Merchant Bankers By Darren Sant

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ask if you would like to open a high interest savings account that makes your money so hard to get at it can only be withdrawn after death threats are made against the bank managers dachshund, Colin.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 witless 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.

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