You would expect that if you choose an elite, premium product or service that it was more secure than its lesser, bog standard one. But after an incident today I’m not so sure.

I happen to have a fancy premium account at my bank. I didn’t really want it, and object to such things on champagne socialist grounds, but it happened that way. So I arrive in town, and am looking for an ATM. I espy the logo of my bank on the airport concourse and head that way. Three members of staff stand around the branch entrance, doing that half-welcoming, half-bouncer thing that staff do. I asked if there was an ATM inside, and they said yes, but instead of letting me in, pointed me back across the vast concourse to the railway terminus. “None in here?” I asked, surprised. By then I was fishing inside my wallet for my ATM card and they caught a glimpse of its fancy charcoal greyness. Their attitude changed in a flash to one of abject obeisance. “This way, kind sire,” they said (or something like that) and ushered me inside the darkened interior, round a couple of corners to my very own ATM machine, before withdrawing to a discreet but accessible distance. Butlers passed bearing flutes of champagne; customers carrying men’s purses perused glossy brochures with names like “Managing Your Family’s Wealth So You Can Have Trouble-free Weekends in Your Phuket Condo With An Office Secretary” or something.

Offputting, but I was happy to get some my hands on some cash. Until I realised I had forgot my PIN. No problem, one of the staff said, and led me around more corners to a bank of eager customer advisor executives, or something, all with perfect teeth and wide smiles. They happily gave me cash and balances, none of it requiring any proof of identity on my part. I got to suck a sweet while they did. The three bouncers led me outside as if I was the King of Siam collecting tribute.

I was happy with all the deference and genuflecting, but it made me realise that premium service isn’t really about premium service; it means paying through the nose not to be troubled by impertinent little serfs asking me for proof of identity when I want to move millions of dollars around/see my jewelry collection in a bank vault/pass through immigration. It’s actually about dismantling security, not about enhancing it.

It’s a simple equation: Companies charge more fees to these kinds of people, providing what looks like a Rolls Royce service. People love getting star treatment, assuming that fake veneer and snow-white smiles equate quality. Of course all it really means is that the basic service — in this case the ATM machine — has been moved off to a remote corner for the unwashed who refuse to pay for the premium service. But more importantly, the actual quality that should be a feature of the improved service is severely compromised, if not entirely absent, since the implicit agreement is that customers won’t be asked for proof of identity. That may seem like an advantage to the customer, but if someone had stolen my wallet they would have been able to empty my account without breaking a sweat. They might even have been offered a shoulder massage while the staff counted the money.

There must be a name for this skewed security thinking. And it must apply to all sorts of services.

Me? I’m downgrading my account and rejoining the plebs. It’s safer there: They won’t let me in the branch without flashing my ID card.