I had my phone swiped and felt like such a mug… Here’s the cynical new Insta trick crafty crooks are using to rob YOU

THERE’S a brand new way thieves are taking people’s phones on our city streets.

And I would know because, on Wednesday night in central London, I became its latest victim.

AlamyIn Central London thieves are using new tactics to steal people’s phones on the street[/caption]

Simon JonesTom had his phone stolen on Wednesday night after what he thought was an innocent interaction[/caption]

GettyThese thieves get your passcode and then have access to everything, even your money[/caption]

Forget balaclava-clad youths whizzing by on a bike, swiping your mobile out of your hand while you’re unawares.

I’ve learnt that this new breed of thieves are sophisticated, coordinated and as good at sticking to a script as any Hollywood actor.

But it also taught me how supposedly oh-so-easy digital banks — the type whose adverts are stuffed with grinning simpletons — can leave you trapped in a dead-end maze of QR codes and AI chatbots.

You may come away reading this thinking I’m an idiot.

But if this helps just one person to avoid the same ordeal, then I’ll have put my gullibility to good use.

It’s late, but being close to busy London Bridge station, I’m far from the only one heading back from the pub.

As I wait for a bus, up walks a young guy wearing trendy shades and a jacket, along with a friend.

We get chatting.

He’s friendly, welcoming and, not before long, asks me if I want to check out his clothing designs on Instagram.

I like to think I’m friendly, too, so I have a look — and good on him for trying to make his own path in life, I think.

But what I didn’t know was that I was at the receiving end of a ­carefully rehearsed script.

“Give me a follow, give me a ­follow,” he begs.

I tap in my iPhone’s passcode, reach for the app with my thumb — and the handset is snatched.

At least I know now why he was so keen.

It was the friend who took it, and in an instant it’s handed over to a third person sprinting past that I hadn’t even noticed.

Not a second later, he’s down the other end of the road, out of sight — and the others had scarpered, too.

Ironically, his “fashion brand” was called Expensive.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking: I am a pillock. And you’d be right.

Thinking someone wanted me — dressed in my bog-standard office attire — to give feedback on their sweatshirt designs?

Agreeing to give them a follow, and then moronically typing in my iPhone passcode right under their nose?

‘HARSH LESSON’

I’d been thoroughly, thoroughly duped.

Though I grew up in sleepy Christchurch, Dorset — the UK’s most geriatric town — where phone thefts are rarer than teenagers at the bingo, I still know to keep it hidden away in public and to stay wary of pickpockets.

But this smooth talker had made me completely let my guard down, and I’d paid the price.

At least he gave me a cigarette as part of his spiel.

So, where did that leave me?

With no phone to pay the fare, it took a sympathetic bus driver to get me home.

Then came the emails.

First, it’s Apple — account password changed and Find My iPhone disabled, so no hope of tracking the thieves down.

“Congratulations!”, starts the next message, which let me know they’d now managed to set up Apple Pay and start using the debit cards on my phone.

If they hadn’t known my passcode, the phone would have just been a brick for them to wipe and sell on for a few hundred quid.

But they did — and it felt like my entire life now belonged to the robbers.

I was about to learn a harsh lesson about why clever, convenient tech can become a gift to criminals.

Your phone is constantly pushing you to stop using passwords and to set up FaceID instead.

But if your face isn’t recognised after a couple of tries, it lets you use the phone’s passcode.

All it took was a six-digit number to give the thugs access to my banking apps.

Heading into the bank branch first thing in the morning, I blocked my card and had Apple Pay disabled.

Guttingly, a printed balance sheet revealed how the thieves had shifted all the money in my Revolut account into another . . . 

And then moved it back again after Santander detected suspicious purchase attempts.

But with only my passcode, they were in my Revolut app and all my money was theirs to spend.

I can’t say I was impressed with their choice to splash £699 at Argos but, either way, that was where next month’s rent had ended up.

Not that it was easy to find this out.

Turns out, Revolut — despite appearances — isn’t even a proper bank.

It’s what they call an “electronic money institution”.

‘CRASHING DOWN’

Oh, so great when you’re clicking away on an app.

Not so great when your phone’s been nicked and just about every perk, including fraud reporting, needs — you guessed it — the very thing that you no longer have to hand.

Calling up from the landline to report fraud is too old-fashioned, apparently.

Instead, it’s an AI bot messenger you’re forced to talk to, and then a live agent who couldn’t give any clarity about whether my report — which I eventually managed to make with the help of a friend’s phone — had gone through.

I’m sorry that was too tough a question for them.

But the only reason I asked was because the reporting process took me in circles, constantly leading back to the same menu I’d tapped through what felt like ten times.

Revolut have paid me back, but how many others haven’t been so lucky?

If we lose our good old High Street bank branches, it won’t be long before the entire country seizes up in a “computer says no”- induced nightmare.

I’ve learnt the tough way that today’s crooks are more ­cunning than ever.

I’ve also learnt that making our whole lives rely on apps just means that when one part fails, the whole thing comes crashing down.

And if you’re the one enjoying that new TV bought with my stolen money, do please write in to say thanks.

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