Cheques, Cigarettes and Catastrophic Decisions (Financially Irresponsible Since 2003 – Part 1)

I have always been shit with money.

Saving has never particularly interested me.

Spending?

Now that’s where my talents lie.

My first job at sixteen was at Argos. I bloody loved that job, I want to say I earned £3 something an hour and that along with my EMA of £30 a week (as long as I appeared at every lesson in college for the register at least) funded my little life quite nicely. But did I ever have so much as a penny left at the end of the week? No of course not.

Here I am taking college ever so seriously.

Me and the girls and the gays would go out every Thursday night to DV8. A fabulous club in Birmingham which was £6 entry and drinks included! So aslong as I had the £6 plus enough for a box of Marlboro I was well away. Then as soon as the clock hit midnight, I would call 450 and top up my phone credit with a tenner and as we left the club, pop to the cash point to get out money for the taxi home. Nothing else mattered.

When I turned eighteen I got a job in the local Wetherspoons, I remember so clearly just nipping into Argos and saying I wouldn’t be returning that weekend. They were not impressed and tried to explain “giving a notice” to me but I was starting at the pub that night so I couldn’t comply unfortunately. I dropped off my red shirt, which hadn’t seen an iron the entire two years I’d worked there and wished them well. I was off to earn over £4 an hour plus tips (which I didn’t realise were meant to be shared for my first week and had a brief but lovely time skipping out of work declaring “sambucas on me” with an apron pocket full of pound coins.)

Reefs were like £1.19, it was a different time.

A month or so after starting there, what should have been a small disagreement with my parents, turned into me filling a suitcase and walking round to the pub declaring I was moving out. I was like Dick Whittington, except it wasn’t the bright lights of London I was heading to, but a tiny studio bedsit in a big converted house in Erdington.

There appeared to be absolutely no fire safety regulations whatsoever and all the other residents were men aged 40+. It became known as the house of broken hearts and broken blinds due to them all being divorced and every blind breaking after you’ve opened it once.

This new adventure required some serious budgeting, I had an electric meter! Now this meter only took pound coins which meant I constantly had to be in possession of actual pound coins. So I would now run my weekly wage down with rent (£70 a week including bills if I agreed to share a bathroom with a middle aged man from Bristol), pound coins for the meter, bus fare to work, Marlboros (I was not about to compromise on my cigarettes), phone credit and a night out. I’d eat at work if possible or at one of the other residents bedsits, Ivan in flat 4 worked at a potato factory so that was useful.

Not a clue behind those eyes

Anyway after three months of being a twat I moved back to my parent’s house. They never charged me a penny because they are two of the best people in the world and to this day I regret not living there longer. But upon my arrival back home, a gift awaited me. The bank had sent me a cheque book!

Through asking my Mum some hypothetical questions I discovered that cheques “floated around in the air” (my definition, not my Mums, she is actually very responsible with money) for about three days before they took the money from your bank. At first I was fairly responsible with this, I’d go to the shop on a Thursday, the day before pay day, and ask for twenty Marlboros and for whom would they like the cheque made out to. Acting like a rich beneficiary at an orphanage.

Soon enough, Thursdays turned into Wednesdays, into Tuesdays and before long I was there with my cheque book and pen whenever I fancied. If the money was there when they went to take it then great, if it wasn’t, well never mind.

Living my best life on the worst decisions

Obviously you can only play this game for so long before Lloyds TSB eventually started reaching out and gently suggesting you fucking stop it.

After a few letters and fewer days a week spent with money in my account than out of it I went to the bank. I expected to be told off but I instantly felt like a celebrity, they didn’t want to take the cheque book off me, in fact they wanted to give me more stuff! After half an hour I strutted out with a platinum current account!

For the mere cost of just £15 a month I now got:

Worldwide Travel Insurance (I didn’t have a passport)

AA Breakdown Cover (I didn’t have a driving licence)

Mobile Phone Insurance (Still on pay as you go)

Sentinel Card Protection (Being a victim of fraud would have been better than a victim of myself at this point)

Commission-Free Travel Money (Again, no passport)

£250 Interest-Free Overdraft (Now this one I liked!)

The overdraft meant I had a beautiful little buffer of safety, which lasted me a grand total of two weeks. Because obviously I didn’t see it as a “just incase” I saw it as a “just buy it babe!”

So back to the bank I went, and still they didn’t turn their back on me, in fact they wanted to give me more! A loan! Not just a safety buffer of £250, no no, I proved to be worth so much more to them! Forty-five minutes later I glided out of the bank with £1500 in my account (minus the £250 overdraft that I now lived in) and I needn’t worry because they were so generous they let me up my monthly repayment even more by taking out PPI on the loan. I truly believed they were all the nicest people I ever met.

Two months later I left the pub to work at another pub, now bringing in half the wages I previously earned. Then a month later I was pregnant.

Nineteen

Working approximately 10 hours a week in a very rough pub.

Pregnant.

I returned to the bank and told them my woes. Shockingly they didn’t offer me anything this time. I don’t think they even said congratulations, which was fair.

I enquired about the “repayment holiday” noted in the PPI paperwork and was told I didn’t qualify. How the mighty have fallen.

Six months ago the bank manager wanted to shake my hand (turns out they always did this when someone took out a loan) and now I had no idea how these repayments would be made. Would they take a cheque?

Obviously the entire loan was gone, on what, who knows? I distinctly remember purchasing one of those make over and photo shoots from the commission based sellers that lurked on the high street. I didn’t ever go. But I remember feeling ever so smug I could buy it with no worries. Or so I thought.

I’ll leave this one there for now, but next time I tell the wonderful tale of how Wonga came along and “saved the day” followed by many other payday loans, credit cards and finally a CCJ.

Read part two here:

www.foreverceremonies.co.uk

Wonga, Wishful Thinking and Worse Decisions (Financially Irresponsible Since 2003 - Part 2)

Where do you go when the bank break up with you? You should stop, you should regroup and you should absolutely not get a payday loan? But if I hadn’t, would I have all this material and memories? No. But I would have a better credit rating, so there is that.