The Domestic Terrorist - The Great Disservice

THE GREAT DISSERVICE

I’m going to try not to patronise you with political nonsense today. Trust me. There are some things, some aspects of life which are – somewhat – more important than that.

Really. But I know one thing. I’m never going to be one of those people who claims that Britain is Great. That I love my country. Because I don’t. I can’t.

There’s a good reason for this. Not only is it influenced slightly by the fact that I’m currently sat in Peterborough station surrounded by snowbound commuters. But it’s the service of culture that anyone whose every tried public transport, or a complaint to Railtrack, or ordered food from a sandwich shop recently.

When you’re abroad – and the last time I truly went abroad I went to Majorca with my girlfriend – the one thing I noticed is how, over there, nothing is a problem.

Want to buy food at 1am on the high street? No problem. There’s a burger joint open and someone whose happy to serve you.

Want to go shopping for clothes? Looking for a CD? No problem. The shops are open at times to suit you – not them – and the people are actually helpful and they know what they’re talking about.

Shortly after that, we landed at Gatwick at 8am. Now, I don’t think it’s too difficult to be able to find somewhere you can buy a sandwich at 8am in one of the major airports of the world.

Oh yes it bloody is. A greasy spoon café was all I can find, and there, the bitter, pinched evilfaced woman behind the counter sneered at the customers. It made buying food – and spending money at a business – in a genuinely painful experienced. I felt as if I was being punished for wanting to eat and having money in my hand.

SERVICE WITH A SNEER

Service with a sneer. I wasn’t told what type of day to have – but I was ordered to have a grim day. Now. I know these people – at least I think they’re people, despite having no manners whatsoever – make a pittance of minimum wage. But what about us? We don’t choose to be here, eating overpriced undercooked slop. We’re victims of circumstance just as much as anyone else.

Jesus. This rudeness! It’s downright unpleasant. This morning I was sat in a nightclub at 8am, having had the pleasure of a corporate-reclaimable (thank God!) breakfast that cost me about £5.95, and consisted of a bowl of cornflakes, cold tea, and half-burnt blackened charred toast, served to me by Kevin The Teenager.

Total cost of ingredients was approximately 80p. Including milk. If I’d brought my own toaster I could’ve done it all and saved myself a fiver. And the joy of being sneered at by an inarticulate half-wit.

Manners – as the cliché goes – costs nothing. But a lack of manners costs everything. Because in England, service never comes with a smile. It comes with a sneer. We’re lucky to be sold overpriced slop. We’re lucky that all the shops close at 5.30pm and you can’t even buy a loaf of bread after 7pm in most towns. We’re lucky that even the most basic two bedroom flat costs about a quarter of a million pounds near the coast?

Are we lucky to live in an overpriced, superprivileged first world?

I should be so lucky, (lucky, lucky, lucky,) to have service that makes me feel as if I’ve been served instead of sneered at. Because otherwise Britain is doing itself a disservice.

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