All posts by Dan H

The rats are grumpy

Everyone talks about bad customer service, but let’s take a moment to consider bad customers, or more correctly stop and listen to a retail employee.

For those of you who have never worked in retail, or have been lucky enough to work in a shop so exclusive that refusing a sale to those deemed unworthy is actually mandatory, let me describe what dealing with a bad customer is like, with this helpful illustration.

Imagine a horde of rats. Hungry, unwashed, surrounded by their young ones. Now imagine them trying to burrow into your face through your left nostril, collectively. The rats are grumpy, and the slightest fucking whimper or sigh from your end is a clear sign to them that you are disrespecting their God-given right to enter your face in whatever disturbed, fucked up way they see fit.

What do you mean you don’t have enough room for all of us? You didn’t cater for every individual rodent personally? What kind of sick mind games are you trying to play? Also, where’s the fucking bathroom? My little vermin offspring feels the need to block the toilet with its gigantic stool.

You may try to reason with them, but reasoning with your fur-infested left nostril is fucking difficult when your right one is full of paperwork and policy stuffed there by a kindly wizard. I didn’t mention the wizard? Don’t worry about him, he’s here to help. Just hold still and that left nostril will be stretched out in no time.

Let’s imagine you’ve survived the day. You’ve cleared your nasal cavity and the swelling has reduced. You’re ready for some light refreshment and entertainment, in the form of a glowing box of poorly written programming, where more fucking rats are now surrounded by cameras desperately hiding their horrific true personalities while trying to win some massive, undeserved jackpot.

And you, you get to start it all again tomorrow, when the shops open, there to be rat-fucked like the walking left nostril you are.

Rum and coke

Though I have recently passed my driving test I do not have a car. So now the most useful thing my license actually does is serve as ID for when I decide to buy alcohol.

It’s a stressful experience for someone with my features. Mainly because it looks and feels like Justin Beiber stole my face and became famous.

Yes I look young. Therefore fuckbags feel the need to ID me. All the time. I buy alcohol: ID. I buy cigarettes: ID. I buy a hammer with murderous intent: fucking ID.

It’s been a rough day. I fancy some rum. I pick up the rum, and I think I can’t have straight rum, I need cola, oh cola is 2 for £2.50? Why not? You know what would be great with this? Ice. So now I have heavy bags, but IT’S OK because a short walk home and rum and coke will flow.

I notice at this point that my jeans are starting to slip, not because I’m into that sort of fashion and certainly not because I’m an easy access prostitute but because I’m not wearing a belt. Why not, you may ask. Well it’s because this morning my jeans made me a promise; they sat on my hips and didn’t fall. They made a contract with me and I trusted my trousers. Wrongly. They betray me at inconvenient moments.

I’ve never said fuck so fucking much to an inanimate object. I won’t fold them. It’s the principle. They need to be punished. Fucking jeans.