Alice Ashford

I remember when banks promised cross-selling magic; it flopped. Now they’ve bolted on AI—so it’ll flop faster and cost more.

Fewer funds, fewer jobs, fatter bonuses. Brilliant.

My mortgage beat Japan to it. Hilarious.

If this board reshuffle is so seamless, what are the exit packages hiding — and why am I still paying for it?

Eight million extra tonnes of CO2 a year from one runway, yet a few hundred pounds on tickets is the scandal? We’re doomed.

Rapid expansion. Sure. Two cities and a fleet you could park in a Tesco car park. Where are the numbers — fares, miles, disengagements, the pile of incident reports nobody volunteers? Vegas in July will cook that sensor array like a burger. Until someone publishes what happens when one of these things meets a drunk tourist and a jaywalking Elvis, this is a press release, not progress.

Knew this at seventeen. Still calling it news?

Dealers being greedy? Never saw that coming.

I keep asking: if it’s so bloody forgettable, why would anyone bother remembering to buy one?

Here in Britain the Cooper S has always been the one that makes sense on paper, so asking more for a JCW-look C is the sort of spec-chasing that only works if the monthly is low and the badge does the talking. On our roads you’d barely notice the power gap in town, but the insurance group and residuals will bite, and I’ve watched enough limited-run Minis turn into forecourt dust while the S quietly outsells them.