Costa, Starbucks, Cafe Nero and all the other coffee dealers along my high street, why do these places give me the Purple Pim? Regardless of the name over the door, everyone of these coffee shop drug dens appear to be stocked with the same freshly pressed employees (all of whom make me feel like The Grinch on laundry day), stupid ceramic merchandise for stupid ceramic commuters, and hillocks of tasty apple pastries – that are seemingly filled with the same preservatives found within the crocodile-like corpse of Joan Rivers (too soon??).
In all honesty, I don’t go into these places that often, but when I do I always feel the same way: like a stupid teenager in a packed supermarket, attempting to buy condoms with his Oyster Card.
So, let’s start with the beautiful people serving behind the counter. Just old enough to avoid tricky child labour laws, these Sesame Street baristas cluster around the complex coffee machinery and chatter about their complex hair products with animated gestures that would usually indicate severe brain trauma. When shambling into these sweet-smelling temples of coffee coolness, desperately trying to disguise my confusion on where I should stand to place my order, I always expect to be ignored by the gaggle of matching polo shirts in attendance. However, in an act of defiance towards the God of Shit Customer Service (a deity who seems to be worshipped everywhere!), these sparkling visions of youth and facial hair take pity on my bewildered form, and cheerfully engage me in light conversation towards what cup of something I should exchange all the money in my wallet for.
Now I can’t speak for my fellow snarkhists, but this kind of enthusiastic welcome puts me on edge right off the bat. Don’t they realise that I’m not one of them? I don’t look nearly as good as them or sound quite so shit-sickeningly odious. I don’t have a skincare regime or an emo girlfriend who’s currently experimenting with self-harming. Have they mistaken me for someone else… someone relevant? I’m 43 years-old and a bit grumpy, I can’t fit into any sized pair of Firetrap jeans, and I’ve never been pierced (intentionally). The stubble on my face is an act of sheer laziness, not because of some hip Movember bollocks, and the closest I get to cutting edge reality TV is the Coronation Street omnibus on a Sunday morning.
However, my uneasiness doesn’t stop there. I’m never too sure what to order, or how to pronounce it correctly. Is a frappachino the cold one? How about a skinny latte, is that the strong coffee that comes in a cup small enough to keep in my left nostril? What about the fruit coolers and the vanilla berry refreshers – are they coffee?!? I would like to think that I’m self-assured enough to ask these questions to iCarly behind the counter, but I don’t. Instead, I order a plain black coffee and hope she doesn’t ask me if I want to ‘husk my own beans’ or something else I’m too square to understand.
And if that isn’t bad enough, I don’t feel comfortable sitting in those places. They all seem to have taken their design inspiration from a 17th century Dorset cottage reworked by the bloke who invented all that iCrap. Exposed wooden beams with antique ironmongery, offset by brushed steel toilet roll holders and subtle LED lighting that provides a cool calm and mild neurological seizures. They have carefully distressed brickwork, monochrome posters of yet more beautiful people and factory- produced aluminium customers.
On rare occasions, usually when I have nowhere better to go, I’ve perched myself on a vinyl stool that is clearly designed to promote spinal damage, and taken my cinnamon-spiced coffee conundrum among the twatlings (collective term) of open laptops, smartarsed smart-phones and wireless doohickies. In short, it’s an awkward beverage from within the Starbucks Batcave!
Now I was about to launch into a few more paragraphs on this subject, and continue my small-minded assassination towards the coffee culture that has left me behind in the local ‘greasy spoon’. However, my wife has just peeked over my shoulder, and within thirty seconds of reading this rubbish, delivered a perfect (ly annoying) suggestion…
“Stop moaning and just buy a coffee machine for the kitchen!”
I hesitated for a second in my response. That could be the solution – I could buy one of those things, try to use it before my 4 year-old fucks it up by ramming Play-Doh into its fragile mechanisms, and be the master of my own coffee. No longer would I need to be bashful in the face of a pretty barista, or exhausted by the espressos on offer. In short, I could reclaim one of last legal highs available and hit that shit like it ain’t no thang, anytime I damn well please! Unfortunately, by the time I had processed all this; my wife had left the room like a shitty Elvis impersonator. I had to shout back something discouraging towards her genius proposal…
“Yeah… well… I don’t like sitting in our kitchen either!”
Whilst I think it’s fair to say that my rapier-like response was devilishly cutting and most fantastic in every way, I’m now waiting for a suitable amount of time to pass before I make the suggestion to get one (from the money I’ll make by selling our kid on eBay!).
Paul Millard 2014
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