I read your letter and I am really, really sorry your Paella got cold. I tried to get RBS security to let you in, actually, but they said that, well, Paella is a foreign food – and y’know how is it with foreign stuff. If it had been fish ‘n chips that’s OK – it’s British. Or Haggis, since this is the Royal Bank of Scotland.
At first, they didn’t know what Paella is. Me neither. The security guys thought it was like couscous – which is what terrorists eat.
One security guy said, “Why can’t he eat it in his car?” Now the security guy lives in his car – because he can’t afford rent on his RBS salary. I pointed out that your BMW is in a car park a significant distance from RBS – and you didn’t want to get food on the leather.
I also pointed out that you had a Security Pass, so you were somebody, not nobody, like (say) a depositor. Also your name is Jo’ – NOT “Joe” and you have a nicely trimmed beard. Not to mention the BMW and the Paella and expensive shoes. You vote Tory – and you deserve your Paella warm – not cold.
Anyway, I apologize. I thought I was helping. But I wasn’t. RBS has rules. No Paella, especially when hot. No cameras. No chest hair.
They hated my chest hair – that was clear. Which, for them, is a LOT more important than your Paella. In fact, all of RBS hate my chest hair -- it is a lot more important than people losing their homes and life savings – and, oh yeah, their cars. You understand that – because you hate chest hair, too.
I understand you have a job at RBS, and a security pass – and Paella and the BMW – so you don’t have to worry about losing anything – which makes lunch getting cold and my chest hair major affronts. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
You’re right -- I’m a rich guy --although nowhere near as rich as the guys who run RBS --just a penny ante millionaire – not a billionaire. I am to you (in terms of wealth) as you are to all those homeless people who owe their condition to companies like RBS.
I guess the difference is I care about you. And I care about the poor people.
A lot of people know my name – which I use to advocate for all the nameless people who can’t get into the clubs where you go – or who are called “Joe” rather than “Jo”.
Anyway, I am soooooooooooo sorry for spoiling your lunch. I mean, heating it up in the office microwave must have been a chore, taking time away from RBS’s mission of gouging the taxpayer.