First direct can stick their bribe

First Direct and Tesco Bank

A double cunting for the two fuckers that have wrecked the past week for me.

First Tesco Bank. I’ve been banking through them for the last 9 years but apparently this counts for two thirds of fuck all as they sent me a great big fuck off letter saying they’re closing all their current accounts by 1st November. They’re keeping their savings accounts going and I’ve got one of those too so if they insist on giving me the finger then guess what? You ain’t keeping my savings account you cheeky fuckers.

So now I look for a new current account. Step forward Martin Lewis who tells me that First Direct have excellent service credentials and are offering £100 as an incentive to switch to them. So I do. Then the fun starts.

First you have to download the fucking app which is an experience in itself. Then you have to set up telephone banking without which you can’t use the app. Now the security setup for the app and telephone banking are not the same. Different user names, passwords, security questions, the works. Fuck knows why. I can only assume it was written by an illiterate inconcontinet monkey because it’s so full of shit.

So I set up telephone banking and then try to initiate the app. Error code FD999T. I scan Google to find out what this is and why but nobody seems sure. So I have to ring their help line. After 45 minutes in the queue on a chargeable call listening to a repeated message telling me how busy they – we’re all fucking busy, mate – I get through to a helper. I get the standard answer. Delete the app and redownload it. Funny but after 30 years in the IT business I never thought of that dear. Oh dear. But I do it again anyway while the idiot – sorry. Helper – is still on the line. Oh look I say, error code HK1. Oh says the idiot. That’s not on my list. So they delete my profile and we start again. This time it works. Halle-fucking-luyah!

All is good. Then the app crashes. It won’t work at all. So I delete it and reload it. Guess what? It lost my digital access code that I need to be able to use the app. How do I fix this? You guessed it. Back on the telephone to the help line. 50 minutes later, another somewhat more helpful idiot who manages to salvage my setup for me.

Now I go away to set up the web based banking system. Oh for fuck sake! I have to use the app on my tablet to generate an access code to allow me to log in on my laptop. Apparently the digital key can only reside on a single device, in this case my tablet. Which fucking genius thought that was a good idea?

Then the last straw. I need a savings account in the same bank because of the way my wife and I split our money. Our dosh goes into the savings account and is paid unequally into the current account to pay the everyday bills. Simples. Only it isn’t.

First Direct let you open their products using the app. Except they don’t offer all of them and the one I want is one of them. I have to ring up to do this. But hang on, there’s a chat function on the app, so I try that. The reply? You’ll need to telephone us in order to set that up.

So having lost the will to live at this point, I decide that they can stick their bank where the sun don’t shine. I message them. “I want to close my account” “No problem. Consider it done. Have a nice day”

Interestingly they make no attempt to find out why or persuade me otherwise. The first thing they’ve managed to do effortlessly for me is close my account. I guess they want to keep their £100

Fine by me. The bribe isn’t worth the hassle so I’m off to give Barclays a try because I’m still forced to find another bank. Watch this space…

The death of a child – please help

Before I start this I need to refer you back to the post I published last December entitled ‘Cold Turkey’. the good news is that I came off Sertroline and my doctor prescribed Citalopram, a drug that has destroyed my life. But more details on the frightening effect that drug has had on me I will post later.

My mind has been well and truly fucked with to the extent that I seem to have developed the ability to talk to dead people. No laughter please as I am completely serious – and, yes, I would have scoffed at this point too. That’s why I’m writing this – to open up what I have seen to the wider internet and see if it connects with anyone out there.

Because of the specialists I’ve been seeing, I’ve been told to keep a dairy so I have notes of whatever happens to me to refer to. The first incident happened on 26th June while I was in bed. This usually happens during a form of fit / jerking of my body. On this occasion it was bad enough to wake me up. I am absolutely certain this is not a dream.

This what I wrote immediately afterwards :

“Initial image of a tree. Not far off but then I zoom in towards it like on TV. I’m close up to the tree. The tree has the initial ‘D’ carved on it. Then the image fades and I have a major fit. All limbs going everywhere. Someone is trying to get my attention. The presence is of a small child. Undefined but definitely a small boy. I think he’s D? I think he’s buried under the tree. I have no idea where the tree is. I get the number / year? 1944 but not sure what that means. Image appears of a girl. Bullying him. D is pushed and falls hitting his head against a brick wall. Skull fractured. Died. None of this makes sense but sure he’s the body under the tree. Wants me to know. Find grave. He’s very very insistent. If I try to dismiss this I am jolted physically.

In my head I get a picture of a wooded area or copse maybe. I was drawn back towards the specific tree which has the initial ‘D’ carved on it. I looked down at the ground and the earth peeled away to reveal the skeleton of a young child in the foetal position. At this point I again had the impression of the number 1944 but have do idea of the relevance of that.

He shows me the grave stripped of earth, and I see the bones. He forces my body into the same (foetal) position. I feel a pressure (hand?) on my head. He’s showing me the fracture (left side of the head). Sod this. I’m getting up”

The second visitation is quite different as it happens at 1:30pm just after I have finished my lunch so this definitely isn’t a dream. It’s the 13th July. Again this is written immediately afterward :

“The kid buried in the woods is back. He’s VERY angry but I tell him I can’t help. He forces my body into a foetal position. That’s how he is in the grave.
I keep telling him I can’t help him. Calm down. He says ‘sorry’ and I can sit up again. I close my eyes and sit quietly at the table. He sends me a picture. For someone who is unable to visualise, this is remarkably clear.
There’s a country road. A black car pulls up on the right hand side next to a hedge. Two people get out. The woman is wearing a long grey/or brown coat and a brimmed black hat. The man is wearing a dark raincoat over a blue suit. I can’t make out the faces clearly. They open the boot of the car and take out a bundle wrapped in a sack like cloth. The voice talking to me now is his own and sounds like a 3 or 4 year old. (usually talks in my voice). It’s clear to me there is a body in the sack. The man picks up a shovel from the boot and shuts it. The woman is holding the bundle like a child over her left shoulder. Together they walk towards the woods and vision fades.

Again I have the impression of the number 1944. Also have the names George and Mortimer. Not sure of the relevance. This is a troubled soul who just wants someone to find where he is buried. I understand this and that this a lost and frightened child but I can’t help him as I have no point of reference and he can’t give me a location. He keeps repeating the word ‘DARK’

Another impression of the car. Zooming in from above. Number plate is square. Silver on black. Something like a Wolsey or MG. Not cheap which fits with the peoples clothes. Suggests to me 1950s or early 60s? Car and clothes that sort of period. Zooming in on the plate. WRJ or WJR and the number 117. Definitely 117. It’s a square plate. There’s chrome bits – quite posh – either side of the light. Mark 2 Jaguar maybe. Not sure. Maybe analysing too much.”

So that’s it. I feel compelled to put this out there if only to get the kid off my back. Of course I might be imagining all this but other things have happened that make me dismiss this. I will tell all later.

Laugh at me, mock me, call me names. I don’t care.
Is there someone out there that relates to this?
Is there an open police murder case that fits with this?
Would a medium be able to rationalise this with me?

Please get in touch if you can help.

Lookalikes – Anne Boleyn

Boleyn _________________ Turner

Has anyone noticed the remarkable similarity between actress Jodie Turner-Smith and the late wife of Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn?

No? Thought not.

Perhaps they are related? Channel 5 seem to think so…

(to the tune of the 7 drunken nights)
Sing along now –

“As I awoke this morning
As woke as woke could be
I opened up the paper
And guess what I could see
History is rewritten
The way it ought to be
But a black girl cast as Anne Boleyn
I never thought I’d see”

Not sure I believe the last two lines tho’…

A Christmas rant…

Why the blank picture? Well, wouldn’t want to miss out on cashing in the royalties by watching it for free would we? In case you’re wondering, it’s a link to the potential Christmas number one. Thanks to the wonders of internet streaming and cheap uploads, it’s a little number called “Boris Johnson is a fucking cunt” which, apart from anything else, is a crap piece of music.

I despair at the state of a nation when this load of steaming horse shit can be the Christmas number one. One can only assume that it’s been downloaded by the same brainless idiots that attend anti lockdown rallies, propagate anti-vaxxing on social media, and ignore any precautions that prevent people getting infected by covid.

Now you might well think that Boris is indeed a fucking cunt – but would you want the job? A year ago we were all watching the left wing Biased BBC and the Remoaners ganging up on him over Brexit. Then the Wuhan Bat Flu came along. Incidentally, nobody is ever going to convince me that this isn’t isn’t biological warfare. You might argue that many Chinese died from covid but I’ve been to China and I can assure you that the value of human life over there means very little. What’s a few hundred thousand dead Chinese when you can cripple the Western economies to your own advantage. And before you ask, no – I’m not into conspiracy theories!

Which brings us back to Brexit. Anyone who believes that thousands of lorries backed up at Dover is anything to do with covid is deluded. It’s Macron flexing his muscles over Brexit. Ironically it’s backfired as there’s a lot of EU drivers caught up in it who are not getting home for Christmas and are not amused by the diminutive froggie git. Macron is out of control. He’s blackmailing the EU over the trade deal to get his way on fishing. He’s not bright enough to realise he isn’t getting the fish and that under no deal, French fishing waters are going to get plundered by trawlers from Germany, Holland and Belgium. I don’t fancy his chances in the next election which is looming fast. Goodbye and good riddance.

Meanwhile the official Labour Party policy is that they have no policies. Is it me, or does Starmer look like he’s shit his pants every time I see him on the idiot box. There’s just something about his expression that seems to suggest a nasty smell under his nose. I watched him on the BBC the other day being interviewed. He sat there slagging off Boris. Three times he was asked what Labour’s plan was and what they would do in the circumstances. Every time he dodged the question by reverting to Boris bashing. Clearly he has no plan.

So Boris the Grinch is cancelling Christmas and the nasty UK is propagating the new virus strain to cut down Johnny Foreigner in droves. And according to Starmer all Boris does is react. Well, as I see it when a virus is at large it doesn’t take a break for Christmas and it does send you a note to say what it will do next. Starmer says Boris constantly changes his mind and does U turns. Well under the circumstances you need to react quickly which, obviously, will involve changing your plans at a moments notice. So exactly what’s the problem? And on the subject of us being to blame for the mutation, nobody seems to be pointing out that it was first detected in the Netherlands before spreading to the UK. You certainly won’t hear that on the BBC.

It all so much easier to blame Boris, but as I said earlier would YOU want the job? No. I thought not. Leave the poor bugger alone. He’s doing his best and i doubt anyone else could have done any better.

If “Boris Johnson is a Fucking Cunt” then remember the words of Dire Straits – “when you point that finger remember that there’s four more fingers pointing back at you”

It’s going to go mental after Christmas – but at least we won’t notice Brexit amongst the chaos. And remember that the people to blame are the public for spreading it by not doing what they are told. Times are hard. Fucking suck it up and live with it…

Cold turkey

No, not the sort that you end up eating endlessly after stuffing yourself stupid at Christmas, but the type that comes when you stop taking drugs – prescription or otherwise.

You might have noticed that I’ve not posted a lot recently and there’s been a good reason for this. Basically I’ve not been up to the job for quite some time due to problems with the old grey matter. About 18 months ago, I developed memory problems. “Oh Goody” I thought, “Alzheimers” but they sent me for some tests and decided that was not the problem.

Then came the panic attacks so they sent me off for an ECG but the heart specialist said “no”. Rather conveniently I had an episode whilst in the consulting room. So that was ruled out.

After that along came the memory blackouts. I could completely tune out for several seconds just as if my entire existence had gone into hibernation. It didn’t help that I was completely unaware of the switch. I was however aware that I could see things that weren’t there and not see things that were. It seemed that my brain had a snapshot of that scene already so it didn’t bother to reprocess it.

So now we I get sent off for a EEG and a MRI scan to see if I have a brain tumour. The good news is that I haven’t, so what the fuck is wrong with me as there doesn’t seem to be a diagnosis. Only one thing for it then – refer me to the shrinks.

After extensive interviews and countless psychometric tests which prove only that I have an IQ of above 130, they still don’t have a clue so I go through 6 months of therapy with a psychiatrist. This only proves what we have all known for years. Namely that I’m a bit loopy.

Anyhow, that helps a bit and then it’s back to the consultant head doctor who diagnoses that I’m clinically depressed – nothing to do with lockdowns as this is before it all kicked off – and sticks me on her favourite happy pill : sertroline.

Now for those of you unfamiliar with particular brand of medication, it interferes with the seratonin levels in your brain thus supposedly making you happy bright and gay (in the heterosexual sense of course). All is well at first until the nightmares and hallucinations set in when I decide enough is enough. Back to the quack and we’ll try a different one – citalopram which, apparently, has fewer side effects. In theory.

In practice it just has different side effects. To be fair, all this shit is actually doing me some good and for a few months it works fine. Then the fits and the uncontrollable muscle spasms start so I think “Fuck this. I’m jacking this lot in.” And now we get to the point of this rambling narrative…

It just isn’t that easy to get off this crap. I’m advised to take it slowly as just stopping isn’t a good idea, so I go on half dose. For about four days my body isn’t really my own. My legs jump about spasmodically throughout the day and go proper mental at night. In fact at night, my entire body goes mental – a bit like an epileptic fit but without the loss of consciousness bit. After a while this dies down to the odd jerking motion in my legs so, at least for now, I’m sticking on a half dose. Next week I’ll try dropping it altogether. My guess is there’ll be another 3 or 4 days of buggeration and limb jerking then, with a bit of luck, I’ll be off the bloody things altogether.

Then I can go back to being depressed again just in time for Christmas.

My reflection on this tale of woe is that if this is the experience I’ve had then what the hell is like for people going cold turkey from shit like heroin. It’s given me a whole new insight into sort of hell they must go through.

So my advise to anyone thinking about taking mind altering drugs is simple: don’t !