12 years ago my father died and when all the dust of the funeral, the probate and the repatriating of his money from Spain had taken place we had a small amount of money to invest, £10,000 to be precise, £10k that we wanted to stash away for at least five years, probably more like ten, so that our daughters may have a tidy sum awaiting for them for college fees, house deposit, spending on one glorious booze and cocaine riddled night out, whatever.
We asked NatWest Bank for advice.
NatWest had always been our bankers, our private and business accounts were with them, our office was right behind our local branch, I could look out of my office window and wave at my business bank manager, and often did to while away a boring afternoon, we trusted NatWest Bank and they in turn thought the sun shone out of my arse, they couldn’t do enough for us.
Of course I now know that they were all along a set of conniving fookwit chancers who had even less of a clue about investing money than I did, and thats saying something, but they sent along Andy, our investment advisor, the one who came along once a year to advise us on our pension schemes, you know, those pension schemes that twelve years later now seem to be worth a few pence short of fook-all and will give us a monthly stipend sufficient so as not to want for a coin to put in those coin-locked trolley at the supermarket, why our wonderful pensions will enable us to replace that coin monthly if we so desired to be so prolific with our spending – but that as far as our pensions will stretch.
So the very smooth Andy came along with his new suit and briefcase and he smiled and shook hands and we explained how much money we had to “invest” with NatWest and he licked his lips, smiled some more and got some forms out of the briefcase and just five minutes later we were the proud owners of two ISA’s and ten grand deficient in our bank account.
Andy showed us the evidence on paper of how, with the benefit of a time machine if we had been able to go back in time just five years earlier and invest that same ten grand in those same ISA’s then that ten grand would now be worth thirty grand, three times as much it would be worth he told us, although of course the value of investments can go down as well as up he mentioned, and then he laughed as if the very thought of ISA’s going down was outrageous, “Why” I said, “even double the amount would be great” and Andy assured me that double would be the very least we could expect.
Andy didn’t make an appointment to come and see us the next year which was unusual because Andy came to see us every year, but Andy didn’t come to see us the next year because he daren’t come to see us anymore, not after I’d told him what I thought of his fookwit hare-brained fooking cowshit ISA’s on the phone one day – the same ISA’s that were going to treble in five years but that had somehow managed to instead half in value in just twelve months.
Andy never came back to see us anymore and it took our ISA’s another four years to get back to where they had been when we’d first put the money in, when we finally cashed them in after five years we made exactly £100 profit on the deal – NatWest Bank had invested £10,000 of our money for five years and returned £100 interest, one percent over five years, even my basic knowledge of maths can see that Nat West were investing other peoples money by guesswork and witchcraft and keeping their fingers crossed a lot – someone cocked up big time with my money – me for starters in trusting the bank of no-brain useless tossers with our money.
Still, I had the last laugh in the end but it will be several more years before I even dare to mention how it happened – even given their staggering ineptitude I don’t want them to discover their almighty cock-up just yet…