Nat West

If there is one thing that is always guaranteed to piss me right off it's Nat West. On Friday, as I was lying in my bed feeling really ill, I got a call from some bimbo wanting to talk about my account. Ignoring my pleas of illness, she insisted that I do something about my account, or else she'd send the boys round, or something like that. Fucks sake. I told her that there was nothing I was going to do about it that day, and that she'd have to hold her pretty little horses, and that I'd do it on Monday. So today I trekked down to my local branch, brandishing £30 to pay into my account. The queue was enormous, but of course there were only 3 cashiers. Obviously in the rural location of London Bridge at lunchtime, they weren't expecting many people in. Some stupid moron tried to convince me to put my money in an envelope and post it into some tardis. I said no, unsurprisingly, and told her that I wouldn't post my cash anywhere, least of all a bank with one of the worst records of accountability and effectiveness, which she didn't take too kindly. After what seemed like five years, especially with some fat, smelly man behind me breathing like Darth Vadar, I finally got to the cashier. Only to be told that my account was dormant and I wasn't able to pay anything in.

I despair. I fucking hate NatWest. I wish I'd never gone £1500 overdrawn with them, the bastards.