Hit the Road Jack

Dear Mum,

I felt very smug yesterday, watching TV from the comfort of my home. I’m inclined to think toward the end of the river pageant the Queen herself was thinking that an inside viewing with a lap blanket and a hot toddy would have been preferable.

The Duke of Edinburgh, on the other hand, looked like he was having a jolly good time and it was lovely to see the Queen light up when the warhorse bucked on top of the National Theatre.

It was clearly a well organised affair and with the highest security, especially with the top seven members of the Royal Family amassed and shivering on their royal barge.

I’m confident there is a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service whom the Royal Family can always depend upon.

Someone who respects Her Majesty immensely, who will do anything to protect Her Majesty, whether wrestling a gobby protester bursting in on a royal meeting to the floor or holding an umbrella over her bouffant in drizzly rain.

Someone ruthless, streetwise and not distracted by the rears of any Duchesses or, more probably, Duchesses’ sisters.

Someone like Jack Bauer.

There are occasions where I wish I was Jack Bauer. Situations in which sense and logic are non-existent, where being polite and patient achieves bugger all.

When setting up a savings account, for instance.

I applied online for a high interest saving account and, almost a month after applying, received a letter requesting proof of identity.

Their list of acceptable ID documents included the usual examples – passports, driving licences, utility and credit card bills. This same letter pointed out “We would recommend, for security reasons, that you do not send original documents.”

Sensibly, therefore, I photocopied my passport and a credit card statement.

A week later, I receive a letter in which the photocopies were returned because “Photocopy document was not acceptable”, the same letter shortly after repeating “do not send original documents.”

What do they suggest? A photograph of these documents? A hologram? A video of me on my hand and knees, holding up my passport as I beg “Pleaaseee let me bank with you!!!”

The letter I received does not include ANY telephone number or contact email address, making the writers of this letter elusive and slightly suspicious.

It is occasions like this, when writing a letter which effectively gives a literary middle finger, does not make one feel better. And when “Dear Arsewipes” is probably not going to get the banking bozos on my side when they first open my letter.

These are the situations in which I wish I was an employee of CTU, the Counter Terrorist Unit and former employing body of Agent Jack Bauer.

My first move would be to hack into the bank’s system and tick the “Applicant has sent proof of ID” icon.

“I can’t get into their system. There firewall is like nothing I’ve seen before,” the slightly geeky but highly competent data analyst would say.

“Can’t you try getting around it?” I’d breathlessly insist.

“They’ve got security measures in place. Our system might be jeopardised if I hack into their trunkline.”

“Then get me an address.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking.”

“I need it NOW, Chloe!”

“I’m going as fast as I can.” (There is a long pause while Chloe trawls through data, satellite images flashing across her screen).

“Dammit, Chloe!”

“Okay, I’ve got it.”

With Chloe on comm., I’d climb into my white Toyota Yaris (this might be a fantasy but I can be a bit of a nervous driver so best stick to a car I’m familiar with) and put my foot down to the bank’s head office, wheels skidding around sharp corners, driving through red lights, never being stopped or running out of petrol.

I’d park up (in my fantasy I’m very good are parallel parking) and knock out the first security guard.

I’d bark “WHERE ARE THE ONLINE SAVINGS TEAM?” to the second, who’d nervously reply “Third floor.”

I’d run upstairs and burst through the third floor door. Ten heads would turn towards me, cries and hands to mouths as they glimpse my anger, panting heavily, sweating profusely. Someone not to be messed with.

“Bring up your applicant records.” I’d say to the nearest individual and I’d tell them to enter in my name.

My record pops up on their screen.

“Tick the ID box.”

“I can’t” the employee would say, “I need to see your passport.”

“I don’t have time for that. You’ve wasted enough of my time. If I’m going to start making some interest on my savings, you’re going to have to tick that box dammit.”

“But my boss... he’ll kill me.”

I need leverage. I pull a picture of Her Majesty from the wall.

“Tick the box or I’ll smash this.”

“...You wouldn’t...”

“Just try me.”

“But, it’s her Jubilee. Surely even you wouldn’t go that far.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to. But I’ve been put through enough thanks to your organisation. If you tick the box I promise I won’t do anything. I’ll leave the picture safely on the wall and we can forget about this whole affair.”

There is a pause as we stare at one another. I don’t blink. 


They slowly move their mouse, the cursor circling the screen. They tick the box.

I carefully place the picture of Her Majesty on their desk and back out of the room.

“You weren’t really going to smash that picture, were you?” I hear through my earpiece.

“Of course not. But thankfully my bluff worked. Put the kettle on, Chloe, I’m parched.”