It was early 2026, and I was properly in love with that online bank. I recommended it to relatives and friends the way you talk about the right person: reliable, modern, always there in my life. After a few years of “dating”, I decided to make the relationship more serious: I upgraded to the all-inclusive package, a metal card, travel insurance for me and my family, every premium privilege a user could want.

But living together was no longer enough for me. As a self-employed professional, VAT-registered, I decided this was the bank I wanted to “marry”, the one to build a future with and channel my earnings through. So I got in touch, confident that a quick chat with the call centre would sort out this big step in minutes: turning our relationship from personal to business, from a simple engagement into a real marriage.

A divorce lawyer instead of a priest

This is where the story takes an unexpected turn. The one who answers is no longer her, but her “virtual assistant”: a chatbot that, with all the tact of a divorce lawyer, informs me that the relationship cannot currently be converted. No upgrade from a personal to a business account, no dual account under the same tax code: the only way forward is to close the current account and open a new one, as if getting married first required breaking every tie.

My gut feeling, and a few years' experience in AI, tell me not to settle for that answer. I ask to speak to “her in person”, a human operator. But still no voice arrives, only another chat that, from the other side of the world, repeats the same litany: close the account, wait for the confirmation email, then open the new business account.

The script, followed to the end

Obedient like someone who still believes in the love story, I follow the script: I close the account, I wait, I get the email. I get ready, excitedly, to open the new account, convinced this is our final “I do”. But instead of “I do”, a curt, cold message arrives: “We're sorry, but we cannot open an account for you”. No explanation, not even an “it's not you, it's me”, no chance to talk it through.

I try talking to the chatbot again, which stammers out empty replies, and then to another human operator, who simply repeats the verdict: we cannot open the account. Full stop. On top of that, my email, banned for some unknown reason, cannot even reopen the old personal account.

Dumped by a bot, in total silence: the 2026 version of being dumped by text. After one last attempt, an email to technical support to compliment them, in my own way, on how to lose a devoted, loving customer by the book, I put myself back out there and find, to a Raffaella Carrà tune, “a bank so lovely it has no problems”.

One nail drives out another

But something in me had changed: from that day on, chatbots became my obsession. Just like someone in love and betrayed, I threw myself into the classic case of fighting fire with fire: I started talking to other companies' bots, questioning them, provoking them, even asking for fish recipes for Sunday lunch, or a restaurant to book for dinner. And some of them, with surprising confidence, actually gave me real answers.

That's the moment I realise that the world of customer experience is taking a dangerous step backwards. And that perhaps it's time to do something about it. Starting from a very simple question: does your chatbot recommend fried fish for Sunday too?