The perils of using my bank’s credit card

Lovely Apple MacBook. Shame about my bank’s credit card

My bank is usually – I say ‘usually’ – very efficient and has an online site that is very useful and user friendly.

I have not just my current account with them but my credit card account. 

I have removed the name of my bank from what follows because – hey! – you can never be too careful, never too paranoid, online.

Yes…

So

So I bought a new MacBook computer back in January, using my bank’s credit card. Obviously, being Apple, it cost over £1,000.

It arrives tomorrow and, in the early hours of yesterday morning, Apple not unreasonably tried to get their payment from my credit card account.

So I got woken up at 02.21am by a text message from my bank saying they were about to send me a text message.

I then received a second text message from an unknown mobile phone number, not from my bank.

It said (I have removed specifics):

XXX Bank has noticed your XXX Bank Credit card ending XXXX was used on 01-02-2021 02.20.50, at apple.com/UK for £1249.00. This payment was declined. If this was you reply YES, otherwise reply NO. There is no need to call us. Responding to this text is the quickest way to update your account.

Now what is the correct answer to this message from an unknown mobile phone number?

Logically, I think the answer should be NO because, no, it was not me who declined the payment. But I presumed the answer they were wanting was YES because I had used the card, though not on the date and time they quoted – it was several weeks previously.

There was also no reason given why the payment was declined.

But it mentioned the correct account.

I did hesitate about clicking YES on the basis I was answering a text from a totally unknown mobile phone and, by clicking YES, I could well be triggering some premium rate phone call to some obscure country and would be charged insane amounts.

But it was 02.51am in the morning and, rather than not get the computer, I clicked YES assuming the problem was that my bank’s computer was triggered by the unusual £1,249 credit card payment.

I then got another text message from the unknown mobile phone number saying:

Thanks for confirming this was you. If you still need to make this payment, please wait 10 minutes and try again. There is no need to call us.

So I was now being told by the unknown mobile phone number that, despite or because of clicking YES,  the purchase had been cancelled and I would have to make the £1,249.00 payment again.

I looked up my bank’s normally useful website and eventually found the number to phone for Help on my credit card. 

I phoned it and – obviously I first had to go through two or it might have been three automatic machines giving me choices of where to go – I reached the Helpline which had an answering message saying it was closed until 0700.

I got back to sleep around 0300 and, when I woke up properly around 0900, I checked my credit card account online to discover the £1,249.00 had been un-declined and was quite correctly pending. So all that crap about If you still need to make this payment, please wait 10 minutes and try again was bollocks.

My reaction… (Photo by Brian Lundquist via UnSplash)

I phoned my bank’s alleged Helpline and was told if I still needed to make the payment I should make it again – in other words buy the computer again – despite the fact the money had now been accepted as legit. Much other bullshit swirled around, too tedious for even me to repeat.

I mentioned all the above to a friend who told me much the same thing had happened to her. She was with the same bank. On that occasion, she simply cancelled her purchase, re-bought it again with another bank’s credit card and had no problem.

She is no longer with my bank.

My MacBook arrives tomorrow.

I hope.

No thanks to my bank.

If I may be allowed to say one small thing…

Aaaaarrrggghhhh!!!! FFS!

(Image by Bruno/Germany via Pixabay)

Becky Fury on scam romance, a possible murder attempt and Moroccan police

JOHN: You told me you had recently come back from Morocco after an anti-holiday. What’s that?

BECKY: It’s based on an urban myth. There was a taxi driver from Notting Hill who was unhappy with his life driving a taxi, so he went on an anti-holiday. He went to Doncaster to work in a pig factory, wanking-off pigs for two weeks. And, when he came back, he absolutely loved working as a taxi driver. That’s the concept.

JOHN: You went to Morocco to wank-off pigs?

BECKY: No. I went on holiday with my friend…

JOHN: Female?

BECKY: Yes. I went to eat some nice Moroccan street food and pet some cats, because there are a lot of cats in Rabat. 

Becky Fury found cats backpacking in Rabat

JOHN: Is that a song? A Lot of Cats of Rabat?

BECKY: No, but the street cats of Rabat are plentiful because they killed all the dogs off.

JOHN: The cats did?

BECKY: No, the locals. They had a cull because they were trying to posh the place up; they couldn’t have crapping, rabid dogs running around the streets. And, now they’ve killed the dogs, it’s full of cats. Even if you go into a cafe, you have to clear the cats off your seats.

JOHN: So you had a stroke in Rabat.

BECKY: Several. But about a year ago I went to meet my friend’s new boyfriend. She wanted me to tell her he was absolutely amazing and that he was not involved in a romance scam. He was a Moroccan man she met on the internet and I thought: She’s attractive; she’s young; she’s got loads of money; surely this can’t be a romance scam? But that’s exactly what it was. Though I suppose all those things are a traditional element of real relationships anyway.

JOHN: Not in Doncaster…

BECKY: I’m sure they are in Doncaster…

JOHN: Anyway… About a year ago, you went out to Rabat with her and met her boyfriend.

BECKY: Yes. The guy was nice enough, but I spotted from the beginning that this wasn’t a traditional romance. What she’d got me there for was to tell her that, actually, it was great. But I was observing that maybe the relationship wasn’t quite as she had explained it to me.

When you’re closely involved with another person in a relationship, often it’s just that external eye that begins to show up the cracks and imperfections in the relationship.

JOHN: So you were dubious and told her…

BECKY: But she was obviously in love and didn’t want to hear that. So we went surfing.

JOHN: Because?

BECKY: He was a ‘surfing instructor’. I’m not that strong a swimmer and I had never surfed before in my life. I was on the surfboard and he said: “We’re just gonna go for a little ride,” so he jumped on the back and then suddenly I was in a riptide, which is a tide surfers use to pull themselves out to sea so they know where they are…

So I was in this riptide I had been told to avoid by my friend and I was being dragged out to sea and now the ‘surf instructor’ was nowhere to be seen.

So I had to manage to get myself out of the riptide and paddle back…

Basically, I managed to save my own life, got back to the beach and then my friend had a go at me. She said I had put her boyfriend in danger by going into the riptide.

About two days later, I woke up and realised it wasn’t me that had put myself into the riptide: it was the surf instructor who had been on the back of he surfboard. He had put me into the riptide…

Now, I don’t know if that was just to ‘teach me a lesson’ for my meddling or just to try and get rid of me cos I was interfering with his nefarious scheme… I have no idea.

Anyway, I spoke to my friend about it when we got back to Britain but she – obviously in love with him – didn’t want to hear it at all. So I didn’t hear from her for about six months after that: not after telling her that her boyfriend had maybe tried to murder me.

In those six months, she went back to Morocco three or four times, married him and he stole her money.

JOHN: How did he manage that?

BECKY: He was very charming and she was in love with him. She put it into his bank account so he could get a visa to leave the country and come with her on her globe-trotting adventures.

The only reason she married him was she wanted him to come surfing with her in Portugal and that was the only way she could get him out of Morocco.

JOHN: He could have surfed out…?

BECKY: No. People have tried that to get from Calais to the UK. It doesn’t work.

JOHN: So he took her money and did a runner. What did she do at this point?

BECKY: She and I made friends again and she asked me if I wanted to go back to Morocco with her.

JOHN: For why?

“So he took her money and did a runner. What did she do?”

BECKY: She wanted to go to the police station. I said I would go along with her because I wanted to see the conclusion of the story.

JOHN: Difficult to prove if she put the money into his bank account of her own volition…

BECKY: Yeah, but she had ‘lent’ it to him and this was all detailed in the text messages she had kept.

He had told my friend, who is an acupuncturist…

JOHN: Then maybe she should have been wiser about little pricks…

BECKY: She’s an expert now… He had basically told her: “Don’t come to Morocco because you are an acupuncturist and Moroccans are very religious and, if you go to the police, they will arrest you for witchcraft and cut off your hands.”

JOHN: So you went to Morocco anyway and went into the police station and…

BECKY: They were lovely. They did get out a knife… and we thought Are they going to cut off our hands?… But it was just to cut some fruit to give us while we were sitting there gossiping about this man.

They were absolutely the nicest police I have ever dealt with. In the UK, the police are quite judgmental and conservative. In Morocco, it’s the complete opposite. People who are rebels join the police because they’re secular. They are not religious.

If you are a sort-of rebellious character who doesn’t like the over-arcing hierarchy of Morocco, you join the police – because then you get to have some autonomy as citizens.

The police lady was absolutely lovely. She wasn’t wearing a hijab. Her hair was dyed, she had flowing locks and she loved us cos we were Western and she was very excited to talk to us. She shared stories with us about her awful Moroccan boyfriends and showed us pictures of them on her phone. 

The police station is not a normal tourist destination but it is absolutely one I would recommend if you want to find out what Morocco is really like.

JOHN: Did they go out and find the surfing boyfriend?

BECKY: No. But it became very exciting at that point. My friend arranged a double-cross. She messaged him and said she was in Morocco and they arranged to meet the next day.

She told the police and we flew out the night before and he was met by a policeman at the rendezvous.

JOHN: And the outcome was…

A prime example of lying seductively in the Saharan sand…

BECKY: It’s going to go to court. But my friend is not very interested in dealing with the court, because she’s unlikely to get her money back. I don’t think he has the money any more; I have seen pictures of him on his Facebook page, driving round the Sahara in a jeep and lying in the sand seductively.

JOHN: So what is she going to do?

BECKY: She has made a website to warn other women. It has pictures of him and his name.

JOHN: She will divorce him?

BECKY: I don’t think she will. That way, he can’t marry anyone else.

JOHN: Isn’t polygamy legal in Morocco?

BECKY: It is, but I think it’s very uncommon. very uncommon. There are financial restrictions and a husband must have written permission from his current wife before marrying a second wife.

JOHN: Is he still a surf instructor?

BECKY: Allegedly, but that’s actually how a lot of con artists pick up Western women.

JOHN: So, do you think if I go down to Bournemouth seafront and say I’m a surf instructor, I could pull a few aged widows?

BECKY: Yeah. Go on. What have you got to lose?

JOHN: My dignity.

BECKY: You have none.

JOHN: I am becoming strangely attracted to Doncaster as a holiday destination…

(Photograph by Ben Salter, via Wikipedia)

I was perhaps impolite to a man who offered me £50 per week for advice

I have mostly been in bed since Friday with a bad cough.

Even worse than my normal one.

Perhaps I have started hallucinating.

I had a phone call from a very nice man today. He was calling from 07843-670273.

That is a UK mobile cellphone number.

His first words, after a slight pause, were: “Are you (after another slight pause) Mr Fleming?”

“I might be,” I said. “Who are you?” My voice was croaking a little.

He told me his name and the financial services company he was calling from. The company’s name was a series of letters. He said he was doing research.

I congratulated him on having a job is this very difficult financial climate.

He asked me if I had ever made online financial investments.

I said I had done, “many, many times – mostly in Madagascar.”

He told me how very good it was to hear that.

“So you know how the system works,” he said.

“Oh yes, of course,” I told him. “I give money to you and you take money from me.”

“Oh no,” he replied.

He explained that he was not asking for money. He was offering free advice.

“That is a very bad business model,” I told him. “You should have a word with your bosses. That is a very bad way to do business. Not to ask for payment in return for services. That is terrible. You should ask for money if you give advice.”

He reassured me he was not asking me to pay anything. He repeated this several times. And explained that his company was offering free advice. “Are you interested?” he asked.

“This is a terrible way to run a business,” I repeated.

“Are you interested?” he asked.

“If you pay me,” I told him, “I would be interested in giving you advice which you could pass on to your bosses and it would improve your business model..”

After some to-and-fro, he asked me: “How much would you want?”

“£50 a week for the next three weeks,” I told him.

He said that was OK.

“Just give me your home address,” I told him, “and I will send everything to you by post.”

“You want my address?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“There is no need,” he said. “Give me your telephone number and I will transfer the money to you.”

“But you know my number,” I said, surprised. “You phoned me on it and your number is 07843-670273.”

He said he did not know my number; only my name.

“But how could you phone me?” I asked, “without having my number? You are talking to me on my number. I don’t think I am hallucinating. But maybe I am.”

He insisted he did not know my number but would pay me the £50 per week.

“But, no, you must know my number. I still don’t understand,” I said. “How on earth could you phone my number if you don’t have my number?”

“I like you, Mr Fleming,” he said.

“That is deeply unfortunate,” I told him, “because you are a cunt.”

And I hung up and blocked his number.

Perhaps I was too harsh.

And I lost the chance to earn £50 per week for the next three weeks.

Feel free to contact him – 07843-670273 – if you want to give him any advice.

But remember a minimum charge rate of £50 per week for your services has already been set as standard.

See London West End shows for free

Diane Spencer performed at launch yesterday

I went to Soho Theatre yesterday for the London launch of this year’s Brighton Fringe. The event was unticketed but there was a guest list.

Inside the auditorium, I got into conversation with a man who had wandered in off the street randomly.

“I was passing,” he told me, “and it looked like something was happening, so I just came in. I smiled at the girls on the door. It looked like a PR thing where there might be free food and drink. I go to see a lot of plays and musicals in the West End for free.”

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“I only go to see things that have been running a while,” he told me. “so there will always be some empty seats. I guess when the interval is going to be, get there a bit earlier and wander up to the bar. They don’t check for tickets on the door. I go up to the bar and wait for the audience to come out for the interval.

“When the interval ends and the audience goes back in, I wait in the bar until they’re all seated, then go in, look for an empty seat and go sit in it.”

“But,” I asked, “Don’t the people sitting next to what had been an empty seat look a bit surprised?”

“Not really,” the man told me. “Sometimes they do a bit, but I guess they just think I’m very late.”

“Have you ever been thrown out for not having a ticket?” I asked.

“Never,” he said.

“Don’t you have trouble following the plot if you’ve missed the first half?”

“Not often,” he told me. “And, with musicals, it doesn’t matter much. I know roughly what the story is about. I check in advance. Most people go for the songs. So do I.”

“How long have you been doing this?” I asked.

“A couple of years,” he told me.

“I’ve always thought,” I said, “that it would be a good scam to go round churches on a Saturday afternoon when there are a lot of weddings. If you go in, they just ask if you are with the bride or the groom. They will direct you to sit at one side of the church or the other and, after the wedding, you could probably get to the Reception and get free food and drink. But I could never be bothered trying it.”

“There would be no spare seat for you at the Reception,” the man told me. “And wasn’t there a film about that?”

“Could have been,” I said.

“I never saw it,” the man said.

“Nor me,” I said. “If there was one.”

There was a long pause.

“I once went with two friends to Luton Airport on a Saturday night,” I said. “People never go to airports unless they have to, so I thought it might be interesting to have a night out at Luton Airport like it was a social event. Or a holiday. A one-night holiday at Luton Airport.”

The man did not look interested.

“We had a meal there,” I persevered. “We bought Luton Airport cowboy hats – Why Luton Airport had cowboy hats I don’t know – and we went to the Arrivals area and waved at people coming back from their holidays.

“It wasn’t as interesting as I thought it might be,” I admitted. “I thought it would be interesting to go for no reason to somewhere you never normally go to unless you have a reason. I suggested we should go to a hospital the next time. People don’t go to hospitals unless they have to and you can wander anywhere you like. I thought we might just see where we could wander. My friends thought it was in slightly bad taste.”

“Oh,” said the stranger at Soho Theatre, clearly bored.

He started taking photographs of the stage show.

The scams of Malcolm Hardee

Brian Mulligan, of late lamented comedy/music duo Skint Video, read my blog yesterday about the always financially creative Malcolm Hardee, who used to be their agent. He tells me it brought back fond memories of Malcolm “telling venues when they paid us cash that they needed to give us the VAT at 15% – he would say he had forgotten the invoice but would write one out there and then.”

As he was not actually registered for VAT and not entitled to collect it, he used to write down a friend’s telephone number as the VAT number, thus getting an extra 15% on top of the fee, which he then pocketed as well as his agent’s fee.

This was one of the many fine pieces of lateral thinking that Malcolm became known for.

When, on one occasion, he had to send his driving licence to the DVLA in Swansea (one of many, many occasions) they sent him back a new licence in the name of “Malcolm Hardy”. He pointed out the spelling mistake to them and they sent him another licence with the correct spelling “Malcolm Hardee”. But he never returned the first licence. This meant he had two driving licences so, if he was banned from driving and his licence suspended for some dubious motoring offence or offences, he still had what he reckoned was a ‘valid’ licence he could show to police if stopped again – the ‘other’ licence.

When Malcolm’s brother Alex was sorting out paperwork after his untimely death, Malcolm’s phone rang: it was the Inland Revenue rather optimistically asking when Malcolm was going to settle his tax bill. Alex told the taxman that, sadly, Malcolm had died. Their response was:

“You told us that last year, Mr Hardee…”

You can hear Malcolm’s son Frank telling similar stories at Malcolm’s legendary 2005 funeral HERE. If you listen to this, remember that it takes place in a church at a funeral not, as it may sound, at a stand-up comedy club…

(In August this year, the Edinburgh Fringe will include a week of events celebrating the spirit of Malcolm Hardee.)

The World Trade Center terrorist attack and the 9/11 compensation scam

Yesterday, I was talking to someone about urban myths surrounding the Al-Qaeda attack on the World Trade Center in 2001, particularly the story that, under the rubble of the second tower to fall, a crushed fire engine was found containing hundreds of neatly-stacked Gap or Structure brand jeans apparently looted from a shop in the first tower to fall. There is an interesting site debunking 9/11 myths, which does not include that story.

But there is another story not on that site which I understand is true…

I am told there was extensive building work going on at the Twin Towers before the attack and this involved some Irish-origined workers.

As soon as possible after the attack happened, some of the workers flew to Ireland. Their wives claimed they were missing and waited around until they eventually got compensation for their husbands’ deaths. According to Wikipedia (never necessarily accurate) the average individual payout to 9/11 relatives was $1.8 million. After receiving the money, the wives rejoined their husbands in Ireland. Some, I’m told, even stayed in the US where their ‘dead’ husbands rejoined them after a respectable time had elapsed.

If true (and I understand it is), as scams go, this was a very clever one and required quick thinking at the time.