.

I wrote to this bunch of cowboys too, explaining that the first bank had 'very nicely agreed' to help me out in my hour of need.

They wrote back saying, bad luck, just keep giving us your dosh.

I then wrote a seriously snotty letter back saying that unless they returned to me all the dosh they had taken I would take them to court based on the case law mentioned earlier.

They declined to play ball, and more-or-less said, "go on then, see if we care"

So, I did.

Now, this is in the days before this was common knowledge (indeed, I started the Bank Action Group which went on to become The Consumer Action Group - but we'll get to that bit in a minute).

The next day, I saw my (then) mother-in-law. She started freaking out at me, saying "What the hell do you think you're doing suing a bank? Don't you realise you've got children and a house etc... You can't take on a bank...you're going to get screwed, etc....ad nausium"

I reassured her that I knew what I was doing and it was all in hand.

...whilst secretly shitting my pants at the very thought at what I had done.

Word got about a bit, through the interwebs what I was doing; and I met (virtualy) another chap doing the same thing to the same bank - and so we kept in touch via email.

I then went on holiday.

I popped into an Internet cafe to keep myself informed of what was happening and it was then that this other chap informed me that Scabby was trying to get his case moved out of the small claim track in an attempt to make him liable for costs, should he lose.

This gave me a new round of bowel opening moments.

It pertty much ruined the holiday for me.

When I got back I had a letter from their solicitor telling me that if I backed down now, that they wouldn't persue me for costs.

It was at that point that I knew I had them on the run, and so I wrote back and told them that if they'd like to deposit £xxx.xx in my account, then at that point I would stop suing them, and not before.

The next letter took me somewhat by suprise; it was:

"ok, we agree; but we want you to sign this confidentiality agreement so that you can't tell anyone else what greedy, lying weasles we really are."

I replied, informing them that I considered that to be a seperate commercial agreement between myself and their client, and as such I would charge £50,000 for that service.

I was told to go forth and attempt to have more children, in no uncertain terms, and that the money would be in my account the following week.

So, now, not being bound by any legal crap from telling anyone about it - I set about informing everyone who would listen about how to get their bank charges back.

I set up a website - the Bank Action Group - and wrote to MPs, posted in web forums, wrote to every legal person I could, wrote to all the newspapers etc....

Martin Lewis contacted me and helped to fund starting the site up with his own money - then ran with the idea himself (I don't mind at all ;-))

In fact, the letters that people were downloading from his (and my) site were written by me originally. They've been updated a few times since, but in essense, if you've downloaded any of the letters from either site, then these are my handywork!

I was interviewed by The Guardian, the Mail (hurl), BBC's Working Lunch, Tonight with Trev. MaccyD etc...

Before long, I (we, I had a partner in crime by this point) changed the name of the site to the Consumer Action Group, as it was apparent that it wasn't just banks that were ripping people off left, right and centre.

So, to cut a very long story a bit shorter, I ended up directly and indirectly costing the banks hundreds of millions in unfair and basically stolen money.

Still, a word of advice - don't run a forum with thousands of members if the forum is about an emotive subject.

You wouldn't believe the legal threats and arguments - not least from the users of the site - the banks I could understand, after all, we were the enemy, but the users suing and attempting to sue - well, that bit did take me by suprise.

I'm no longer involved now, and haven't been for a long time - I set out to help people who were already struggling financially to get a bit of their hard earned dosh back from very rich fuckers who would take it when you were already down, and ended up embroiled in arguments and legal battles almost daily.

Still, overal, I bet those bastards wish they'd paid the 50k now! ;-)
(, Thu 16 Jul 2009, 15:22, 20 replies)
Banks are fun
"I'd like a new card, please."

"Can I ask why you'd like a new card?"

(No, you fucking can't. Just give me another card.)

"My Ebay account and email account have been hacked. There might be information that they could use to shop online. I need to stop my card."

"So your card has been stolen?"

"No, I have the card right in front of me. I'm just worried that the details on it might not be secure. I'd like to get a new one issued."

"Has your card been damaged in any way?"

"No, I'd just like a new card."

"I can't issue a new card unless one has been lost, stolen or damaged..."

"Can I just get this one stopped and a new one sent out?"

"I can only do that..."

"I understand. Well, we'll just say it's lost then."

"I've stopped that card, and I new one will be with you in 5 to 7 working days. The PIN will arrive separately before the card. If you need to get any money out from that account, take two forms of ID and a statement with your account number on it to your branch."

"Great. Thanks for your help."

"Thank you Teepee, have a smashing day."

(Smashing? Are you a 1940's schoolboy?)

[Later that day, in branch]

I've fucked up. There's no way around it. But I've got no choice. Two miles is a long way to walk in the rain. Needing the cash for travel, I've got to front it out.

"I'm sorry, but without a statement, you can't make a withdrawal."

"I have several forms of ID here... Birth certificate, Passport, P60.."

"But I'd need a statement. Your card has a stopped indicator on it, which means it could be stolen.."

"I know, I stopped it this morning. Can I.."

"...which means it could be stolen. For security purposes..."

"Can I speak to your manager?"

The manageress and I have the same philosophical debate. We dance well, it turns out. There's a lot of 'I understand what you're saying... but' from my end. She's 'sorry for my inconvenience'. The problem is, while I do understand what she's saying, I don't care what she's saying. Can't back down here, there's no wiggle room in this argument. And as much as I don't care what she's saying, it isn't as much as she isn't remotely interested in my inconvenience. We're inconveniencing each other in equal measure, she as a functionary, and me as an impossible function. We're in trouble. But we continue dancing, because I can't back down. Each minute I've got an extra employee dealing with me in branch is money they're losing in employee use value. If it's the manager, that's the employee and the manager, whose time is worth about five times as much to the branch. Every time I get to the counter and stay there for five minutes with a manager, they've lost an hour of labour. There will be longer cues for the next ten minutes. And I feel bad for a second there, about the other customers and their inconvenience, I really do. But in equal measure, I really just don't.

I'm palmed off to the phones to see if I can get any joy from a transfer to my savings account.
Before I go, I let them know that having my card frozen will mean I won't be able to pass phone security checks; and that I'll have to come back. After a brief ten minutes with a Emma in Scotland, it is apparent that I'm right in this instance. However, I do get a break. After asking alternate security questions, which I answer well, she has accepted it is me, and tells me "Proof of identity is at the discretion of the branch manager". All I have to do is get her to exercise her discretion. Emma is saddened by my treatment, bless her. I shouldn't have been sent over to the phones. I agree. I told them, I said. We both sigh simultaneously. The world is unjust, blighted with fools. I get a branch employee over to talk to Emma, who berates them for a minute that they shouldn't have done that.
I will miss Emma.

I'm back at the front of the queue. I'm wanting to talk to the person I haven't spoken to yet, and get to the manager again. The manager is at lunch. She's just gone. How about the assistant manager? They're not here today. If you'd like to go over to our other branch in Market Square... (I stifle a chuckle) I'm willing to wait for the manager, I say, and sit down in the waiting area. I begin playing Scrabble on my phone. The computer pulls out some wacky words on the hard setting. And somehow, I find this pleasing. The wait begins.

The lunch crowd doesn't die off for a full hour, half term increasing the traffic more than usual on a weekday. It's hot in the branch, but I wait. I get QI on a triple word score for 33. As a variant spelling of chi, it means life force. As mine drains slowly from my body in non-specific increments, I gradually realise this is a simple battle of wills. It's me versus the Man. The fucking Man.

The hour passes, and the crowd is falling away. Children, two boys, are demolishing a wire puzzle table next to me. As they begin a vigorous, noisy dismantling procedure that I had not at first considered, I smile benignly. I'm glad they are costing the bank money. They are my little accomplices, and their solidarity is edifying. I return to my Scrabble game. I can hear them discuss my waiting game at the counter as the late lunch crowd evaporates.

The game finishes, and I walk up to the empty counter, which is manned again, on my second return. I'd like to speak to the manageress please. You've already spoken to her. I'd like to speak to her again. Whether she accepts my ID is at her discretion. I'd like her to reconsider. I need access to my funds. I tell the cashier I'm going to wait to see the manager. At this point, just before I leave the counter, while taking a second free lollipop, I sense a firm hatred has developed from this cashier towards me. A notion forms that perhaps I'm keeping her from a tasty sandwich. What sort of sandwich would this cashier eat, I think to myself. Some sort of processed or mechanically recovered meat, on white bread, thickly coated with some sort of butter-u-like. Tomato sauce, but not a cheap brand. That kind of quality meat deserves the best, and by God, it'll get it.

I sit and wait again. I begin tapping my feet, to pass the time. It will annoy someone, alert them to my continued presence. Two other children begin playing with the puzzle table next to me, and are ushered away by an employee to a different area, who takes the puzzle table with her. I'm no longer a simple problem customer. I'm a menacing, sinister time bomb, a danger to both the branch and all who inhabit it, especially children. For a brief second I am upset, but then am pleased. They must desperately want me to leave. This is good news.

Five minutes later, the cashier who hates me arrives with instruction from the manager.

"As a one off, we're willing to allow you to withdraw a hundred pounds. You won't be able to do this again, we've put a note on your account..."

"Fine, fine..."

We walk back to the counter, and the process begins. I pass her my passport, and birth certificate. She almost pushes the birth certificate back in my hand. "We don't accept birth certificates", she said. As I knew for a fact that they did (this was a few years ago), I realised she was just being rude. A bad loser. Never mind.

She hands me my cancelled card back with the money, but not onto my side of the counter. She forces me to reach over, through the perspex shield to pick it up. She is imagining hitting the security button by accident, crushing my arm against the ceiling with a ten foot steel wall.

"Isn't it the 31st today?", I say, nodding towards the calendar which has been set to the 30th all day.

"Thanks again for all you help"

Later I eat at a Subway, to celebrate not having to walk home.

"I'd like a six inch Veggie delite, extra olives, on wheat."

"Just six inches?"

"Never had any complaints. Can I get some light mayonnaise on that?"

Tasted like victory. Small, petty victory.
(, Sun 19 Jul 2009, 4:25, 7 replies)
How to deal with banks
I've written here a few times about my late father, the guy who was the original Captain Placid. He was a highly-trained killing machine, a lover of poetry, a very practical and innovative engineer and a thoroughly nice guy.

Unless, that is, you crossed him. Then he was truly relentless.

In the far off days when everything was done by cheque, all was rosy in the garden of my dad's bank. Being an up-to-date kinda guy, he had allowed the bank to change all of his regular payments to standing orders.

Then the bank went computerised.

Then the letters came in. One from the building society regarding the non-payment of the mortgage, one from the insurance company, one from the savings/assurance policyholders all saying the same thing "blah blah non-payment blah blah further proceedings" etc etc. Now, my dad held his financial probity and reputation as a mark of his own respectability. He always paid on time - ALWAYS and he felt that the bank had severely dented his reputation with people he'd dealt with for years and was 'miffed' to say the least.

He didn't shout or rant. Worse than that, he went quiet, a VERY bad sign for whoever was going to be on the receiving end.

He made an appointment with the bank manager and, as a 'valued customer', he was graciously granted an audience with the head office manager. He took me along (I was 14) to show me "how to deal with these vermin".

The meeting went well with the manager apologising for the 'mistake' and giving assurances that the payments would be made 'immediately'. My dad seemed mollified by this and the manager sat back smugly and asked if there was "anything else he wanted to discuss".

"Well" replied my dad in his best honeyed tones, "I'd like you to explain this statement to me, it's a bit confusing".
The manager explained the codes in the margin, my dad nodding sagely and taking notes until the last entry - a debit with the code 'SC'.
"That's a service charge" said the manager.

"And while I'm at it, you can close the company account (over £2 million turnover - a decent amount in 1974) immediately" handing over a letter from the MD to that effect.

I've never seen a smug bastard blanch so quickly, nor heard such grovelling in my life. Once the terror of seeing my dad angry had worn off he realised that one of the biggest customers of the bank was about to swan off to a competitor because they'd been so blase about a small customer. I'm not sure which terrified him more.

Once the shock had had chance to fully sink in my dad continued.

"Furthermore, unless you personally write to each of these companies explaining that the non-payments were entirely the bank's fault, I will sue YOU for defamation of character and, believe me, I will pursue you to the grave". As I recall the manager actually whimpered.

From that day he had a direct line to the bank's regional director and never paid another service charge.

My dad also told me that the collective noun for bankers was "A wunch". As in "A wunch of bankers".

Still true to this day.
(, Thu 16 Jul 2009, 18:38, 6 replies)
I travel with work
and have to submit my bank statements with my expense claims (to prove the exchange rate I got when I'm claiming back the money I've spent overseas).

My friends know this, and so have taken to leaving little notes on my account for the finance team who review my claims to find, by depositing (very small) amounts into my account with inappropriate and/or offensive payment references.

Highlights so far include 20p paid in by one friend, ostensibly for a "Colossal Dildo", 10p for "Bum Fun", and a £1 total deposit (split over 10 instalments of 10p each), which explained in detail across the 10 payment references that the £1 was a loyalty discount from a local establishment that employed ladies "of ill repute" specialising in S&M - I believe he referred to it as a "frequent flayer discount".
(, Thu 23 Jul 2009, 11:13, 4 replies)
We're here to help...
Quite frankly, I’d rather be stripped stark bollock naked, have a dozen-or-so ripe oranges attached to my cock and balls with rusty hooks, then be locked in a room with a load of horny drunk gorillas who’ve had their breakfast lettuce spiked with Viagra for a couple of hours of interspecies group homo rapage than have to deal with banks...

Allow me tell you about the utter fuckwittedness, utter contempt, utter dim-witted cuntishness of these complete and utter cock-sucking, monkey-felching, shrunken gonaded, disease ridden gobshite wankers...

Last summer my girlfriend had a seven hour operation up at University College London Hospital. They day before she went in I trotted off to withdraw some cash from her account.; We were on the bones of our arse, we were living on absolutely fuck all. We’d only moved into our new flat in March, and then she got ill, really ill – we ended up surviving on my wage alone, which meant we could pay the bills, but when everything came out we were left with about forty quid a month to feed ourselves and purchase prescriptions for Liz (my girlfriend). It was a really fucking hard few months. Anyway, off I trot to the cash machine. We’d budgeted so we’d have enough to get a taxi down to the hospital and another one back after Liz’s op – yes, we really were that skint, counting every single last fucking penny.

But the ATM didn’t work. There was no money in the account. I panicked a bit, flapped my arms about, felt like being sick, then composed myself a bit and went back to the flat to rang Liz’s bank. Firstly, they wouldn’t speak to me. Even though I explained my girlfriend was on more medication than Keith Richards at an all-you-can-snort drugs buffet, they had to speak to Liz. She took the phone, had a chat with the mong cunt on the other end of the line. Then she started to cry. Turns out some fucker had cloned Liz’s card and raped her bank account. She was even asked if she’d been in New York at three am the previous morning, and also if she’d been in Turin at four am – apparently that’s where the last few quid we had in the bank had been withdrawn.

I took the phone. Explained that my girlfriend was very seriously ill, was having a major op in the morning, and we needed this cash back asap so I could at least get Liz to the hospital in the morning. The bank said no. I got really fucking angry, asked to speak to a supervisor. Told them the same story. After ten minutes of talking, the supervisor paused for a bit and said: “So, you’re not named on the account?” I said “no, as I’ve just explained to you, it’s my girlfriends account.” And then they cut me off.

I rang back. Twenty minutes later, after explaining the situation for a third time – having to get Liz who was off her tits on morphine patches to give her consent to let me talk to these fuckers, I finally got someone who was willing to help. They said they understood the situation perfectly. They agreed that it wasn’t possible to be in New York at 3 and Turin at 4 (not unless you were fucking Superman or had access to a fucking Tardis), and they said they’d have the money refunded back the next day. Great. Half an hour in and I’d finally cracked it.

But there was one problem: “You’re girlfriend just has to go into her local branch tomorrow morning and sign some paperwork, and we’ll get that sorted for you,” oozed the cunt on the phone.

“But, I’ve just explained my girlfriend’s going into hospital tomorrow at 7am for a major operation... She’s in agony and can hardly move, she’s on bloody morphine, for Christ’s sake!”

And then the complete and utter dickweed, the prize cunt in the brothel of the world’s greatest cunts said something utterly unbelievable, something that made me cut the fucker off without a word. Something that made me want to get in touch with my dodgy Uncle Antonio in Italy and see if he could arrange to have some of his connected friends pay this utter fetid spunkstain bollock-broth abortion of a human beign a visit. The cunt said: “If your girlfriend’s serious about wanting the funds back tomorrow I think she needs to get her priorities right...”

I ended up borrowing some cash off a mate. I hate borrowing money and its the first time in my life I've ever asked a mate to help out financially. And unfortunately every fucking word of this is absolutely true. The bank in question is named Nasty West, by the way, or something very close to that...

EDIT: Liz had a successful op, her lady-area is now fully operational, and we're currently trying for a baby (not at this very minute, my boss might be a bit pissed off about that). So, fingers crossed, Spanky Jr might be looking up the skirts of the girls at the nursery very soon(ish)... I'd be so damn proud.
(, Thu 16 Jul 2009, 14:20, 20 replies)
Bank Computer Piracy
I support bank computer systems. Big UNIX ones. One of those computer systems has the acronym 'PIRATE', although I can't remember what it means.

So there's the exposition. I received an alert earlier today telling me that the filesystem '/var' had filled up. Turned out to be some user log files, or something. To let the owner of the files know about this, I sent this message:

"Please delete some of your old log files from PIRATE's /vaaaaaarrrrrrrr filesystem :-)"

He replied --quite sternly-- with:

"Done. btw I've just noticed that PIRATE has not been updated to the latest patch release. Patch releases 'A' through to 'H' have been applied, but I think we're currently on 'I'

Please apply an 'I' patch to PIRATE as soon as possible."

In a truly bizarre twist, he was correct too. I am literally applying an 'I' patch to PIRATE right now. I have no idea if his brilliant (and relevant) riposte was accidental due to his total lack of acknowledgment of the original japery.
(, Wed 22 Jul 2009, 10:06, 20 replies)
Not my story, but my parents.
I think my parents have one of the best "how we met" stories ever.

It was the late 70's and my father, who was in the Air Force, had just been transferred to Washington D.C. He was a bit of a ladies man back in the day, and he was always on the lookout for a pretty girl. He was making a deposit at the bank, and a young girl working as a teller there caught his eye. He went back there a few more times, always waiting a little extra so he could be at her window. They chatted and flirted a few times, and one day he decides he is going to ask her out.
Before he goes in, he writes a little note with a restaurant and time and his phone number, thinking he is so smooth doing it this way. He waits in line and slides the note under her window. She doesn't even bother to read it, assuming it is a holdup note, and presses the silent alarm. He is casually flirting with her while she is growing more terrified and confused wondering when he will ask her for the money.
The police show up soon and try to arrest my future father, the whole time he has no idea what is going on. (He's a wonderful guy, but a bit clueless.) Eventually he gets the cops to read his note, and the confusion is cleared up and they let him go. He got the date, and a few years later they were married with one of the coolest "how we met" stories ever.
(, Fri 17 Jul 2009, 0:04, 1 reply)
I think it’s time for a good, old fashioned rant
I’m sat here at my desk reading the lunchtime news. It’s full of such delightful headlines as “Police report suggest residents would pay extra for additional policing” and “Energy bills to increase by at least 33% by 2020”, taxes are set to rise and the pound has plunged, meaning those lovely Shimano cranks I wanted to buy are now £150 dearer than they were six months ago. I’m also peeved that 50,000 eighteen year olds aren’t going to university this year because there aren’t any places for them.

What does this have to do with banks, I hear you all ask in exasperation?

The belming tit in charge of the country has given Britain’s banks a comedy sum of money to help them out because they’re all a tad strapped for cash. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be news but the amount of money involved could easily fund Britain’s own Apollo project, solve the looming energy crisis (with £200bn to spare) or maybe even be used to pay for everyone’s retirement. Of course, the money comes from you and I, which means that, technically I am £2,500 pounds in debt to my grandchildren (subject to inflationary adjustment of course) because a man who does Prime Minister impressions has loaned against my future taxes to my bank (which in return I now own a small share of) to help it through its cashflow issues.

Are you all still with me? I hope so. Here’s how it all started.

“We’ve cured boom and bust” belmed someone who ought to know better, indeed the people of Britain would continue to borrow more to fund more expensive homes, even though the physical bricks and mortar hadn’t changed one iota. No big deal though, because we were guaranteed a future of low interest rates so we wouldn’t get our wallets fisted by 15% interest charges like we did in 1992. Ahem. The banks assured the Chancellor of this fact, who himself carried on double counting and creating a whole new way of measuring our financial health that simply ignores the bad news (2.5% inflation? Come on…).

The reason why my bank was suddenly and inexplicably skint was because for the last sixteen years its loaned vast sums of money out to people who have very little realistic hope of paying it back. Real estate has been used for collateral which has in turn hyped a marketplace into raising the value of a house against which a loan is taken out, making people borrow even more so that they can own their own home, which in turn requires a larger mortgage to fund. All good until the market goes Stuka-like and the value of the loan collateral halves overnight. It’s not a new phenomena, it’s been observed occurring at ten yearly intervals since 1929 but apparently its news to my bank.

Now, back to the belming tit running the country; writing a cheque out for £500 billion odd has cleaned him (and ergo, me) out a bit, quite a boast when you consider he’s spunked £50,000 per household in Britain since 1997. Fuck knows what on, I’d have spent about six grand on a small car, bought a nice plasma TV and a PS3 and probably left it at that. However, it seems that it’s all gone on moats, ducks, QUANGOs, NHS Efficiency Consultants and the brand new official Jag which nearly knocked me off my bike at Whitehall last week.

As a result, my “Green Taxes” are going to fund braying bankers, not wind turbines, which I’m going to now have to help fund myself. Again. Moreover, my taxes won’t be helping to send 50,000 kids to university, or provide new drugs on the NHS, instead it’s bailing out my bank and a negligent government. It even seems we can’t guarantee a police force which can do it’s job.

So there you have it, because my bank thought it was on a winner and made a sizeable donation to the election fund in return for a relaxing of the financial regulations, together with a moronic spend-thrifty Prime Minister, nee Chancellor who was apparently sleeping on the job, I’m now £2,500 indebted to my future self and having to pay for more stuff the government thinks I should have, but neither of us can't now afford.

I don’t think the word “cunts” even begins to cover it.
(, Thu 16 Jul 2009, 16:43, 16 replies)
Abbey Fucking National
Apologies for length. Here are copies of a couple of letters I sent to my bank following some incidents a couple of years ago. Suffice to say, I am no longer an Abbey National customer.

***Ninja Edit. A fourth letter has been added, which I'd forgotten about.***


Re: Retention of debit card by ATM system – 09-01-26 ********

Following January’s replacement of my ATM card, caused by a theft of my wallet, I noticed that e-banking had not been re-enabled on my account. Perhaps I should have addressed this earlier, but as the ATM’s transfer and payment utilities satisfied most of the things I needed to do I let matters slide.

However, the transfer amounts between Abbey accounts facility was sadly unavailable towards the back end of May (it looked like some of the ATM software was being modified) and I decided to re-enable my e-banking facility.

While I am reasonably sure the last time I requested this it was a relatively straightforward task accomplished via the ATM machine, I learned that this facility was no longer available. Therefore, on 29 May, late afternoon I phoned up the call centre to have e-banking re-enabled. Sadly, this is the exact point where things went badly wrong.

It took me less than ten seconds short of fifty-three minutes to accomplish what should be possible via an ATM machine in less than 120 seconds. This is not good.

On 31 May, I visited an ATM machine close to my place of work to withdraw some funds, as I had just been paid. My PIN number was requested once only, indicating that it hadn’t been entered incorrectly. The card was retained by the ATM machine.

That afternoon I took an early finish from work and visited my local Abbey branch, withdrew some money to tide me over the weekend and also reported my card as having been retained. I was given an estimate of 3-5 working days for this to be replaced.

It is now a full three weeks since the card was retained and I am still waiting for a replacement. My mortgage payment was delayed by my not having access to electronic banking, an ATM card or a cheque book (care to enlighten me why you stopped sending me these some years ago, by the way?)

I have had to take time off work to access my money. Please note that this is not overdraft facility, a loan, or the remnants of a credit facility offered by you – it is money that I am compelled to have to pay into a bank from my employer and which you are denying me access to.

On 13 June, I steeled myself for another session of your excruciating hold music and telephoned your call centre. Twice. The first call lasted a mere three and a half minutes, and terminated with “the other person has cleared”. The second call lasted just short of nineteen minutes, and fared little better.

After explaining to the first person to take my call that a fortnight was in fact two weeks and actually exceeded the “three to five working days” I should expect to receive a new card, I was transferred into a call queue where I waited. Listening to a repetitive hold tune I have come to loathe with surprising passion.

Finally I spoke to someone who informed me that there had been a problem with the generation of ATM cards; and that this was being addressed. “So when could I expect my replacement?” I asked. “Three to five working days”. Truly you employ some geniuses of improvisation. I was invited to pop down the branch (thus incurring additional time off work) to address any pressing banking needs I may have.

Another week has gone, and oddly enough my letterbox does not even have the unmistakeable odour of an ATM card about it. I am no longer amused by these shenanigans. There appears to have been no attempt from you to contact me to explain the delay or give me a rough ETA for resolution. The staff at my local branch have been unable to offer any idea of what is going on.

Firstly I am extremely interested to know why my card was retained in the first place. While I understand that these cards can be affected by magnetic fields and cosmic rays, it is perhaps worthy of note that all my other cards, held in the same wallet and subject to the same treatment, have not failed in such a manner. Am I jumping to conclusions by guessing that the person with whom I spoke on the 29th actually cancelled my card instead of enabling the e-banking facility? I’d really appreciate your thoughts on this.

Secondly, would it be stretching the point to request when the card is actually going to be replaced? While I appreciate systems failures can and do happen, this type of protracted outage is utterly unacceptable. That no attempt has been made to contact me and inform me of the difficulties is also galling.

Thirdly, could you explain why the “register for e-banking” option was disabled from the ATM machines, as appeared to be the “transfer money between Abbey accounts” option the last time I had occasion to use them. While one may be of limited use, they are able to reduce queue lengths on IVRs that are clearly suffering from overuse.

Finally, can we exchange the IVR music to something less appalling? Rather than a thirty second loop of muzak, can we have track lengths that reflect the wait and are not appalling to witness? A bit of Orbital or Underworld would be nice. Heck, perhaps a “Press the hash key to turn the music off” option would be acceptable.


Abbey National Current Account ********

I refer you to the continuing problems I have been experiencing with regard to my ATM card.

This card was retained on 31 May, two days after I had spent 53 minutes on the telephone waiting for an advisor to reactivate e-banking on my account. Despite phone calls to your call centre (the hold music of which makes me wish I had been born deaf) and my letter of 28 June, you have yet to provide me with an explanation for this suspicious coincidence.

This evening, on my return from work, I was mildly surprised to note that I had received three letters from you. One contained the much-awaited ATM card, the other two contained PIN codes. Both of the PIN code letters were dated 16 July; the letter containing the card was undated. A mere seven weeks from its original retention. You should be proud.

I decided to test the new card forthwith and hastened myself to the nearest Abbey branch. Imagine my surprise when, after entering the first PIN code and requesting a balance slip, I was informed that my card had been retained. You fun-loving jokesters you, I nearly wept with the hilarity of this jape.

Now for the anger.

You are FAILING DISMALLY. You are USELESS, ACEPHALOUS, BUREAUCRATIC HAMTOUCHERS. You have been unable to provide me with access to MY OWN FUCKING MONEY. You have FAILED to provide me with a reasonable explanation for this idiocy. You have taken SEVEN WEEKS to sort out a replacement ATM card, and have cost me hours of worktime waiting to withdraw money over the counter. I suspect that the head office of Abbey PLC reeks with the stench of bad AIDS, DIABEETUS and FAIL.

I henceforth offer you the period until 31 July to rectify this piss-poor state of affairs, resolve my query, and provide a full explanation for this shitcockery. If by that date I am not completely satisfied, I will withdraw my business from the Abbey and also retain the option of taking this to the press.

The clock is ticking. I await your immediate response.


Current account ******** / ISA ******** – Ongoing problems

Following my previous letters, it is apparent that we are unable to resolve the continual problems you have experienced in administrating my account.

To whit: on 29 May I telephoned one of your call centre employees to have e-banking re-enabled on my account. Two days later, when I next tried to use my ATM card, it was retained by the ATM machine. I reported this to the Darlington branch on the same day.

Despite follow-up calls to your call centre and a letter at the end of June, it took seven weeks before you replaced the card. This card was promptly confiscated by your ATM machine on my first attempt to use it.

This prompted a second letter to you expressing my extreme dissatisfaction with the way you were handling my account, and which offered you until the end of July to resolve these matters. You have not bothered to reply to this.

A second replacement card was received a couple of days later. It is not set up for e-banking, which was the initial reason for contacting you, and is no longer linked to my ISA. After seven weeks of being messed about, sending two letters, taking time off work to make withdrawals, and spending copious amounts of time speaking with the idiots with which you staff your call centres, I managed to lose functionality from the card.

On 31 July I took time off work (again) to visit my branch to close my account. I was told by the counter staff that closing my account was impossible that day, as whomever was capable of doing this had fucked off for the day. I was given the opportunity to clean out my accounts and return later to finalise the account. Calling your crap call centre also failed to allow me to conclude my business with you.

I visited again yesterday (2 August) and called in at the front desk of the Darlington branch. The gentleman there referred me to the counter. The counter staff attempted to refer me back to the front desk. However I’d had enough of that shit and decided to press on.

I was informed that you were unable to complete the closure of my account for the following reasons:
[1] A transfer from my current account to my ISA had taken place. Firstly, as I have not had access to e-banking for about six months (this being the problem that caused me to contact you at the end of May) I had been unable to cancel this. Furthermore, had you cancelled the account on 31 July this would not have taken place.
[2] A direct debit for Council Tax had been presented. This also would have been prevented had my account been closed on 31 July. Furthermore I contacted Darlington Borough Council in March and again in June asking that my council tax be paid from my new bank account. I have a letter from Darlington Borough Council dated 16 July confirming the change of account details. Evidently, their staff are as crap as yours, and they have been sent a letter asking for an explanation for this behaviour.

I was informed that I needed to return any cheques to you (which you stopped sending me about six years ago) and that I was unable to close my ISA because “it was linked to my card”. As you recently disabled the link from my card to my ISA, this confused me somewhat. At any rate, my time today was utterly wasted.

I have been directed to take further time off work to visit Darlington branch to close my account. This is not good enough. I have wasted too much time with you. I therefore submit the following:

[1] Under the Direct Debit Guarantee from Darlington Borough Council (their ref. 971466) I am told “If an error is made by either Darlington Borough Council or your Bank or Building Society, you are guaranteed a full and immediate refund from branch of the amount paid”. As Darlington BC were in receipt of updated bank details and should not have presented a request for payment to you, I choose to invoke this right. I therefore expect neither interest charges nor fees for this transaction, and suggest that you reclaim moneys from Darlington Borough Council.

[2] I wish that my accounts, current a/c ******** and ISA ******** be closed forthwith. I am not willing to take further time off work dealing with this, and therefore do not expect to be directed to Darlington branch to conclude my business with you.


I have had the pleasure of receiving a letter from you this morning regarding an overdue balance on my account.

May I point out that I made a request that these accounts be closed on 4 August 2007 into your Darlington branch. This was following a couple of failed attempts to request account closure on July 31 and August 2 – failed because the single member of staff deemed to have sufficient authority to close an account evidently likes to go home early.

I received a statement in August, which was expected – as it covered the period prior to the account closure. The statement I received in September was less expected, particularly as it suggested the account was still open.
On 6 October I took additional time off work to visit the Darlington branch and asked whether the accounts were still open. When informed to the affirmative, I asked why my request of 4 August had been ignored. The only explanation given was that you thought I retained an ATM card linked to my savings account.

This amused me as, as you will see from my previous correspondence with you, the last time I had an ATM card capable of accessing my savings account was in May 2007. This was the same card that your call-centre retard managed to cancel instead of activating e-banking for back in May, and the replacement of which has annoyed me to the point of ceasing my business with you.

Anyway, I submitted an additional closure request on 6 October, and retain documentary evidence of both visits.

It appears not only have you failed to heed this request but you are also attempting to add charges to my account for the period of 4 August onwards.
You suggest that I “need to pay enough money into [my] account in 7 days to clear this amount”. I note in particular the seven-day deadline there.
My counter-proposals are as follows.

[1] You are instructed to close both accounts forthwith as should have been done back in August.

[2] You are asked to provide a full explanation regarding why these account closure requests are being dropped.

[3] You may also choose to elaborate on the reasons why no letter is forthcoming advising that the accounts cannot be closed, why this is the case, or how to rectify the matter – instead of the request vanishing.

[4] Regarding the request for payment, I am happy to refer you to the response given to the plaintiff in Arkell vs. Pressdram.

[5] You will retract any negative amendments made to my credit reference file since the date the account should have been closed – 23 August by my reckoning.

[6] You are invited to recompense me for the following:

• An hours’ lost working on both 31 July and 2 August, when I left work early to attempt closure of the account.

• A morning’s lost working on 6 October, which was due to your abject failure to close my account,

• and for this letter – which again should not be necessary to get these accounts closed.

[7] As you have given me a seven-day deadline, I am minded to give you a similar ultimatum. If I do not hear a full response within a maximum of fourteen days I will take this entire sequence of events, from your initial cockup in May, to the press.

I await your immediate response.


Net result, about £500 in settlement and they most definitely didn't keep my custom. What an utter fucking bunch of incompetent, cock-sucking hamtouchers.
(, Fri 17 Jul 2009, 16:40, 15 replies)
There's far too much hate in this question
Have a topical kitten:

(, Fri 17 Jul 2009, 12:55, 3 replies)
Omnious Bankers
I wrote a while back about my experiences in Dubai working for the Ominous Integrated Creative Consultants.

They did pay me in the end – only after about 6 weeks complaining to the UAE labour Authorities.

Banking in the UAE is a laugh. No one trusts each other, mainly because the whole place is built on greed corruption and lies. So standard practice is as follows:

1. You get sacked (very easy to do, very few laws to protect you)
2. The company is required by law to inform your bank
3. Your account is frozen
4. When your final salary is paid in it is marked as such
5. Any overdraft, loans, mortgages, credit cards, and car loans get paid off in their entirety

But hang on I hear you say – a months severance won’t cover all that. And how are you expected to survive and look for another job if the banks have hoovered up all your your money?

The answer from Dubai is simply this:

Fuck you.

Because no one trusts each other and they are all crooks, any debits or credits on your account prompt an instant text notification to your mobile. So at the ATM I would often feel my mobile buzz in my back pocket before the money was even out of the slot.

This week I got a text around 8am one morning to say roughly £7,500 had been paid in. They had deliberately waited this long so they could be sure the banks were waiting and I would not see the money - a months salary some holiday entitlement and some expenses to cover half the cost of my belongings being in storage for 6 months (while my fate was being decided). I then received a further rapid series of texts to tell me it had been taken straight back out (to pay my credit cards and car loan). Naturally none of this authorised by me (oh, and they want the full amount for the car loan, not just that months payment). This instantly made me a criminal in Dubai and put me on a no fly list. Any attempt to leave the country would see me flung in jail - like hundreds of others have been in the last few months. No joke. No exaggeration.

By the middle of May this year it was reported that 4,000 cars had been dumped at the airport. Many more are to be seen dotted around the city, covered in dust with a police notice on the windscreen. So the true total could be more like 6,000 by now.

This is why, like many others I had to flee with my family in the dead of night. I won’t see my cash and frankly I don’t give a shit. So long as the Ominous Integrated Creative Consultants don’t have it and I am safe in a democracy where laws are created with something more considered than a wave of one mans hand - then in my mind I’m very wealthy. The irony is as soon as I got back home I was contacted by one of the main Dubai headhunters offering me another job. But to wait 30 days for such an offer before my Visa being cancelled and the prospect of no pay that month raised the stakes way too high for me.

Duabi is broke, conservative estimates suggest their debts amount to 107% of their GDP. But still the banks lend. Most of the major construction projects have been put on hold, delayed or cancelled. But still new towers were springing up during my final months there - financed by lies, built by slaves. Who will occupy them is a mystery. The property market has collapsed, prices down by as much as 60%. There are 10,000 empty apartments yet still they build more. Jumeirah Beach Residence – one of the most popular places to live is like a ghost town now – you walk around at night and there are very few lights on in those apartments. Even the designer boutiques below are being boarded up. The population is shrinking rapidly. Expats make up around 80% of the population. Or at least they did until the bubble burst.

Within a decade, Dubai will be bought for a song by Russians, Chinese and most ironically wealthy Indians. Emirati’s will be back out in the desert sitting on carpets wondering just what the fuck went wrong. I’m afraid I can’t really muster much sympathy for them.

Banks are bastards but be thankful that at least in the West we have dragged them out of the dark ages.
(, Sat 18 Jul 2009, 13:25, 20 replies)
I can't understand people who defend banks, for these reasons:

Deposit a very large amount of money in a *normal* bank account - it will be lost.
I personally have had several thousands of pounds go *missing* for an unacceptable amount of time. So has my father. My next door neighbour deposited 22k in her account once - nearly 2 years ago - guess what? Still not been *found*. This has happened on more occassions than is reasonable to assume mistake.

They process direct debits in order of highest first to maximise the risk of *bouncing* and process credits last.

They limit the amount of YOUR money you can withdraw, and treat it like theirs.

They rip the piss with cheque clearances - the Templar Knights (who invented Chequing) would cash cheques quicker than banks in the UK.

They lie. A lot.

They increase limits on credit cards, despite phoning and writing to them to tell them not to.

They allow staff to have lunch breaks at the same time as everyone else - meaning large queues if you are unfortunate enough to actually have to visit one.

They close early on Saturdays, meaning that you don't get that well earned lay-in on one of the two days per week that you don't have to work.

The don't open Sundays, yet they still gain the libor rate overnight on your money, and can still apply charges on Sundays.

They charge you, even if your account is in the black, and then you have to fight and struggle to get them to see sense to get it back from them - minus the (criminally small) interest you would have earned from it.

If you are unfortunate enough to have been conned into borrowing money from them - YOU have to take out an insurance policy to protect THEM from the risk THEY took? Perhaps the government should pay for my home insurance then - after all, if there was no crime (effectively what we pay police etc... for) then I wouldn't need it, would I?

On one occassion, I had a payment declined on-line (despite there being more than enough funds), I was charged 25 quid for it, and 25 quid from the reciever of the money. I had done nothing wrong and was chased by debt collectors (x2) for the 25x2 until I paid. I had to pay them off and the extra charges from the debt collectors, then sue both of them to get the money back. No amount of people I spoke to could (or seemingly not) not sort it out, or indeed, had any inclination to do so.

They will bombard you with credit card and loan applications if you put any sizeable amount of money in your account - meaning that they have software watching your every financial move.

They have unbridled access to the those private, limited companies they like to call "credit reference agencies" - they do not have to go through any legal shit or anything to bad mouth you to these agencies. If they make a mistake - you just try and get it put right - nearly impossible...you can of course, change it yourself, and if you do...guess what? It goes against you when applying for credit. If they fuck up (and a quick look at public records will show you just how many thousands of county court judgements they ALL have), then who doyou register that with? CCN et al, will just laugh at you. The only way out of that one is to write to the agency fuckers and assert your right under the DPA that you do not want your personal information included in any automated searches. If we all did this, their abuses would be limited.

It's very difficult to NOT have a bank account, and thus they have a virtual cartel - and as such, that means that we have to put up with piss-poor service from all of them. (it is possible, I haven't had a bank account for over 2 years now).

You can actually rely on their unreliability. When I sold my house I was told the funds would be in the account (not my account, I don't have one, and wasn't allowed my own money in cash due to some crap law that means that rich banks have to have my money before I do) on the Friday. The solicitor seems suprised when I offered her a 50 quid bet that the money wouldn't be there - she declined, of course.

The money was there the following Tuesday, and yes, I had to sue for the interest that was lost etc...

Then of course, there was the time they [Natwest, I think it was in this instance] deliberatly fucked over the first retail chain of personal computers, Escom.

Escom owed 1.7 million to Natwest in the form of an overdraft, they also owed 18 million to Barclays. (The figures are as close as I can remember, this was a while ago). Natwest, knowing that despite Escom having paid off around 4 million of their overdraft to them, and showing no signs of not coninuing to make profit and pay off the remainder in a very short time, decided to call the overdraft in immediatly. They knew what this would mean. Over a comparitevly small amount of money, Escom would have to fold as they would not have the time or money to sort it out. They went bust - owing 18 million to Barclays. Natwest had fucked over a decent retail chain just so they could fuck over one of their competitors. It was all investigated and this appreared to be the only reason. Of course, not illegal, and as such they continued with these dubious business practices, no doubt whilst toasting themselves with champaign and patting themselves on the back for their deviousness. Nice.

Add to that, the times they've ignored change of address forms and sent card replacements to an address you lived at a year ago, sent the wrong forms to the wrong address (in the case of my business some years ago), *forgotten* to take a mortgage payment (and then charge you for not paying it) and basically, you have the largest collection of incompetent, immoral, greedmongers that the world has ever known.

So, when they collectively start to act like they have a modicum of sense, competence and maybe even a slight sprinkling of morals, then perhaps I could understand some people defending their actions.

Until then, anyone who defends them can only be tarred with the same brush - or are just stupid and/or lucky that they haven't been one of the many millions that have been fucked over by them.

Banks break the law every day - in many different ways - the only one the government are concerned about is the tax evasion. The charges thing was found by me (and others around the same time) - keep looking and find more. If the government we pay to protect us from this sort of thing won't pull them to order, it's left to us to do it.

Scum, the lot of them.

(, Sun 19 Jul 2009, 9:31, 15 replies)
Four digits...
“Sex Museum or coffee shop?”

“You what?”

The six foot seven, blond, dutch policeman sighed and pushed a piece of paper towards me.

“Sex Museum or coffee shop? When tourists get their wallets stolen, it’s usually in one of these two places.”

“Oh, I see. Sex Museum. I was so busy watching a raddled old Russian hooker getting anally fisted by a dwarf that I didn’t notice my bag was open. Plus I’m really rather stoned.”

“Yes. Happens a lot.”

So there I am, in Amsterdam, with no money, cards or train tickets and a boyfriend who is so clueless with cash that his bank have actually forbidden him from having a debit card. Through the miracle of the phone, tears and the Royal Bank of Mother, I arrange for a Western Union payment to pick up at the station the next day. And I managed to get my mum to cancel all my cards. Not bad considering I was so out of it I could barely spell my own name by this point.

The rest of the holiday passes without incident (unless you count the boyfriend projectile vomiting in the hotel room) and I return home to find that my bank, Twat West, have delivered me a new card. It’s the Friday of a bank holiday weekend, my housemates are away, so I decide to pop to the local petrol station to buy tobacco and snack food products and spend a couple of days lounging around on the sofa.

Snacks duly selected, I ask the nice chap behind the counter for a pack of Drum and hand over my spanking new card for payment. It swipes, it beeps, it… Oh. It’s been reported as stolen and has to be cut up? Say what now? Sheepishly, the chap snips my card in two and asks if I want to use the phone to call the bank. I surely do, and when I manage to navigate the computer system to finally speak to a real person I am informed that instead of cancelling my stolen card, they had cancelled my new card instead, mistaking it for the stolen one. So not only do I have no card, but my stolen card could have been used by anyone for the last week. I’m appalled.

I realize that not only have I no money on me and more worryingly I have no access to money for three days. And I have no food in the house and more importantly, no fags or booze.

Then the unexpected happens. The guy behind the counter rings up my shopping, throws in an extra packet of baccy, hands me the bag and £20 from his wallet and says “It’s okay, I know you’re good for it, you can pay me on Tuesday…”

The morals of the story are: people can be unexpectedly nice; if you make enough noise to the bank and the banking ombudsman, they’ll apologize, give you £50 and the phone number of the branch so these things can be sorted out quicker in future and that whilst standing gaping at a film of a Chinese woman pissing on an amputee, it is a good idea to keep an eye on your wallet…
(, Fri 17 Jul 2009, 13:19, 10 replies)
Fines incurred
About a year ago I misjudged how much money I had left in my account and ended up exceeding my overdraft. By quite a bit.

Anyway, my bank has a policy that you are charged £25 for every card transaction you make past the overdraft limit, plus a £28 administration fee. Which doesn't make sense in my book, because if you have so little money in the first place how are you supposed to pay the charges?

Because I rent and move a lot, I get all my letters sent to my parent's house overseas and they post it on to me, and in this case I had a sheaf of envelopes sent on. My panic increased as I kept opening them to see the same thing again and again- fines incurred. It turned out that an expensive card purchase I'd made had been taken out sooner than I expected leaving me in the (what's past red- infared?). And over the past few days I'd used my card for about a dozen little purchases, some of less than £2. And they had received the £20-odd fines too.

So I hurried down to the bank to see what could be done. I was labouring under the impression that it was all a big mix-up and I'd be acquitted when I explained the oh-so-silly mistake. No dice. I 'spoke' to a financial advisor who actually had one ear to a phone the whole time, and seemed to only be paying scant attention to what I was saying. When she informed me that I'd racked up fines of around £320 I embarrassingly burst into tears. Right in the middle of the bank. I had no income and was relying on student loans (the next one wasn't due for another month) and I not only had bills long overdue but was facing starvation!

After a few panicked phonecalls, I decided to head to the bank's other branch across town to see if they could be any more helpful. I was greeted by a chatty young employee to whom I recounted my tale of woe and was surprised by his reaction of laughing. He told me how he'd got into similar trouble when writing dodgy cheques as a student (is this the sort of thing bank employees have done?) and said that it was unfortunate but I'd have to deal with the consequences. He then went on to have quite a lengthly conversation with me about unrelated matters. When I was beginning to wonder whether he was hitting on me, his subject matter (but not his tone) abruptly changed. Anyone within earshot had probably already got bored of listening by now, as he fed me instructions not unlike these:

"So, about your fines, unfortunately there's no way around this unless you know to phone this number *whispers and writes it down*, and were aware that you had to speak to *such-and-such*. Of course, I couldn't divulge the information that would help you but if you were an employee of this bank you'd know to say *such-and-such*. Make sure you quote *more info, while writing down bullet points*. And even if I had told you this, which I haven't, you'd not be able to get a direct line unless you phoned from a branch *ushering me into his office*."

He then stood outside the door 'guarding' it while I phoned the number and proceeded to mechanically state all I could remember. To be honest, I had no idea of what I was doing, but amazingly I was told that most of my charges had been overlooked as a 'goodwill gesture' and I now only owed just over £70 (which was bad enough, but miles better than over £300!).

I'll never forget what that nice employee did for me, it was a real heart-warming example of human kindness. And I survived the charges but not without a severe ear-bashing from the folks.
(, Thu 16 Jul 2009, 14:28, 9 replies)
I'm trying to think of a banking-related internet acronym!

But I'm a bit stuck ATM.
(, Wed 22 Jul 2009, 16:35, 7 replies)
Drunken, stoned, moronic student layabout...
It was a Friday, I surface bleary eyed out of my room at 11am to already find one of my flatmates stoned out of his tree. ‘That’s the day for me’ I thought, and lectures for the day are instantly forgotten, as I settle in to join him in watching a show about rich American High School students starring Luke Perry and Tori Spelling (you know the one, don’t make me admit to it in full).
A few hours later we’re in a beer garden and my pockets are empty so I stagger off to the nearest cash point to fund the remainder of the day.

I enter my PIN. Incorrect.

I enter it again. Incorrect.

I enter it again. Incorrect. Card retained.

Fuck this, thinks I. I know there is money in there, so what is going on? And I march into the branch determined to get some money, furious that their incompetence has me in serious danger of sobering up. I queue, still furious and I eventually get to the counter to have it politely explained to me that it is very obvious that I incorrectly entered my PIN.

Now, I am having none of this, I'd had the account five years, I knew the PIN, I knew there was money in the account, so I knew I was right and the snotty little shit was wrong. And I told him so. But he was adamant.

Now, monumentally peeved, and not 100% compos mentis, I took it upon myself to prove to the arrogant bastard that I knew my PIN and I damn well wanted my money. So I grabbed a pen and paper and scrawled it down before shoving it across the counter.

I will give the man his credit, he didn't bat an eyelid as he slid the paper back across to me and said very calmly

'Sir, this can't be your PIN, you see a PIN only has four digits. May I also take it upon myself to suggest that maybe you watch too much bad telly'?

And I looked at the piece of paper, where I had very clearly written:


I don't think I even had the decency to apologise before I ran out of the door, I was so embarrassed.
(, Mon 20 Jul 2009, 17:14, 4 replies)
Signed, Hank
I worked in a bank when I was a naïve 19 year old. I hated working there for many reasons, but mostly it was the dress code; stockings, heels and skirts, really annoyed me. Pantyhose just make me want to scratch my ass and standing in a pair of pumps all day is murder on your arches.

As I was working the lobby window one day, a man came in, handed me some cash through the Plexiglas window and told me to give him rolled change in exchange for the wad of cash. Yes, how shocking I know. But at the conclusion of the “currency” portion of our transaction, he handed me another slip of paper, a deposit slip torn in half. Now, I was young and green, but even I knew that when a nervous man slips you a note and you’re a bank teller, maybe you should hit the deck. I didn’t though, instead I read the note right there in front of him. The note read, “What’s under that skirt? Signed, Hank”

Oooh, this was exciting. I looked up and Hank was walking out of the lobby. I wanted to call out for him, make some excuse that he had forgotten his receipt or something, but I was frozen, and he walked out onto the busy street outside.

I thought about Hank constantly. I volunteered to work the lobby window every day, sometimes even covering lobby and drive thru myself just so I would be able to see him again.
Finally, 12 days later, Hank walked in again and I almost ran to the window. He was calm cool and collected, passed me the cash through the window same as before. And again, when we were done, he passed me a note, “What’s under that skirt?”

Okay, now I was officially hot for Hank. Before he left this time though, I stopped him, “When can I show you?” was all I said. He looked me in the eye, turned and walked out the door.

What the fuck?

Again, I anxiously await Hank’s return. This time, it was 10 days later. Same thing. Same note. Same exit.

This guy was driving me crazy! A week later he came in and I stopped him before he handed me the cash. I said, “Hank, when do you want to find out the answer to your question?”

He said, “How about right now?” This perplexed me, because we were, after all, in a bank during the middle of the day. I was hoping for a late supper and candlelit bath perhaps.

Hank repeated what he’d said, and then slipped me another note, “I know what’s under that skirt and it’s not brains, now get a fucking bag and fill it with cash. Right fucking now.”

I froze. I was frozen. Completely frozen. I didn’t know what to despite being trained in this sort of scenario by bank management. I tried to speak but I couldn’t. Before I knew it, Hank was grabbed from behind by our enormous security guard and thrown to the ground. Someone else got spooked by Hank or saw my reaction and rang the silent alarm as I stood there paralyzed for what felt like an eternity. The local police came, the state police came, even a local FBI field agent showed up. I was interrogated by ALL of them and even though I didn’t know Hank, it was determined I had prior knowledge of his intent and I was fired.

Hank, on the off chance that you’re reading this, I’d still like to show you what’s under my skirt.
(, Mon 20 Jul 2009, 20:23, 13 replies)
The card hadn't come out of the machine.
I'd done everything correctly - not hesitated too long when pressing the buttons, got the PIN correct, not tried to snatch the card from the machine and triggered a safety system. But there'd been nothing.
The card did not return to me from the slot.

I racked my brains. I was sure that neither solvency nor liquidity was a problem. Besides - though I never use it, I have quite a generous overdraft facility. I'd've remembered busting through the bottom of that.

Maybe my account had been hacked.

Shit. I'd better talk to the cashier.

The branch was quiet, and I tried to be nonchalant as I approached the counter. I was anything but calm inside. My card hadn't come back to me, and this could only be a bad thing.

I smiled. The casher smiled back.
"Um... the machine outside just ate my card."
"Oh. Did it ask you for your PIN first?"
"Yeah. All that was normal. I put in the pin, asked for a tenner, took the money, but the card stayed put."
"You got the money?"
"That normally comes out after the card. It's unusual to get money but no card."
"That's what I thought. But..."
... and somewhere in the back of my consciousness, I could hear the sound of air hissing out from a balloon of certainty.

Tentatively, I opened my wallet.

The card was there. Of course the machine had returned it. I'd just been so caught in the routine that I hadn't noticed that I'd taken it and put it back to its habitual place.

The cashier read the expression on my face perfectly and smiled again.

"You know," I offered, "I do feel somewhat foolish."
(, Fri 17 Jul 2009, 11:03, 3 replies)
From the other side of the fence
If you get a job as a cashier in a bank don't, on your first day serving customers, wonder what the button under the counter just by your knees does. Or if you do, try and remember what it was your manager told you about it.

Don't press it. Don't, when you discover it doesn't seem to do anything, press it again, and again, and again.

An armed response team WILL be called, and you WILL get sacked.

Very embarrassing.
(, Fri 17 Jul 2009, 17:11, 2 replies)
I walked into the bank today
and Ann Wilson, lead singer from popular 80s band "Heart" was behind the counter!!

I walked up and she asked "how can I get you a loan?"
(, Wed 22 Jul 2009, 14:14, 5 replies)
Debbie Jones and my Fucking Car
One Friday afternoon I parked my car and went over to the ATM. I had plans. Big plans. All I needed was a bunch of lovely crisp banknotes to oil the wheels; my drinking fund. Unbenown to me, high above on top of one of the tall buildings that framed the street a girl named Debbie Jones was edging closer to the edge, tears streaming down her face.


No cash! Shit!

I wrestled with the onscreen options and obtained a mini statement. Shit! My account had been raped by those bastards at British Gas! No... fucking... drinking... funds... shit...

I turned, my plans well and truly fucked. Instead of a night in the pub, all I had to look forward to was a TV meal and a night in front of the idiot box. Fucking British Gas and their automated payments... Suddenly, as if from nowhere, this girl Debbie’s substantial form – arms and legs flapping like a hideous pink butterfly – hurtled down from above and crashed onto the roof of my motor. My beloved Ford seemed to buckle in two, the windows smashed, the alarm went off. I was splattered in a fine spray of Debbie’s blood and brains and, worse than this, my car was a complete write-off.


I glanced down at the mini statement, glanced back up at the mass of crushed flesh and bone that had totalled my car. I cursed my luck. How was this possible? I could understand being fucked over by one, but I was left reeling after being fucked up the arse financially by two random direct Deb-hits in the space of a few minutes...
(, Tue 21 Jul 2009, 9:50, 11 replies)
My Dad, Twat Flat Top, and the Big Bag of Mulha
My dad’s your typical Italian fella – doesn’t trust anyone with his cash. When I was a kid he was sent, under pain of death from my mother, down to the local branch of Barclays with a Tesco carrier bag stuffed full of used notes; his life savings. Some snotty little oik in a shiny Mos Bros suit and a flat top haircut sat us down. Now, my dad’s a bit of a scruffy bloke. Think Lieutanant Columbo’s scruffier brother with an older, shabbier coat and you’re just about there. The twat behind the desk looked at us with utter contempt. Just a wop and his demon spawn.

Then my dad produced the carrier bag and plonked it down on the table with a loud THUD. I thought the twat was going to cum in his pants. Suddenly he was all sweetness and light, offered my old man a cup of coffee, offered me some sweeties. My dad just sat opposite him and scowled – he was a foundry man, hard as nails, and could smell a shister a mile off.

After a few minutes of this twat cooing and talking over what sort of account my dad wanted, it came time to sign the paperwork. My dad reached for the pen on the desk – one of those jobbies attached by a length of chain so no fucker could nick it. As my dad went to sign, he felt his arm jerk back, the chain was too short to sit comfortably in the chair and write anything, even an 'X' (which, thinking about my dad, may have been how he signs his signature). He was not happy. Not at all. He placed the pen down on the desk, reached for the bag of loot, stood up, and we went to leave. Twat flat top, seeing a bonus or the kudos of opening a new account with several grand in it (probably a rarity in Coventry in the recession of the eighties), chased after us: “What appears to be the matter, Mr Hanky?” He asked my dad.

Who stopped long enough to retort: “If you don’t trust me with a 10p biro why should I trust you with this?” And he waved the carrier bag infront of twat’s face like a great big, juicy, plump, lovely carrot.

Then we left. The look on twat flat top’s face was priceless – he looked like he’d just found out the woman he was shagging had herpes, used to be a man, and was – in point of fact – his long lost father.
(, Thu 16 Jul 2009, 16:44, 7 replies)
Due to a bank error
I found myself £200 better off.

I was able to buy a hotel on Park Lane. Still lost the game though.
(, Thu 16 Jul 2009, 13:59, 2 replies)
Bank Robbery
I used to live in Rio de Janeiro a few years back, and still stay in contact with a few friends who live there. One of them emailed me 2 years ago with this story, which he swears is true (I've been trying to find a news report or anything on-line but can't at the moment).

Rochina is the largest favela (slum) in South America - its HUGE. A veritable parallel society has grown up there given years of governmental, municipal and societal neglect. Enterprising members of the community have built up business, rented out property to other favelados. At the same time, the ubiquitous urban drug trade has not left the place alone, and a large measure of control is exerted by the drug gangs.

Much like Mohammed Yunus' Grameen Bank, one local group had set up a bank, in which favelados could deposit money, and take out loans to fund business they were setting up (laundry's, grocery's etc). All very organic and within the community (although to what extent the drug gangs were/are involved is questionable). Anyway, one day all is proceeding well in the favela, the bank is open, people are doing their business when rushing in comes a gang of armed men, who proceed to rob the bank. They clear it out and make off with their loot. Thinking quickly, the owner of the bank alerts the local drug dealers, who form a posse and start chasing the robbers.

After a short while, and still in the favela, the posse of drug dealers catches up with the bank robbers. As you can probably imagine, the prospects for a group of out of favela bank robbers being caught by the local drug gang is not a particularly good one. Then, the case got more complicated...

The ad hoc law enforcement group (the drug gang) recognised most of the robbers - they were off duty city policemen. So, here you have the weird situation where a bank robbery carried out by some policemen is stopped by a gang of drug dealers. I'm not sure what happened to the police, but there's no love lost towards them, so I suspect they probably got seven bells of shit kicked out of them before they got out (if they were lucky).
(, Fri 17 Jul 2009, 0:19, 1 reply)
Back in the day, I needed a bank account...
...as I was about to start University, so I thought I'd better get myself one of those student accounts. Nat West were advertising their student accounts which gave you a free Young Persons Railcard, and as my uni was a fair distance away from home I thought it made sense. So into the bank marches I.

"Hello, I'd like to open a student account please".
"Certainly" says bank lady, we sit at her desk and go through all of the associated procedures. It was back in the day, so a DNA sample was unnecessary.

"There we go" says she, "your account is now open. Is there anything else I can help with?"
Just as I am about to ask where my railcard is, it finally dawns on me that I am in actual fact sitting in a branch of Lloyds TSB.
(, Fri 17 Jul 2009, 19:25, 1 reply)
One more
I had to take a look at my lifestyle when the bank stopped my card due to "suspicious activity".

I asked what that was, and they said "you spent £55 in one go".

OK... anything else?

"It was in a sports shop, not a pub or off licence". Bloody cheek!!!
(, Thu 16 Jul 2009, 18:21, 2 replies)
Abbey Win!
Forgot about this one. During trials and tribulations with Abbey, I once needed to withdraw £400 for a replacement disposable car. A fine fifteen-year-old Vauxhall Chavalier on this occasion... I digress.

I went into the bank and, knowing that the daily cash machine limit was £300, queued up. For about twenty minutes. When I got to the window, Emo cashier boy says, "oh you need to take £300 from the cash machine and then I can do the other £100."
"But I'll have to queue up again!" I protest.
"No it's fine," says Emo boy, "use that cash machine there and I'll get the £100 out, just come straight back to the window."

Fine, the machine is literally next to the counters; I get my £300 and go back.
"So," he says, counting out tennners, "that's ten, twenty, thirty..." "Actually," I say, "can I have it in twenties please?"
"Oh yes, of course," says Emo boy. He counts ten tenners back into his till... and then proceeds to count out the twenties.
"Ten, twenty, thirty..." etc.

I obviously kept my gob shut.

Two hours later, a frantic phone call from the branch manager. "Mr X5, did you withdraw some cash over the counter today?" "Why yes I certainly did, one hundred English pounds in fact."
"Right... did you happen to notice if it was ten or twenty pound notes?" "Oh no, I am afraid I didn't. is there a problem?"
"We might have given you the wrong amount, you see. Can you check the money and see how much it is?"
"Well, no I can't, as I've already handed it over to the man with the car. However, I do have a receipt which I signed and you stamped to say it was £100. So if you have UNDERpaid me, there's not much I can do is there?"
"Well, Mr X5, i'll be honest, I think we overpaid you."
"Ah yes, but in this situation, in light of my receipt, I don't suppose there's much you can do is there....."

Take that you thieving bastards
(, Tue 21 Jul 2009, 12:29, 5 replies)
A new account, coffee and a bit of oral sex...
I'd decided I wanted to open a new savings account and after scanning a few of the comparison websites, Halifax was to be my chosen bank (also aided by the fact that of all the banks, The Halifax is closest to where I live).

Working throughout the week and not wanting to waste my precious weekends, I thought it best to venture to Halifax during a lunch break, giving me 50 minutes to queue, hand over the already filled in application form and ID (including a utlilty bill)and deposit £10 cash into my newly opened account. What I hadn't chanced upon was being served by Susan.

Ahhh, Susan. Her brunette hair and deep brown eyes will forever stay in my memory; her sweet soft lips forever encrusted in my mind in the file marked 'wanking material'.

'Cashier number 2 please' came the voice from the tannoy, and it was finally my turn to be served after about 10 minutes of waiting patiently. As I stepped up to the perspex window of despair, I noticed a radiant smile beaming back at me and a split second later a pretty face, with toussled, tangled locks swept delicately behind each ear. Her eyes were warm and gentle; instantly carming.

My eyes drifted south, and an ample chest, tightly packed into Susan's blue blouse, heaved back at me with every breathe she took. I thought to myself that I'd be able to peek a bit of bra if I was stood to one side of her, as the fabric between each button was forced apart under the strain of her bust. Dirty thoughts raced through my mind.

"How can I help?" said Susan gently.

'Shit, I've been caught staring' I thought to myself.

"I'd like to open a new account please" came my mumbled response, my face getting hotter and more crimson by the second. I was in lust; I wanted Susan there and then, it was a longing that I'd never experienced in my life up to that point, and haven't since.

15 minutes or so passed and my new account was set up and ready for use, but all I could think about during that time was she. I lost the ability to write; I struggled to sign my name. I'm sure I said one or two stupid things, maybe more, but she had laughed at my lame jokes. She twisted her hair in her fingers as she spoke to me. Was this flirting? According to the magazines it was.
I wanted to see Susan again. Soon. But how? It was as she handed me back my ID that I decided to chance it...

"Would you be up for going for a coffee tomorrow lunch time". I couldn't believe that I'd come out with it. She was out of my league, a stunner, she'd have a boyfriend for sure.

"Sure, why not. Here's my number, I have lunch from one to two o'clock tomorrow" replied Susan, smiling.

I smiled back, "See you then", and walked out of Halifax. I almost jumped and clicked my heels together as I made my way back to work; tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.


We sat upstairs in Costa making small talk, edging ever closer to each other until our thighs were touching. I felt an instant shock run up my leg and all the way up my spine. My heart fluttered with desire and I watched her; 'I could watch her talk forever', I thought to myself. She was perfect.
She touched my hand as she laughed. I liked it when she did so. She tilted her head slightly to the left when trying to get life anecdotes and small talk from my shy self. I liked this even more.

I'd barely touched my coffee, and she was about a third of the way through her frapucinno when she whispered in my ear, "Follow me".
She took me by the hand, quite gingerly at first, and then clasped it tightly as we stood up and she skipped towards to female toilets, pulling me with her. Looking around to make sure no-one was looking, she pushed me through the door and led me to a cubicle.

As the cubicle door shut behind her I kissed on the back of the neck as she slid the lock to 'occupied'. Susan turned and our lips met. They were so soft, so gentle, and her tongue felt warm and almost rough in comparison as it worked with mine. We stumbled backwards, holding each other for support, the kissing getting more frenzied with every passing moment. I felt her reach for the flies on my work trousers and I repayed the favour, being careful not to rub too hard against her polyester trousers for fear of getting a static shock.

Susan's hands moved from my waist and all the way up my back until she was cupping my neck. Then she slid them outwards across my shoulders, forcing me down onto the toilet as she did so. We both gasped for breath. I remember wiping saliva from the corner of my mouth. As Susan dropped to her knees, my meaty bangstick pulsated and throbbed with all its might, itching to be freed from the cage that was my boxer shorts and into the beautiful wilderness that was Susan's mouth. I lifted my buttocks slightly so that she could pull my trousers and boxers down.

The blow job was heavenly. Susan's tongue teased my shaft as she licked gently from my balls up to the tip, smiling and moaning as she did so. This was a huge turn on, knowing that she was enjoying pleasuring me. She teased me, opening her mouth over my cock, but refusing to close until I was near on begging her to suck me into oblivion. By now my shaft was truly awesome; more hard and manly than ever before, aching with the pain and torment of not being relieved. My balls sat tightly,like two vacuum packed ping pong balls, all the while being gently groped by Susan's ever willing hand. Eventually she took me into her mouth, her eyes looking up at me as she did so. Her eyes looked so innocent, so pure, and I had to remind myself that she was expertly working my cock with both hand and mouth, definitely no amateur, and certainly no angel.

The relief was immense. I saw colours and lights and my hands gripped Susan's shoulders tightly. My salty love stew dribbled from the corner of Susan's mouth and my bellend glistened with post cum.

"Best get back to work" she said and she smiled and left me, sat half naked in the female toilets of Costa.

I continued seeing Susan for about 2 months after this first encounter and it is a part of my life that I will always look back on with great fondness. We even had sex in the bank during early evenings when she had to balance the tills. This soon stopped because I couldn't face cumming whilst looking at a life size cut out of Howard the Halifax Man. She no longer works at the branch, having moved to Devon and having been transferred.
(, Mon 20 Jul 2009, 15:01, 7 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1