A couple of weeks ago there was a phone call for Mr WithaY from his bank. That in itself was enough to worry me, as generally the relationship we have with the bank is low-key and unfussy. We don't bother them, they don't bother us. They store our money in carefully-labelled mouseproof shoeboxes out the back somewhere, and give it to us when we ask for it.
So far, so good.
The lady from the bank was polite but insistent. She really REALLY needed to speak to Mr WithaY. Yes, it was important. No, she couldn't tell me what the call was about. When he came home that evening, I passed on the message, and the following morning he called them back.
It was not good news. Apparently the bank had noticed a pattern of "unusual spending" on the account, had declined a transaction, and decided to contact Mr WithaY.
The transaction they had declined was an attempt to borrow money from one of those payday loan companies. The ones who charge thousands of percent APR, that are always advertising on TV, trying to persuade us to borrow money for short-term emergencies. Or holidays. Or a new car. Or anything we want, really...after all, why do they care? As long as we pay it back, it's all cool.
In the interests of research, I just went to one of their websites and checked out how much it would cost to borrow £250 for 30 days. The additional interest and fees come to just over £80. The APR is 4214%. Over FOUR THOUSAND PERCENT. Obviously, they intend it to be a very short term solution, but bloody hellfire. Four thousand percent.
But I digress. Mr WithaY spent a depressing time on the phone to the bank, going through his recent expenditure, and it was established that yes, his identity had indeed been stolen, and some filthy thieving fucker* had taken about £1000 from his account.
I have to say that the bank were extremely helpful. Once they had established what was legitimate Mr WithaY spend and what was thievery, they said that all the stolen money would be refunded, and they would contact the police to report the theft.
We had a nice cup of tea and discussed the event, with a lot of tutting about the parlous state of morals in this country, and the bloody invidious TV adverts that encourage people to live on ever-increasing debts to support some media-fuelled aspirational lifestyle. Gah.
Some time passed.
Last week, while Mr WithaY was away at twig camp, several letters arrived for him. We don't tend to open one another's mail, in general, so I piled his letters up on the hall table and thought no more of it. Then, on Friday, a postcard arrived. It looked like one of those "Sorry you were out when we called" cards that the postman leaves when he tries to deliver your new Terry Pratchett book while you're in the shower.
Those.
I read it. It said that due to their inability to contact him, a "representative" would be coming to see Mr WithaY on a certain date, and could he please telephone to confirm that he would be at home for the appointment. There was a phone number, and the name of a company I had never heard of.
I did what any diligent** wife would do, and Googled the company name. Guess what? It was a payday loan company.
So, yesterday, once all the bushcraft kit was unpacked, and the smell of woodsmoke had dissipated a little, Mr WithaY rang the number on the card. It seems that whoever stole his identity had successfully borrowed money from this company, and, not surprisingly, they wanted it back, as per contract terms and conditions.
Once again, the lady he spoke to was incredibly sympathetic and helpful. Whoever had stolen the money had used a real name (Mr WithaY's) and a real address (ours) but had given fake references. Well you would, wouldn't you?
Once the payday loan company checked the references, after the money had been lent, they discovered that the roofing company the thief claimed to work for didn't exist. Well DUH.
Seems more sensible to check references and then hand over the cash, but hey, I'm sure they know what they're doing***.
Anyway, the payday loan company said that they would talk to the bank, and asked Mr WithaY to let them have the crime reporting number so that they too could report their losses to the police, or the insurance, or the ombudsman, or whoever is responsible for making sure nobody loses out.
So now we have to wait and see if we get any more slightly intimidating postcards alerting us to the fact that a "representative" of a loan company is going to come and see us. Oh, and whether our credit rating has been fucked up big-time**** by this tiresome drama.
And how did this all come about, you may ask? Did we stupidly put documents in the bin that someone later picked out and used? Did we use a public computer for fiscal transactions and left ourselves logged in? Did we lose our bank card, and also our PIN which was on a scrap pf paper next to it?
No.
We are both incredibly careful about all that stuff, and burn anything with our details on it once it's finished with.
Mr WithaY recently used a reputable and supposedly safe online shop, with all the correct https protocols in place. A little while after he had used the shop, they emailed him to tell him that their secure (ha!) server had been hacked, and that therefore his bank details may have been compromised.
So. Be very careful, dear readers. It could happen to you. And if it does, you could end up with Knuckles and No-Ears Eddie paying a visit to take your TV away if you fail to pay the 4214%.
*Technical law-enforcement terminology
*Nosy
**No I don't. I think they're irresponsible and stupid.
****Technical banking terminology
Showing posts with label crime does pay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crime does pay. Show all posts
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
Friday, 25 March 2011
Kebab
As news stories go, this one is pretty splendid:
Frozen 18kg kebab stolen from Trowbridge takeaway
Astonishingly, it's not from our local paper, either...it's from the BBC website. Honest. Take a look.
The description of the kebab made me snort tea out of my nose. No charge for that image, blog fans.
"How big was the kebab, sir? We need a description for the Wanted posters."
"Hmm...pretty big, officer. Yeah, pretty big, I'd say."
"Pretty big? Can you be more specific at all, sir?"
"It was massive. And made of meat."
"Massive...meat... Ok, sir, got that. Anything else? Any distinguishing features?"
"Let me think...it was sort of meat-coloured I suppose. And massive. Did I already say that?"
"Yes, you did, sir."
"Oooh! It had a metal skewer through it. A massive one. Metal coloured."
"Excellent, thank you sir. We'll get that description out immediately. If you receive a ransom demand, please let us know."
I also love the idea that people might be offered "kebab meat in suspicious circumstances." You mean, other than at 2am from a food-vending caravan staffed by a sweaty man who has giant vats of chilli sauce close at hand?
Frozen 18kg kebab stolen from Trowbridge takeaway
Astonishingly, it's not from our local paper, either...it's from the BBC website. Honest. Take a look.
The description of the kebab made me snort tea out of my nose. No charge for that image, blog fans.
"How big was the kebab, sir? We need a description for the Wanted posters."
"Hmm...pretty big, officer. Yeah, pretty big, I'd say."
"Pretty big? Can you be more specific at all, sir?"
"It was massive. And made of meat."
"Massive...meat... Ok, sir, got that. Anything else? Any distinguishing features?"
"Let me think...it was sort of meat-coloured I suppose. And massive. Did I already say that?"
"Yes, you did, sir."
"Oooh! It had a metal skewer through it. A massive one. Metal coloured."
"Excellent, thank you sir. We'll get that description out immediately. If you receive a ransom demand, please let us know."
I also love the idea that people might be offered "kebab meat in suspicious circumstances." You mean, other than at 2am from a food-vending caravan staffed by a sweaty man who has giant vats of chilli sauce close at hand?
Friday, 11 March 2011
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Newspaper review
The local paper has been most informative of late.
Outcry Over Regalia Cost is a story all about the mayor having a new chain of office, and people getting grumpy because it will be expensive. Over £1,200 to be exact. That's a lot of chain. But there's more to it than that... The mayor has asked for a new chain because the old one is too heavy. She wants "a lighter chain attached to a collar," a request which has provoked "fury" from some of her colleagues. One of them was quoted as saying "People in the town have heard what has happened...and are furious. The Westbury online forums are full of comments."
Excellent.
That should stop those pesky chain-buyers...a bunch of ranting Westbury dwellers on a variety of forums (fora? forii?) arguing the toss in cyberspace. Yeah.
The thing that has particularly caught my attention, other than the idea that a good pet shop could probably provide a nice light collar and chain for about £12, is the fact that there is more than one forum for the people of Westbury to vent their fury on. Who'd have though it?
Historic Monocle Unearthed makes you think there's an Indiana Jones-stylee story coming, maybe involving the undead guardians of some forgotten tomb, or a bunch of fanatical ninja priest warriors, all sneaking round West Wiltshire in pursuit of the Monocle of Doom. But no. It's a bit of photography kit used by William Fox Talbot, "found" at Lacock Abbey, where he lived and worked. So not so much "unearthed" as "moved a few things and there it was, right where he left it. " How disappointing.
Post Office To Fish Shop Plan is a collection of words which, when put together, make no sense whatsoever. When you read the supporting paragraph, all becomes clearer. It's a planning application. Dull.
Other headlines to spark mental images:
Pavement to be widened
Thief Disturbed
Bingo Fun
Census Plea
Accordian Night
Spinning Fun
Historians Meet
This week, though, the prize for "non news item" goes to this, which I make no apology for repeating in full:
Parked car block. A poorly-parked Honda 4x4 blocked Kingsfield in Bradford-on-Avon from 10am for several hours on Friday before being towed away by police.
Fantastic.
Wiltshire. Where no news really is good news.
Other news: We had a call from the police this afternoon. The thieving bastards who robbed the garage at the weekend have pleaded guilty to the charges and are due to be sentenced in the Crown Court soon. Excellent. The police rang to thank us and to say that "your call was extremely valid" which was nice of them. Also the lovely people at the garage have given us some wine as a thank you for being helpful and community-spirited.
I think we should get capes and masks.
And utility belts.
Outcry Over Regalia Cost is a story all about the mayor having a new chain of office, and people getting grumpy because it will be expensive. Over £1,200 to be exact. That's a lot of chain. But there's more to it than that... The mayor has asked for a new chain because the old one is too heavy. She wants "a lighter chain attached to a collar," a request which has provoked "fury" from some of her colleagues. One of them was quoted as saying "People in the town have heard what has happened...and are furious. The Westbury online forums are full of comments."
Excellent.
That should stop those pesky chain-buyers...a bunch of ranting Westbury dwellers on a variety of forums (fora? forii?) arguing the toss in cyberspace. Yeah.
The thing that has particularly caught my attention, other than the idea that a good pet shop could probably provide a nice light collar and chain for about £12, is the fact that there is more than one forum for the people of Westbury to vent their fury on. Who'd have though it?
Historic Monocle Unearthed makes you think there's an Indiana Jones-stylee story coming, maybe involving the undead guardians of some forgotten tomb, or a bunch of fanatical ninja priest warriors, all sneaking round West Wiltshire in pursuit of the Monocle of Doom. But no. It's a bit of photography kit used by William Fox Talbot, "found" at Lacock Abbey, where he lived and worked. So not so much "unearthed" as "moved a few things and there it was, right where he left it. " How disappointing.
Post Office To Fish Shop Plan is a collection of words which, when put together, make no sense whatsoever. When you read the supporting paragraph, all becomes clearer. It's a planning application. Dull.
Other headlines to spark mental images:
Pavement to be widened
Thief Disturbed
Bingo Fun
Census Plea
Accordian Night
Spinning Fun
Historians Meet
This week, though, the prize for "non news item" goes to this, which I make no apology for repeating in full:
Parked car block. A poorly-parked Honda 4x4 blocked Kingsfield in Bradford-on-Avon from 10am for several hours on Friday before being towed away by police.
Fantastic.
Wiltshire. Where no news really is good news.
Other news: We had a call from the police this afternoon. The thieving bastards who robbed the garage at the weekend have pleaded guilty to the charges and are due to be sentenced in the Crown Court soon. Excellent. The police rang to thank us and to say that "your call was extremely valid" which was nice of them. Also the lovely people at the garage have given us some wine as a thank you for being helpful and community-spirited.
I think we should get capes and masks.
And utility belts.
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Police Camera Action
Well, what a night we've just had.
It all started rather well with a few friends over for dinner. Mr WithaY made us all cocktails ...or aperitifs...I'm not certain what they actually were, other than hugely alcoholic. It was a mixture of some odd French strawberry liqueur liberated from Father in law WithaY's house, 16 percent proof I think, mixed with Bison grass vodka. And ice.
Gah.
By the time the food was ready, the hilarity meter was registering HIGH. We ate, we drank some more, we laughed a lot, and by the time our guests left we were stuffed, exhausted, pissed and ready for bed. Mr WithaY announced that he was going to sleep the sleep of the dead.
No. No he wasn't.
At about half past 3, maybe quarter to four, we were woken by a dull rhythmic thumping sound.
Not a loud car stereo heading past the house.
Not a very, very fat person walking home.
Not a dinosaur on a rampage* through West Wiltshire.
No.
It was two thieving scroats, smashing their way through the front door of the petrol station with a sledgehammer.
Well, what would you have done?
My first instinct was to get tooled up with shooters and go out to Stop Them In Their Tracks, in the manner of some vengeful American cop out for Justice.
However, what with me not being a cop, American or otherwise, I decided that was a bit of a crap idea, so Mr WithaY went to call the police instead. He was able to give the police a running commentary on what was happening, looking out of the bedroom window, watching a crime in progress.
The vile little toads were in through the smashed door incredibly quickly.
They used, as well as the sledgehammer, a large concrete block which was sat outside a neighbour's garage, usually deployed as a hefty doorstop. We watched them pulling the broken glass out of the doorframe, then scramble through the door into the garage, smash open the locked cabinet full of cigarettes, and pretty much strip it bare. All this took about 4 minutes.
They ran out of the garage to a car parked in the dark by the recycling bins, and hared off along the main road towards town with no lights on.
Thrilling.
Mr WithaY and I continued to peek out of the window as the garage owners arrived, then the police. Mr WithaY got dressed and went out to tell them what we'd seen. He was gone for over an hour. Apparently they were making cups of tea and everything.
While he was over there, drinking tea and discussing the state of the nation with the police, reports came through on the radio that the robbers had been apprehended. Apparently the police had spotted them (no lights, speeding, probably driving like thieves in a getaway vehicle), given chase through several local villages, and finally collared them.
When searched, the sledgehammer, a huge sack of fags and a change of clothes for both perps were found in the car. Bang to rights, I'd say.
Turns out, our garage was the fourth one to be robbed that night. I can only assume that the crime statistics for West Wiltshire will be looking a little better after this. Assuming that the thieves in question aren't simply slapped on the wrist and released back into the loving arms of the local community, of course.
Mr WithaY enjoyed watching the robbery on the garage's CCTV recordings while he had his 5am tea.
Other news: There is, apparently, a "West Country Burlesque Artist" coming to perform in Frome. We may have to get tickets, it sounds too weird to miss.
I hope her costumes involve baler twine and feed sacks.
*It will happen one day, mark my words.
It all started rather well with a few friends over for dinner. Mr WithaY made us all cocktails ...or aperitifs...I'm not certain what they actually were, other than hugely alcoholic. It was a mixture of some odd French strawberry liqueur liberated from Father in law WithaY's house, 16 percent proof I think, mixed with Bison grass vodka. And ice.
Gah.
By the time the food was ready, the hilarity meter was registering HIGH. We ate, we drank some more, we laughed a lot, and by the time our guests left we were stuffed, exhausted, pissed and ready for bed. Mr WithaY announced that he was going to sleep the sleep of the dead.
No. No he wasn't.
At about half past 3, maybe quarter to four, we were woken by a dull rhythmic thumping sound.
Not a loud car stereo heading past the house.
Not a very, very fat person walking home.
Not a dinosaur on a rampage* through West Wiltshire.
No.
It was two thieving scroats, smashing their way through the front door of the petrol station with a sledgehammer.
Well, what would you have done?
My first instinct was to get tooled up with shooters and go out to Stop Them In Their Tracks, in the manner of some vengeful American cop out for Justice.
However, what with me not being a cop, American or otherwise, I decided that was a bit of a crap idea, so Mr WithaY went to call the police instead. He was able to give the police a running commentary on what was happening, looking out of the bedroom window, watching a crime in progress.
The vile little toads were in through the smashed door incredibly quickly.
They used, as well as the sledgehammer, a large concrete block which was sat outside a neighbour's garage, usually deployed as a hefty doorstop. We watched them pulling the broken glass out of the doorframe, then scramble through the door into the garage, smash open the locked cabinet full of cigarettes, and pretty much strip it bare. All this took about 4 minutes.
They ran out of the garage to a car parked in the dark by the recycling bins, and hared off along the main road towards town with no lights on.
Thrilling.
Mr WithaY and I continued to peek out of the window as the garage owners arrived, then the police. Mr WithaY got dressed and went out to tell them what we'd seen. He was gone for over an hour. Apparently they were making cups of tea and everything.
While he was over there, drinking tea and discussing the state of the nation with the police, reports came through on the radio that the robbers had been apprehended. Apparently the police had spotted them (no lights, speeding, probably driving like thieves in a getaway vehicle), given chase through several local villages, and finally collared them.
When searched, the sledgehammer, a huge sack of fags and a change of clothes for both perps were found in the car. Bang to rights, I'd say.
Turns out, our garage was the fourth one to be robbed that night. I can only assume that the crime statistics for West Wiltshire will be looking a little better after this. Assuming that the thieves in question aren't simply slapped on the wrist and released back into the loving arms of the local community, of course.
Mr WithaY enjoyed watching the robbery on the garage's CCTV recordings while he had his 5am tea.
Other news: There is, apparently, a "West Country Burlesque Artist" coming to perform in Frome. We may have to get tickets, it sounds too weird to miss.
I hope her costumes involve baler twine and feed sacks.
*It will happen one day, mark my words.
Saturday, 21 August 2010
Smash and grab
Saturday already, eh? How the days fly by when you are at work, rather than sitting at home whining about having a (probably) fractured ankle, unable to drive anywhere.
The new job is going alright so far, but it's early days, of course. Plenty of time for monumental fuck-ups and general chaos. It's still a bit of a shock to the system doing the commute. I'd forgotten how exhausting it is, and how little time and energy I have for anything else. On the days when I am in London I am up before 6am, and don't get home much before 8pm, so once the mechanics of showering, eating and sleeping are out of the way, there's not much space for anything else.
I've been trying to wean myself off the Conan books this week, and have reverted to trashy science fiction short stories, downloaded onto my iPhone from Stanza for free. Some of them are excellent, some are less great, and some are just plain weird.
I was taken with the one called "After London" by Richard Jefferies. Who, it turns out, was from Wiltshire! Who knew?
It's set in the future, but as it was written in 1885, it is actually probably set in the past*, and depicts Britain as a fallen power, rural and wild, run by feudal barons who obey the law only as it suits them. It tails off a bit at the end, just at the point where I thought "Aha, now the story really gets going," but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
I think one of the things I love about old science fiction is that I understand most of the science. It's all about valves and electrodes and copper wire, which I can just about get my head round. And in this case, longbows and canoes. Nice and simple.
While we were on holiday, I read "The Book of Dave" by Will Self. I like Will Self's stuff, although he can be a bit tiresome and pretentious, and once I got over my initial "Gah, this is hard to read!" reaction, I liked the book very much. Mr WithaY was less charitable, and although he finished the book as well, decided it was a bit too weird for his tastes.
I also read Bill Bryson's "At Home" which was excellent, I thought. It was less folksy and twee than some of his other stuff I've read, and as a lot of the historical facts he talked about were relevant to the part of the US where we were staying, it felt immediate and interesting.
Other news: Guitar lessons have begun again, and I am trying to get over my "I'll never be a lead guitarist" phobia. I'll let you know how that goes. This week I am mostly murdering Tom Petty and Thin Lizzy.
Also, filthy thieving bastards, probably from Bristol, they're like that up there, robbed the garage in the village. Again. Two grand's worth of cigarettes were stolen this time, and the shop door has been covered in hardboard till the glass gets fixed. It's like living in inner-city Chicago**.
*Keep up. Think of Back to the Future if you're confused. Or not.
**No, it really isn't.
The new job is going alright so far, but it's early days, of course. Plenty of time for monumental fuck-ups and general chaos. It's still a bit of a shock to the system doing the commute. I'd forgotten how exhausting it is, and how little time and energy I have for anything else. On the days when I am in London I am up before 6am, and don't get home much before 8pm, so once the mechanics of showering, eating and sleeping are out of the way, there's not much space for anything else.
I've been trying to wean myself off the Conan books this week, and have reverted to trashy science fiction short stories, downloaded onto my iPhone from Stanza for free. Some of them are excellent, some are less great, and some are just plain weird.
I was taken with the one called "After London" by Richard Jefferies. Who, it turns out, was from Wiltshire! Who knew?
It's set in the future, but as it was written in 1885, it is actually probably set in the past*, and depicts Britain as a fallen power, rural and wild, run by feudal barons who obey the law only as it suits them. It tails off a bit at the end, just at the point where I thought "Aha, now the story really gets going," but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
I think one of the things I love about old science fiction is that I understand most of the science. It's all about valves and electrodes and copper wire, which I can just about get my head round. And in this case, longbows and canoes. Nice and simple.
While we were on holiday, I read "The Book of Dave" by Will Self. I like Will Self's stuff, although he can be a bit tiresome and pretentious, and once I got over my initial "Gah, this is hard to read!" reaction, I liked the book very much. Mr WithaY was less charitable, and although he finished the book as well, decided it was a bit too weird for his tastes.
I also read Bill Bryson's "At Home" which was excellent, I thought. It was less folksy and twee than some of his other stuff I've read, and as a lot of the historical facts he talked about were relevant to the part of the US where we were staying, it felt immediate and interesting.
Other news: Guitar lessons have begun again, and I am trying to get over my "I'll never be a lead guitarist" phobia. I'll let you know how that goes. This week I am mostly murdering Tom Petty and Thin Lizzy.
Also, filthy thieving bastards, probably from Bristol, they're like that up there, robbed the garage in the village. Again. Two grand's worth of cigarettes were stolen this time, and the shop door has been covered in hardboard till the glass gets fixed. It's like living in inner-city Chicago**.
*Keep up. Think of Back to the Future if you're confused. Or not.
**No, it really isn't.
Tuesday, 8 January 2008
Plans
I have a new life plan.
I intend to discover a very elderly, obscenely wealthy, previously-unknown relative and ingratiate myself with them as soon as possible. There's no other way I can give up work before it kills me.
I don't play the lottery very often and have never even won a tenner, so that's obviously no use.
Grand though it has been, my freakish raffle-winning ability is not sufficient to support my jetset* lifestyle. There's only so long you can live on Christmas cake and cheap wine, after all.
It has been frankly mental this week, and it's only Tuesday. Gah.
My new staff arrived and have made themselves busy stealing furniture from other bits of the office and trying to get phones that work, which is great. I feel like Fagin from Oliver Twist.
I'm going to be dashing about a fair bit over the next few weeks, as well. Am in Bristol tomorrow and London two days next week, so lots of lovely train travel to look forward to. GAH.
On the bright side, we had the garden hedges cut yesterday so the place looks much smarter. Soon be Spring.
*I have been on a jet. That counts, right?
I intend to discover a very elderly, obscenely wealthy, previously-unknown relative and ingratiate myself with them as soon as possible. There's no other way I can give up work before it kills me.
I don't play the lottery very often and have never even won a tenner, so that's obviously no use.
Grand though it has been, my freakish raffle-winning ability is not sufficient to support my jetset* lifestyle. There's only so long you can live on Christmas cake and cheap wine, after all.
It has been frankly mental this week, and it's only Tuesday. Gah.
My new staff arrived and have made themselves busy stealing furniture from other bits of the office and trying to get phones that work, which is great. I feel like Fagin from Oliver Twist.
I'm going to be dashing about a fair bit over the next few weeks, as well. Am in Bristol tomorrow and London two days next week, so lots of lovely train travel to look forward to. GAH.
On the bright side, we had the garden hedges cut yesterday so the place looks much smarter. Soon be Spring.
*I have been on a jet. That counts, right?
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