I arrived home that January night tired and hungry - hungry like the wolf. It was dark and frosty - frosty like the snowman. As I bent down to lift the bolt on the gate my glasses dropped off. Toby, then only a puppy, a puppy with magpie tendencies, scooped them up and scampered off.

The discomfort of having had a size nine rammed up his arse dissipated quickly, and the dog was delighted with all the excitement and rummaged about with me. But our torch-light search proved fruitless. Fruitless like the butcher’s.

Obviously he had continued looking long after I had given up and the next morning I found them in his kennel. Chewed to bits. Nothing but a few shards of glass and mangled metal remained. Another size nine up the arse, then I rang the optician. No problem, Primal, come in immediately. You’re nearly due for a check-up anyway and shur your PRSI will cover some of the cost. I was glad of the last bit as money was tight.

The optician took pictures of what was left of my glasses to show her friends. No messing. She reckoned an 18-wheeler wouldn’t have caused such damage. I made a mental note to buy a pair of pointed size nines.

I got new specs a couple of days later and was told to expect the refund cheque from the social insurance in one week.

As I said, money was tight, and six days later I withdrew cash for emergency supplies. I don’t remember for what. Probably some beer, a book and some beer. No problem I reckoned. I’d have the cheque the next day and lodge it before the direct debit for my phone bill hit.

No cheque arrived. I called the optician. My cheque had gone up in flames when a post office truck caught fire. How unlucky is that? If I fell into a barrel of tits I’d come out sucking my thumb. They told me not to worry - a new cheque had already been sent. But I was worried - the phone bill. I checked my account and found I was shy just €4.90.

I jumped in the car and rushed to the bank. It was drizzling and I pulled a baseball cap down to keep my new glasses dry. These were never to be damaged. Despite being wet and grumpy I managed to be polite and held the door open for the guy coming in behind me. We chatted about the weather and how busy the bank was while in the queue. At the counter I produced a €5 note and my card. The teller was jumpy and fidgety. Obviously having a bad day and I was making it worse wasting his time with a measly fiver.

But I held my composure and even held the door for someone on the way out. I was really polite. The dog was even spared another bout of size nine when I got home.

That afternoon there was a loud knock on the door. I looked out the window and there was a cop car at the gate. I opened the door to Mark, one of the local Gardaí. Howya, Primal. Bit of excitement today, eh. You weren’t scared were ya? Excitement me arse. A pure hoor of a day. What are ya on about?

The guy I held the door for at the bank and chatted to in the queue had moved to the foreign exchange counter while I was being served. He produced a replica gun and was handed over €4,000. The teller I dealt with had seen him and hit the panic button. Hence, his edginess.

Leaving the bank, apparently I held the door for the robber again and left with him. We had even crossed the street together where I got into my car and he stole another.

The Gardaí ran the CCTV footage and you can imagine what they concluded: Two guys enter the bank together. One with his collar pulled up and a baseball cap down over his eyes. The other with sunglasses. Both join the queue and chat away to each other. One leaves that queue and produces a weapon. The other does a token transaction. Then both leave together.

I was the accomplice in their mind. That I’d done a transaction on my own account didn’t mean anything. I could have used a stolen card. So I had been the subject of a manhunt.

Mark was able to tell me I’d stopped on the way home to buy a paper and that I’d pulled in another time to talk with a woman. There were two plain-clothes lads following me but hadn’t approached in case I too was armed. They planned to stop me on a quiet stretch of road. Luckily I was ruled out of the investigation before that happened.

I had a great laugh about it with Mark while making my statement. I couldn’t wait to tell all my mates. But that I wouldn’t have to do. The TV stations showed the video footage on every fekin bulletin that day. Without my face blanked out. Crimecall did the same for two weeks in a row. I couldn’t walk into a house, shop or pub for weeks after without everyone putting their hands up. The dog took to keeping his arse to the wall.

Everything has a password or a PIN* these days. I have PINs for bank cards, my house alarm (and three neighbours’ alarms), one to reset the car radio, a PIN and a PUK for my phone. I’ve go a PPN (which used to be a PRSI number), a student ID number and one for online banking. I’ve got six email accounts with different usernames and passwords. Logins for a few webservers. A login for my ISP’s account server. A login for Google, Statcounter, Polldaddy, about ten job sites, WordPress, Blogger, Irish Independent and more. A WEP key for my home network. A voicemail code. And on top of all that, there are account IDs for clients’ machines.

All of these, we are warned, must never be written down. We must memorise them and eat the slip of paper they came on and possibly shred your crap, just in case. You never know what geek has hacked into your pipework and hidden a poo-cam in your loo.

My fear of forgetting one of these, passcodephobia, (not to be confused with passcodaphobia which is a fear of going to the toilet after eating fish - the bones you know) has been getting gradually worse.

Passwords are not too bad. I tend to use about ten base ones in a variety of combinations which gives me about 50 unique codes. Numbers I remember by directions or shape. 9713 is a square. 0856 is up, up, right. Get the idea? Try it on your phone.

Yesterday I cracked. For the first time. I could not, not matter how hard I tried, recall my phone PIN. Having exhausted everything from isosceles triangles to down, outside, left-a-bit, I had to resort to getting my PUK from the website and resetting the PIN. No big deal. No harm done. But now my passcodephobia is worse than ever. If I forgot a PIN I use frequently what about all the others.

My head is just too full of codes. It can’t take any more. Now what’s my WordPress password so I can post this?

*Have you ever noticed how we all say PIN number? Personal Identification Number number. And we say Automated Teller Machine machine.

MacKozer has been doing a fair amount of bitching about Irish banks lately. In his last post he surmises that AIB stands for Absolutely Incompetent Bank-staff.

Well it’s my turn now. Step away from the keyboard, Mac.

Let’s face it. The AIB runs the Financial Regulator. Just as eircom runs ComReg. AIB are the big boys. They can do what they want and get away with it. They pwn the regulator! Extrapolate that and you realise they pwn the government too.

When other banks offer better rates and deals to attract customers, the AIB just might, if they feel they can spare 0.00001% of their billion euro profits, do the same, months later.

Because AIB are the biggest player they can offer the biggest range of services. With the exception of BoI the other banks are just credit unions with alloys, spots and go-faster stripes. AIB has it all and that’s why I’ve stuck with them this long.

When AIB announced they would be offering free banking I looked into it immediately. All I would have to do would be to pay one bill online or by phone once a quarter. No problem. I do that anyway. And I would have to make one purchase per quarter using my Laser card. Oops! A snag here. I didn’t have one. I had an old fashioned Banklink card. But the nice people in AIB knew this and wrote to me telling me how to replace my Banklink with a Laser. So I phoned the nice people and asked them to go ahead. No problem, sir. You will have your new card in two weeks.

That was so long ago I can’t remember what year it was. God was still sporting short trousers then. And I know we’ve all passed a lot of water under the bridge since.

I do remember calling six weeks later for an update. We are unable to process you request over the phone, sir. You will have to visit your branch. My account was opened at a branch in another town 24 years ago. With internet and phone banking there was no point transferring it to a local one. I couldn’t be bottomed visiting my branch so I left it at that.

This gave me time to think. I pay a government stamp duty of €10 on my Banklink card. I would have to pay €20 on a Laser card. Well, not exactly. I could pay €10 if I used the Laser only in ATMs or if I used it only for purchases, but if I used it for both I would pay €20. But to qualify for free banking I would have to use it for purchases and it would be no use to me if I didn’t use it at ATMs. So free banking was going to cost me €10 extra. The difference between the extra duty and the savings I’d make wasn’t great enough for me to bother switching.

The nice people in AIB wrote to me again this week. I am being automatically switched to a Laser card. I have no choice. The letter was dressed up to look like AIB were doing me a favour. I would have greater protection against fraud with chip and PIN technology.

I can’t help wondering if AIB are pandering to the revenue commissioners on this one. Here lads, how’s about we get you €10 extra from all our customers and you can owe us a favour?  We have a few things in mind.

The thing that’s really bugging me is the government stamp duty was brought in by Charlie McCreevy as a tax on banks. Not on customers. Or at least that’s what he told us at the time. But neither he, nor his successor, batted an eyelid when AIB et alia passed these taxes onto the consumer. But then, AIB pwns the government.