My wife, being from the United States, needed to set up a bank account as every transaction in which she used her American debit card was causing her to be glared at like she was robbing the place.  Even the nice ladies at the supermarket suddenly transform into ferocious interrogation officers, scrutinising the information on her card and I.D. like a dieter with a packet of biscuits.

Also, she’ll soon be working and companies prefer to pay directly into an account rather than give cash or cheques directly to employees, maybe because this involves actually touching them or something; I don’t know.

Needless to say, she needed a bank account.

So, it made sense that I set her up with the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) that I’ve been with all my life.  This would make it easier if we ever need to transfer funds to each other and I have a better understanding of how that bank (sorry, ‘building society’) operates.

We had originally set up an account for her online two weeks prior and had received instant approval, but the paperwork had not arrived in the promised “3-5 working days”.

I assume they use the term ‘Working days’ with a sense of irony.

This resulted in us calling them only to be told that she needed to visit a branch of the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) in order for them to validate her identification.  Thanks for telling us.  I have no issue with visiting a branch in person, but don’t allow us to arrange it online if we still need to physically go to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) anyway.  Amazon doesn’t ask us to go and pick up our item from their depot after ordering something online, and if this is the trend of things to come I’ll be fucked if I’m buying anything from DFS.

It’s online for a reason people.

I assume they use the term ‘Applying for a Flexaccount online is easy’ with a sense of irony.

But, having said that, we also needed to post a Christmas gift to America AND arrange for my wife to get a haircut, so it made sense to park the car in the centre of town as all three of these were very close to each other.  This was ideal as we were heading up to London (for a concert in the evening) and we wanted to leave as early as possible so my wife could at least spend some time in the capital beforehand.

We should’ve only be about half an hour, maybe an hour…maximum.  Then we could’ve gone and caught our train.

So we drove into town, parked at a nearby car park and I walked over to put change in the ticket machine.  I reached into my pocket and produced three £1 coins.

“That’ll be more than enough” I thought to myself.

‘Up to 2 hours – £3.10’

I’m sorry, what?  Are you fucking kidding me?  £3.10??  I don’t need two hours!  And who the hell comes up with an idiotic price like that?

I was just about to grudgingly get another £1 from the car when I saw the words ‘No Change Given’ on the machine.  Aha, that explains the cock-eyed price.  They were relying on people like me not having the random shrapnel needed to pay for the privilege of parking my car.  Why not make it £3.88 so at least it covers all the coins in one transaction?

Wankers.

Basically it was going to cost me four quid to park my car for half an hour or so.

No fucking way.

I gave my wife the parcel for the post office and told her I’d re-park in the local supermarket which was £1 for 2 hours; we’d then meet outside the post office and visit the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and hair salon together.

Off she went.

I drove to the supermarket (a 2 minute drive that took 15 minutes in pre-Christmas Saturday traffic), parked up, paid the £1 and walked 10 minutes back to the Post Office.  There, as expected, was my wife, but she was not looking happy.

It seemed the Post Office wouldn’t accept her debit card.

Of course.

I went in, paid, glared at the unapologetic assistant for doing everything but assist, and we left.

I assume they use the term ‘Assistant’ with a sense of irony.

We then crossed the road to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) before realising the documentation she needed was still in the car.

Of course.

So we began the 10 minute walk back to the car, stopping off at the hair salon to arrange an appointment for my wife to get a trim.   This salon was always open on a Sunday which was perfect for us as time was ticking.

Not this Sunday though.  This Sunday they were shut.  No reason; they just were.

Of course.

We left, walked the rest of the way to the car and drove back through the traffic to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) where, of course, I wasn’t allowed to park.

Fuck it, I was going to wait outside.  All my wife needed now, as she headed into the bank (sorry, ‘building society’), was a shotgun and a balaclava for me to really look the part.

She had been in there less than a minute when I spied a traffic warden in my rear view mirror walking up the street.  Oh come on!

I calmly and furiously moved into the car park opposite and sat in my car poised and ready to drive away and/or punch the shit out of someone if challenged.

After about three minutes my wife came out shaking her head.  It seemed the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) weren’t happy with her American I.D. card and driving licence as proof of identification as advised by the friendly customer service representative we’d called the day before.  Apparently she needed to produce her passport.

I assume they use the term ‘Customer service’ with a sense of irony.

Usually this would result in us rolling our eyes, but considering we were already late for getting to the capital, we were starting to get pissed off.  We drove home, picked up her passport, drove back and arrived at the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) 40 minutes later.  In she went again.  I parked up and cracked my knuckles in readiness.

This time she was in there about 10 minutes before coming out; a face like thunder.  It appears that, due to money laundering regulations, she’s unable to open a bank (sorry, ‘building society’) account for the first three months of living in the UK.  Something that could’ve been mentioned A BIT EARLIER ON DON’T YOU THINK?!?!

What a massive shitting fucking pisslicking waste of time.

I use the term ‘Fucking morons’ with no sense of irony.

Well, I suppose everything comes in threes.  The post office, the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and the hair salon.  Surely that’s the end of it?

Nope.

We got to the station and the queue was just long enough for us to miss the train by 2 minutes resulting in a half hour wait for the next one.

The carriage was nice and quiet except for the three girls sat RIGHT in front of us who didn’t stop talking fat sweaty hairy bollocks throughout the entire journey.

At the concert we were at the front (result!) and when someone at the back decided to throw their drink forward it just happened to miss everyone except my wife and I.  Mmm, eye-stingingly refreshing.

After the concert the tube was delayed due to someone being taken ill on another train.  Once the ambulance had finally arrived and sorted it out 15 minutes later, we were advised that the train would now be delayed due to someone on another train pulling the fucking emergency cord.

We should’ve known this morning, when the alarm didn’t go off, that it was going to be a fantastic day.