I’m sorry HSBC, but having some imaginative stoner throwing jazz noodles around the inside of some micro-wave meal of a christmas ballad with a delayed saxophone is not really getting me into the spirit of the season in which you claim call volume is higher than usual.
I’ll give you call volume, how about me yelling in block capitals for the thirteen minutes I’ve been on hold waiting for you to let me know how I can get access to my account now that you’ve changed the over-zealous security features of my online account which I only opened as you used to offer a reasonable amount of interest on a rainy day fund but which you’ve now cut, and you’ve also cut your security requirements in half. Shouldn’t that have made logging in easier?
Is the security now more lax as my money is now worth less to you, and are you paying less interest as you’re having to hire yourself people in a call center to put me on hold and explain why I can’t log in.
I mean, what is a bank anyway? You come across all nicey nicey when I’m a student, offering me a family wallchart and a porcelain pig when I sign up as you think that I’ll bank with you in perpetuity despite shoddy service, and here I am twenty years later on hold. Why couldn’t you have put me on hold when I was a student and as stoned as your rinky dink musak saxophonist and I had nothing to do all day but wait in line to earn a crust at the sperm bank? That way we wouldn’t be here right now, wasting my cell phone minutes.
HSBC, was it you that woke my son up at 3:30am this morning, and stopped me from getting any sleep? I’ll bet it was, you hapless fudgewits. Are you conspiring to bring down the economy and ruin my day? I bet you were just annoyed because Standard and Poor downgraded a bunch of your buddies’ credit ratings last night, and now you’re picking on the man on the street, trying to make yourself feel all big by leveraging some toxic assets to maintain your deposit requirements.
Oh really, I’ve already put you on hold and answered a call from a real estate agent and told her to go paddle herself manually up the sewer that her clients have dropped her in, and then now I’m back on hold with you again. How does it feel HSBC, being on hold with me? When your beleaguered call center muppet comes on the line and asks me for my name, how I about I tell him that his call is very important to me and ask him if he minds being on hold until I’ve finished what the frack I’m doing. See how you like it HSBC.
OK, it’s been 25 minutes now, which means that I am typing at the rate of approximately 40 words a minute, which is good to know. I think I’m going to hit you where it hurts, below the purse strings. I’m moving my money from your anemic interest bearing account as soon as you answer the pigging phone and tell me how to access it.
And seriously, what kind of image does a porcelain pig convey about a bank built to weather a storm? Something fragile and unable to bounce if dropped? Why not just give out mini-mattresses for us to stuff money under. Let’s face it Russian people don’t trust banks, they keep all their money in cash. In their wallet or under the mattress – it doesn’t matter. One day, simple English folk like me won’t trust banks either, and the secure mattress industry will start to boom. Mark my words, high street banks who are in fact closing down their high street branches, turning them into All Bar Ones which are now closing down as people can’t afford to go out and drink.
Screw you HSBC, I’m coming to buy one of your retail outlets, and I’m going to live in it. I’m going to pebble dash the exterior with smashed porcelain pigs, you unusually busy sub human scum. And I’m going to line the rooms with mattresses and my daughter is going to bounce up and down on all my money and you can eat toast with jam for the rest of your doomed and miserable days. That’s it. 32 minutes. I’m giving up.
I’m going to go to my nearest branch with a tractor covered in concrete and drive it through the door and ask for my money back. And no, I’m not dreaming of a white sodding christmas, I live in Texas you sheisters. Give me back my money.