My bank has forsaken me.

My father had an account with the Bank of Ireland way back in the ’40s or early ’50s. As soon as I started earning a modicum of income around ’70, Dad introduced me to the manager and I opened an account. The bank was delighted to serve such a long standing family.

Then I went looking for a mortgage in the late ’70s. When he had finished laughing the manager told me to fuck off, or words to that effect. Nothing would persuade him, even the fact that as a family we had a gold and platinum plated credit rating.

Herself was with the Ulster Bank at the time so I made an appointment with her manager. Loans? No problem. Just transfer your account and tell us how much you want. It was that easy.

I have been with the Ulster Bank ever since. We have had our ups and downs, including a period when my local branch had a right cunt of a manager who once bounced a £5 cheque because of “insufficient funds”. Luckily he retired/was transferred/was sacked and our happy relationship resumed.

Now the bastards are leaving me high and dry. They are fucking off leaving me wondering what to do with my few quid in my savings account. I could buy shares in Big Tobacco, but I see their shares are a little dodgy. I could go for Big Pharma but I think I may have lost the gravy train there. I could go for the Bank of Mattress I suppose. The problem with that is that Bank of Mattress doesn’t do automatic payments or debits and I’d spend my time posting cash off to every bill demand. Messy.

Decisions, decisions.

I have a year or two to decide, but I’m a little cheesed off with them.

A right shower of wankers.