work rant

If you are one of these people;

• Instead of treating escalators like the moving staircases they are, you like to just stand in the middle of the damn thing. And then, when you eventually reach the top/bottom, you just stop and look around gormlessly trying to work out where you are whilst a colossal human pile-up forms behind your dithering fat arse.
• You talk on your mobile phone the entire time that I am serving you.
• You just stare at the message on the screen of the PIN terminal that says "PLEASE ENTER PIN" until the system times out; then tell me that it's telling you to remove your card.
• When it's time to pay, you look a bit surprised; and then have to rummage through your bag to find your purse, and then have to rummage through your purse to find your card, and then have to rummage through your bag again to find your diary, and then have to flick through your diary to find your PIN... You must have known that this would happen? You surely realised that at some point you would have to pay for your shopping? WHAT IS THE FUCKING PROBLEM HERE?!
• You can't understand why none of the 10,000 or so customers we serve in a day are allowed to just leave their shopping behind the till whilst they do something else.
• When I ask "would you like your receipt in the bag, or with you?" you respond with "yes."
• When the till cannot read the barcode of a particular item, you say "well, it must be free then!" And you think that's really fucking funny.
• You expect me to know where you parked your car.

...I hate you.

I... want... to... fit... in

Having successfully destroyed Skynet last week, our fearsome Luncheon Club had to dedicate itself to the destruction of something else on Sunday. But I wasn't there for any of that.

I went to the Big Gay Department Store Christmas party instead.

In hindsight, it's hard to see how I could have possibly thought that an evening trapped in a Bristol nightclub with people that I barely know/can tolerate would be a good idea. All I want from a nightclub is cheap booze, good music, and door staff that will refuse you entry if it looks like your clothes cost more than thirty quid.

Oceana offers none of these things. What it has is a whole bunch of different themed rooms, so that once you've been in one room long enough to completely lose your will to live, you can go to another room with differently terrible music and lose your will to live there.

I think the first room was called something like the Reykjavic Garish Ice House of Fail, and this is where the karaoke happened.

The air was thick with the stench of stale beer and utter fucking despair. Which incidentally is what I stank of when I woke up on the sofa at 3am, having passed out and spilt beer over myself. Again.

Moving further upstairs I found a new definition of pain and suffering in the New York Disco.

And then there was the buffet, which was best described as being full of beige things that you could fit in your mouth.

It eventually became apparent that it would be impossible for me to get drunk enough to adequately mask my contempt for the fucking shower of failed humanity I work with, so I left (and was picked up on my meandering stumble home by the heroic Dom) and made a mental note to never bother with this kind of shit again.