Merchant Bankers

Where do I start? I was enjoying a lovely Saturday afternoon snooze,
as you do, and the phone started ringing. Having worked in an office
for years it is second nature for me to answer a ringing phone. I
roused myself from sleep and tiredly picked up the phone. I was greeted
by a chirpy chinless wonder who wanted to sell me insurance. What part
of "fuck off I am trying to sleep" he did not understand I don't know.
Anyway he soon buggered off with a proverbial flea in his ear. What
happened to the sanctity of the weekend? They used to just pester us in
the evening. What's next? Calls at 3am "Ah Mr Sant I wondered if you
had considered our range of personal loans? You haven't? Oh well night
night then." Fuck off! How far will they go? Will I be having my
morning dump only to have some spotty gimp in a tie pass me the loo
roll? "Mr Sant that shite looks rather unhealthy have you considered
our life insurance?"

The madness has spread. You used to be able to go to your bank do your
business and all was well. Not now oh no. Now you have to run the
gauntlet. First it's the obsequious bank tellers. If you are skint they
see it on the screen and after a small self-satisfied sneer they ask if
you had considered a personal loan/deal with Satan signed in blood. If
you are flush they simp around you and ask if you would like to open a
high interest savings account that makes your money so hard to get at
it can only be withdrawn after death threats are made against the bank
managers dachshund, Colin. Of course that's not the end of it. Once you
have finally completed your transaction and fended off their attempts
to get you into further debt you have to dodge the git in the doorway
who is trying to flog you their latest credit card. After all this you
are so stressed you end up punching some poor woman that approaches you
with a consumer survey and wind up spending the night in the cells
being touched up by "fingers" McGraw.

Mortgages. We all need them of course but as you're signing on the
dotted line being smiled at by some dickless pratt in some sectioned
compartment that the banks laughably call an office take a look at the
amount you have to pay back in total. Then once you regain
consciousness I suggest trying to throttle the aforementioned dickless
pratt with his own corporate tie. It is ludicrous. I want to buy a
small two bedroom semi with a miniscule garden and a laughable tiny
garage not pay for some fat cats trips to Thailand in order to secure
himself a child bride.

Well I'd like to take the Black Horse to Halifax and line it up again
the Natwesterly wall of an Abbey along with a banker that likes to say
yes whilst rounding up Bradford and Bingley and pounding them all to
death with an oversized copy of Lloyd's register.