More mis-selling among high street banks

Scandal over fee-charging accounts lower trust, again.

The PPI mis-selling scandal has threatened to engulf the packaged account offerings of the UK’s high street banks.

In February of 2012 it was reported that the fee-charging account market in the UK was booming, worth nearly £2bn and rising. With regulation on the up and a low interest margin rate adding pressure to an industry facing crisis after crisis, banks turned to packaged accounts as a source of regular, easy cash.

Unfortunately they may have taken to them with a little too much enthusiasm, with banks being accused of signing up people who have no use, and may not even be eligible, for the features of their packaged accounts.

Amid claims of aggressive sales practises Lloyds TSB pulled their packaged accounts from sale in their stores and over the phone from the 1 January 2013. The AVAs are still available for customers to sign up to online, far removed from pushy sales staff.

According to Lloyds the reason for removal of their bundled accounts from sale in-store is that they wish to “harmonise the way we sell bundled accounts across all brands within Lloyds Banking Group, to align the sales process with that currently used within Halifax.”

Halifax continues to offer its packaged account while the sales process is “harmonised” across the group.

A December 2012 Which? investigation of more than 500 front line bank staff showed that there is still high pressure to make sales in Lloyds, Barclays, RBS, HSBC and Santander.

Over half (65 per cent) of bank staff in sales roles and have sales targets say there is now more pressure than ever to meet the goals set for them.

The report showed that mis-selling of products is rampant in all of the big five high street banks. Nearly 50 per cent of staff in sales know someone at the bank who has mis-sold a product in order to meet their targets and 40 per cent say their targets encourage employees try and get the sale when it's not appropriate.

Metro Bank, which turns three in March, removed their packaged account offering in December 2012. Metro Bank Plus was pulled because the fledgling bank “considers its market proposition on an ongoing basis to ensure that it gives the best value to its customers.” Meaning the packaged account was not giving value to customers because no one who bought it (most commonly, it seems, suggestible little old ladies) could use the features.

Santander, who also fled from packaged accounts before the mis-selling scandal consumes them, ditched their packaged accounts in March 2012 in favour of the “simplified” 123 Account. Despite this being a paid current account with bundled features, Santander maintains it does not count as a packaged account.

The ongoing mis-selling scandals are a result of banks who have not yet adjusted to life post-2008 financial crash. Banks who believed the good times and endless credit would never end and that people would happily pay out £10 a month for products they were unlikely or unable to use.

While the mis-selling of packaged accounts won’t bring down the economy, it will only further peoples belief that banks are not your friend and are not to be trusted.

Photograph: Getty Images

Billy Bambrough writes for Retail Banker International at VRL financial news.
 

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad