How (not) to open an English bank account. Part one.

Kiwi’s are told that is a frustrating task to open an English bank account. Let’s see about that.

If you are planning to make it to the misty shores for more than a cup of Earl Grey and a tour round London, your best bet would be to go online to 1^st contact or inlondon, established firms which perform some of the trickier aspects of immigration on your behalf. Basically, you pays your money, you gives your details, and you gets your account. They have grim forecasts for any person who doesn’t go through their scheme, warning that it’s best to sort it out before you touch down in Heathrow.

Obviously I didn’t, so my options are limited. I pop into the local Barclays in North Finchley, skip the queue to the tellers and ask the lady in the information desk what I need in order to open account. I stress that, despite my accent, I am British and even held an account with them a number of years ago.

“How long ago?”

“A few years.”

“Like five?”

“Closer to fifteen.”

She runs away to fetch a wad of paper entitled ‘dormant account form’. She hands it to me, and I smile through my teeth. I wonder whether the two pounds or so I had in the account would be worth the hours of work to fill this form. My account was most likely closed years ago by my parents anyway. I continue, and press this girl for new account information.

She asks whether I’m living in London.

“Yes.”

She asks whether I have a job.

“No.”

She asks what I’m doing in London.

“Looking for a job.”

She stutters an “oh.” and trails off.

I do have an essential item: a UK passport. This little book was a double-edged sword in Africa. It got me through the continent, but cost me anywhere between US$40 – US$55 in port entry fees. I’m hoping that it will redeem itself while I’m in England, so I point it out to the girl.

It helps, but it’s only the start. I need to provide proof of my address in London. “Like what?” “A utility bill, or council tax bill. Something official with your name and address on it.”

Shit.

It’s a catch-22. I’ve just moved into a place. How am I supposed to pay bills without a UK bank account? From my New Zealand account? With my visa? It’s an established flat, which means people are already doing this stuff. I ask whether there’s another way.

“You could get a provisional drivers license from the post office.” She waves her arm vaguely to the left. I take it to mean that the post office is vaguely in the direction of her hand. I thank her and leave.

This time I can’t avoid queuing. It’s lunchtime, so the series of bodies waiting in the post office snakes through a series of cordons, erected to pacify us. Flat screen TV’s entertain the queue-folk with advertising and trivia. I read a dozen times that Istanbul is the only city in the world bridging two continents. How true.

I reach a teller and ask to apply for a provisional drivers license. I expect three things. A form. A fee. A delay. Bingo: a booklet, a £45 ‘administration’ fee, and a two week turnaround. I also receive another booklet explaining how the first booklet works. When I return home to fill in the form, the second booklet tells me that I can go online to a further booklet to clarify the booklet that explains the booklet.

For a kiwi, the deal is that you hand over your driver’s license and they replace it with a UK license. From what I could tell, and frankly it’s confusing enough, there are two catches: you need to hand your passport over to them so they can check it over that two week period. You also need to provide a photo with sufficient proof that you are the face on the picture. ‘Sufficient’ basically means having it signed by someone respectable in England who has known you for more than two years and is not a relative. It’s not the friendliest of methods.

But I have a British passport! It’s a newfangled one, which just gets scanned and proofed on the spot. Hallelujah, for once I get a break. I sign where it tells me to ‘WITHIN THE ALLOTTED BORDER’, and head back to the post office.

The guy ahead of me in the queue is having difficulties. He signed his form, but a bit of his signature scraped the border. It’s being rejected, and he’s asked to rewrite his form. Rightly, he’s angry and complaining, and like a wimp, the teller runs away, “to check it out with the manager.” She returns a few minutes later armed with confidence. The poor man is worked up, and shows the teller where his penmanship scraped the border, just brushed it. He struggles like a fish out of water. He’s spitting while he complains, and wipes his mouth with his hand, but the teller stays put. She knows that she stands safely behind the weight of bureaucracy. He continues arguing, but knows his number’s up. He glances up at me, then tucks his t-shirt into his tracksuit. For a brief moment our eyes lock, and a world of thought passes between us. He knows he’s morally right. He also knows he’s lost, but with pride he continues his fight against inevitability.

My turn. I feel diminished. I pay my money, hand over my details, and embrace the system.