PPI

I received a phone call this morning.

“Our records show you have some debt,” said the nasal Mancunian at the other end of the line.

“Your records are wrong, motherfucker,” I raged, before swiftly hanging up. I then went on a Falling Down-style rampage across the Pennines before having a standoff with the caller in central Manchester while police helicopters circled overhead.

This is what I should have done.

Sadly, I was more polite.

“I think you’re mistaken,” I mumbled.

There ensued numerous questions about loans and credit cards before he eventually arrived at his goal.

“Is it possible you were mis-sold PPI at some point?” he whined.

“Is it possible you’re some sort of shit head?” I growled and hung up. I then stole a plane and flew it into his office building whilst laughing maniacally and made sure the last thing he would ever see was me sticking two fingers up at him.

Again, this is what I should have done.

Again I was more polite.

“No, I don’t think so,” I mumbled.

He then had the audacity to wish me a happy weekend. The cheek of the man.

I just wonder if there is anybody left in this country who has been mis-sold PPI and not done anything about it. Perhaps they managed to ignore the adverts in pretty much every newspaper and didn’t get a rainforest worth of flyers through their doors. Perhaps they ignored the 9,000 emails they were sent. Perhaps they didn’t see some washed-up celebrity banging on about it on scores of daytime TV adverts.

Or perhaps the companies who are still phoning people about PPI are actually trapped in a time warp.

Next week I’m going to phone them back and ask if they’d like to buy a Betamax recorder, a 10p mix-up and a Terrahawks annual.