Stealing cash from my account is one thing, but my free coffee? That’s personal
Last Thursday, after a hard day of pontificating in the nation’s radio and TV studios, because someone has to fill the airwaves with half-baked opinions, I met up with some lobbyist pals at the Guinea Grill. The place was heaving with hedgies and their molls (male and female molls that is, because inclusivity is the name of the game in 2023). As evening faded into late May dusk, we parted ways. The prospect of schlepping home to a bowl of hot Buldak noodles and the cavernous silence of my own company didn’t exactly thrill me, so I meandered to Soho instead. Destination: Tricia’s, London’s finest dive bar, a grubby little gem that flips a proud double bird to the corporate sheen creeping over the area.
From there, I plunged deeper into Soho’s underbelly, eventually staggering out of some nameless pit at 3 am That’s when I stumbled into a brewing brawl, a Kali devotee roadman squaring off against an Essex rube, both too stubborn to back down. Naturally, I fancied myself a peacemaker, picturing some Havelockian standoff I could heroically defuse on Brewer Street. Spoiler: I failed, they kept on knocking chunks out of each other. Distracted and fumbling, I reached for my phone.
Now, it was too late for a Lime bike — my usual noble steed — so I started booking an Uber. And became a statistic. Enter a shadowy chap, jabbering about Instagram or some such nonsense. While I was busy nodding politely, a funky-dreaded whirlwind zipped by, snatching my phone and vanishing down an alley. A mere minute away, a gaggle of London’s finest loitered, utterly unmoved. They let me report the crime, sure, but intervene in the fight? “Not likely, squire, I might break a sweat.” Chase the thief? Dream on. My pleas fell on ears as listless as my prospects. I was now one of 70,000 people who have had their phones stolen in the last year. That’s 192 per day. 192 people whose lives are upended due to our reliance on our devices for, well pretty much everything. According to official statistics, only 2 per cent of phone thefts are even followed up.
When even your nectar points and coffee aren’t safe, what’s left but a rueful chuckle?
Here’s the kicker: freelance poverty means no Wi-Fi at home. My phone’s hotspot is my lifeline; internet, banking, everything. So, with that gone, the pain began.
A kind soul ferried me back to Fulham on the 22 bus. I was left with a useless, non-Wi-Fi laptop, cursing my own inertia. The next day, I was off to HMP Five Wells with Claire Fox’s Debating Matters crew, judging prisoner debates (yes to prisoner votes, no to reparations, if you’re curious). Baroness Fox introduced me — late, naturally — as delayed “by the likes of you, criminals.” Charming. I finally borrowed a phone to lock things down, but in a prison, phones are contraband. Too little, too late.
The damage? Oh, it was glorious. The thieves splurged £1400 at Sneakersz (Santander, please, I haven’t worn trainers since the 90s), £6000 to Western Union, and a smattering of petty purchases. Then, the gut punch: my crypto stash — gone. I was broke, stranded outside a prison, a modern-day pauper in a cashless dystopia.
Back in town, a generous friend sorted me a new phone, and the real nightmare unfolded. These crooks are pros. With my phone unlocked, they tweaked settings, changed passwords (they had my email), and intercepted bank queries via SMS. Easy as pie, they dodged every red flag. They even hit my Vodafone account, ordering a £1700 top-tier iPhone with all the trimmings. When I called Vodafone, they didn’t believe I was me — my address was now some random spot in Plumstead. Plumstead! I’ve been there as often as I’ve been to Narnia.
But here’s where their brilliance dimmed. Uber receipts revealed their jaunts: pick-ups at 149 Denmark Hill, Camberwell, drop-offs at 80 Dog Kennel Hill, SE22 8BB. The iPhone? Shipped to 55 Bannockburn Road, SE18 1ET, a fortress of pilfered loot, no doubt. Luckily, DPD texted me about the delivery. “Happy with 9-10 a.m. tomorrow?” Nope, I replied, “Friday afternoon.” Vodafone killed it in time.
Still, the fallout was brutal. No card, no mobile banking, no contactless, cash only. Ever tried living cash-only lately? Ticket machines scoff at it, shops too, cafes the worst. The ticket office? Doesn’t sell tickets. Santander refunded most of the fraud — bless them — but sent my new security code and card to an old rural address I visit twice a year. Four to five working days, they say. A country mile in modern terms.
I’m setting up passkeys and face recognition now, if I can decode the gibberish instructions. But the final twist of the knife? I thought, “At least I’ve got a free Costa coffee.” Downloaded the app, swaggered in, gone. They’d nicked that too. Cash is one thing, but my free coffee? That’s personal.
So, how did I learn to lose everything and stop worrying? Truthfully, I’m not there yet. But I’m starting to see the dark comedy in it all. When even your nectar points and coffee aren’t safe, (they would have taken the air miles — if I had air miles), what’s left but a rueful chuckle? Maybe a better phone case. Or a leash, or a Webly. Or a revolution, when London next comes to vote. Come on over Sadiq’s time in office over 2 million Londoners will have had their #phones nicked and lives disrupted. Surely the basis for a political revolt.
