Bloody Bank

Once again the bank is being a pain in the arse. Ages ago I signed up for online banking because it was nice and easy to use and I could sort it from work. For a couple of years this system has been working nicely for me and I've been happily paying my mortgage and my bills with no problems at all. Not any more. Barclays, in their infinite wisdom, have decided that their internet security which apparently was more than secure enough last month, now isn't, and we all have to have a 'pin sentry' device, without which you cannot access your own account information. So, if you don't have your pin sentry with you, tough shit. If your pin sentry breaks 2 days before your mortgage needs paying and you don't have access to telephone banking, your problem. I wasn't impressed with this idea so I rang the useless sacks of shit on the number provided to be greeted with this message:

"Please enter your 6 digit telephone banking passcode"

Fucking great. I don't have one. Maybe if I just hold on for a while the system will put me through, it works for the credit card phoneline anyway….

"I'm sorry, we do not recognise your 6 digit passcode, please type it again"

I'll wait a bit longer……

"I'm sorry, we do not recognise you 6 digit passcode……"


So I looked up some other numbers and eventually one of the lines I answered (loan purchasing line in case anyone cares). I asked them to put me through to someone who deals with pin sentry. They did, although they didn't sound too happy about it, I suspect that wasn't the first call they'd had. They want to start issuing codes, that should cut their call volume down a bit. I get through to a nice geordie lady who says that is IS possible to log in without it and I should have been given this option on the screen, she'll go and speak to her manager and put me on hold for a moment. So I listen to a few minutes of what sounded a bit like Mozart being played on the spoons and an old teatray and eventually someone else comes on the line. Bollocks, I've been transferred to a bloody Indian call centre:

"Hello, is it a query about pin sentry that it is you have?"

"Yes. I need to know how I log in without usinig the machine because it isn't convenient to me to have to carry it everywhere I go."

"It is not any longer possible to log into your account without pin sentry"

"But the girl I just spoke to said it was"

"It is not any longer possible to log into your account without pin sentry"

"She definately said it was. I just need to know how."

"It is not any longer possible to log into your account without pin sentry"

"Can you put me back onto the girl I spoke to?"

"No. It is not any longer possible to log into your account without pin sentry."

"I'll just go then shall I?"

"Is there anything else I can be doing for you have a nice day goodbye"

Dialling tone.


Bloody marvellous. I don't want the Prime Minister's medical records, I don't want access to MI5's filing cabinet, I don't want to hack into the Pentagon's security systems and set off the sprinkler system, I JUST WANT TO KNOW IF MY WAGES WENT IN. But apparently without jumping through 17 hoops, having an electronic gadget and a 6 digit passcode I do not have this right anymore. I am wondering if it might not be easier just to keep my bastard wages in cash under my bed. It's not like there's anything left of them after 2 weeks anyway. Bloody bank, I pay them a fiver a month to piss me off and keep my own information secret from me, I must be a complete fucking idiot.



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10 Things

"What are 10 things you've done that other people probably haven't? 
Submitted by Janette

1. Ended up in hospital overnight with concussion because I cut my finger down to the bone, took one look at it and promptly fainted. Which would have been fine had I not cracked my head on the concrete kitchen floor as I landed on the deck. While in hospital I threw up down a nurse which resulted in a head x-ray and an overnight stay for concussion.

2. Knocked my mum and dad's front wall into their front garden using the wing of their car.

3. Had to be rescued from the floor of a locked cubicle in the gents toilet of a club in Lancaster (where I had passed out) by a bouncer. It would seem that 3 bottles of red wine was beyond my drinking capacity.

4. Been the 'index case' for Crohns Disease in our family. Lucky me eh?

5. Been a guinea pig for a number of different trials of stuff connected with said Crohns Disease, including a treatment for mouth ulcers that was very effective but felt like someone had glued a wet sponge to the inside of your mouth. I don't think it was ever released for sale.

6. Got offered a job as a 'chalet manager' (aka glorified cook and skivvy) for a major holiday company. I was going to do a season in the French Alps but I didn't take it up in the end.

7. Helped to creosote someone else's stable block.

8. Met a man who apparently used to kill people for a living. He ran the protection for the city centre bar I worked in in Manchester and when I went in for my birthday once he insisted on a lock in. He wouldn't let any of us leave until 6am at which point we had drunk over £700 of booze which had to go through the books as 'spillage (because he didn't pay for drinks) and I had gone temporarily blind.

9. Broken into a private pool in Portugal with my best mate and some posh people we'd met in order to go swimming in our underwear.

10. Cooked 3 meals a day for 30 people, 5-7 days a week for a year. I was the cook for the nursing home that my parents own for a year after I finished university. Until my dad said he'd fire me if I didn't go and get myself a proper job.

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Ah, it's that time again, the PMT monster has arrived and once again people are avoiding me.

My brother just texted to say that my parents are now back in the country and are having a tourist day. I run round sorting out my dad's football tickets and getting them to my brother, I'm picking up their dog on Sunday and I had my hospital appointment yesterday but still neither of them has bothered to so much as text to say they are back in the country. The only reason I know they didn't drown in the sea off Egypt is that on Tuesday I got a text from my mum asking if I'd phone my cousin Nicola. So I've just sent them a snotty text to say thanks a lot for keeping me informed and next time I want to know where in the world they I'll just ask my brother. I strongly suspect that I'm going to pay for that at some point and am fully expecting my mother to ring me and shout at me for my sarcasm.


This week has been simply brimming over with help and cooperation from the site management here. And again the sarcasm rears its head. Requests for information have been ignored, stupid requirements have been sent in and the word 'please' seems to have been lost from the English language. I am now giving serious thought to fucking it all off and going home for the afternoon to do something less frustrating and annoying like trying to work out how to acheive world peace or cheesegrating my forehead.


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I decided to put my name into a search engine just to make sure that this didn't come up. And lo and behold it did, I've put my actual full name somewhere, like the pillock that I am and now I've had to go through every entry and check it, changing some of them to make sure they can only be viewed by my neighbourhood in case someone strays onto here. Bugger bugger bugger, why am I not more careful?

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Passports, stupid subaru and colds.

Well, another week rumbles on with the usual fuck ups. This week's petty little annoyances include:

PassportsYou would think that changing the name on your passport would be a simple thing wouldn't you? You'd send them a copy of your marriage certificate then they'd reissue your passport, withthe same date of expiry as your previous one for a nominal fee of £20 or so. You would be wrong. In the happy days of state induced fear of foreigners and terrorism getting a passport is more difficult than finding the Philosopher's Stone and the key for turning base metals into gold. You have to have a completely new passport, at a cost of no no fewer than sevently two of your English pounds PLUS you have to send your original marriage certificate so you have to send it registered post. Then you have to send a prepaid registered post envelope for the penny pinching misers to send the certificate back to you. they've just charged seventy two bastard quid for the passport, you'd think that the postage would be free. It isn't. This is before you even get to the issue of 'the passport photograph'.

The passport photograph has long been an ordeal dreaded by the average person. You went into one of those little booths in the post office or the supermarket and emerged 10 minutes later with a handful of photos that made you look mentally deficient and drunk all at the same time. You'd then send one off with your application. I assumed that things were still the same. So I sent off my application with my mentally deficient photo and a cheque for half of my remaining overdraft. A week or so later it wings its merry way back to me, I had had the audacity to smile on my photo, this was not acceptable and I would have to do it again but this time send in one with a blank expression. Yes, well, that should make me easier to recognise as I often walk around an airport wearing no expression at all. Anyway, I did some more photos and sent my new, surly pic off with my application. And again it returns to me, this time because the background was not the correct shade of white. What the fuck? Are you serious? I rang the helpdesk (there's a misnomer if ever I heard one) to see if someone was pulling my leg. According to the girl I spoke to no, they were not, the passport office takes identification very seriously and would not joke about such matters. Right then. So I have now been to a professional photographer to ahve some taken and am waiting for them to arrive so I can try again.

Pedantic wankers.


Stupid Subaru - Whoever it was that thought it was a good idea to design Subaru cars so that they sound like an elephant with wind was a tosser. And whichever pillock sold one to the fool next door was an even bigger tosser. Recently the fool next door acquired a subaru estate car and since then his principle source of pleasure has been to sit on the driveway next to our front window and rev the engine. All bloody evening. It's driving me nuts. What is even more annoying is that last night, at 10pm he decided that the revving didn't sound like it should so he called the RAC. He and the RAC man (who arrived at 10.45pm) then spent an hour and a half fannying about, revving the engine, driving around the estate and generally interrupting my sleep. After a while I moved into the spare room at the back of the house. You could still hear the bloody thing so I put in a pair of earplugs that I pinched from work. Even then you could still hear it and it took me ages to get to sleep, I was still swearing and thinking malevolent thoughts as I dropped off. I swear if this doesn't stop soon I'm going to fill his petrol tank with sugar and shove a galia melon right up his exhaust pipe. See him rev his sodding engine then. 


Colds – I knew it had to happen. I have got the Fridge Witches cold. Or the beginnings of it anyway. This time I refuse to go down without a fight – I have been to Boots and am now armed with First Defence (to try and stop the cold taking hold in the first place), Beechams Cold and Flu tablets to try and stave it off, vitamin C tablets, Strepsils and echinea. I may still end up with the cold (or worse, this vile flu that is going round) but at least if I do there's every change I'll be a decongestant induced coma throughout the entire thing. Happy days.

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Bastard Glass Ceiling

Well here's a new problem that I've not come up against before. I didn't get through to final interview for the job I went for, despite having a really good interview. In fact I'm struggling to find anyone interested in employing me. When I spoke to a few of my friends I found that they were having the same problem. In fact so is my sister in law who has been trying to find a permanent job for a little while. So I sat down (with a consolation glass of wine and the remains of my christmas Chocolate Orange) to have a think about why this might be.

Things we've all got in common:

1) We all like to bitch. Well that's not something you advertise in interviews so it probably doesn't count.

2) We all look normal. None of us have a twitch or a hunchback or extra fingers. Since we're not going for jobs as models or medical guinea pigs this is unlikely to be relevant.

3) We've all got a decent employment history, experience in our fields, good exam results and we're all intelligent. You'd think this would make it easy to get a job wouldn't you? You'd be wrong.


So if none of these things were making a difference it had to be the last point:

4) We're all married and we're all in our twenties.

Potential employers read this statement and see 2 words flashing at them in huge red letters, with alarms and sirens and dancing trolls on top:


Maternity Leave


And d'you know what? There's fuck all we can do about it. They aren't allowed by law to ask if we intend to have children and even if we venture the information they aren't going to believe us. So what the hell do we do now? I've no idea. I can't stay where I am until I am deemed old enough to not be dangerous anymore, I'll go mental so what the hell do I do? No one wants me because of my age and sex but since I can't prove intent I'm pretty much buggered.


Got to admit, I'm completely stumped by this one.

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Crappy day.

This morning it took me two hours to get into work because half assed pillock in a Range Rover had made the unusual decision to drive the wrong way down the M60 causing a massive pile up and a 10 mile tailback which coincidentally started at the point where I needed to get off the motorway and tailed off at the point where I got on the motorway so I spent the whole journey in a tailback. This made my ankle go into spasm. Get to work to find the servers still aren't working then receive a phone call from the agency to confirm that I have not made it through to final interview for the job I went for. Perhaps on the way home I could write off my car then set fire to my house just to round the day off nicely.

Sometimes you just shouldn't bother getting out of bed. Today is one of those days.

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