And the sad truth is I don’t actually hate my job with all the scorn and loathing that I propagate in these pages. I suppose that, in a way, I actually kind of like some aspects of my job. Sort of.
I came to this realisation while scanning over my last post. Promotion Beckons was a fairly lazy, substandard effort at attacking the dreary of promotion. It read like someone who learnt all their politics from Rage Against the Machine album covers and all their philosophy from The Matrix (which sadly, isn’t too far from the truth).
However it contained no real venom, no bite, no vicious sting in the tail; it was only a tepid, pseudo-angry tirade. And that’s because I really didn’t have the gumption and energy to put the spite into it. Because the spite isn’t really there anymore. The spite has just become a dull nagging sensation that brings me neither pleasure nor pain. My job really isn’t as bad as I make out.
I like the people I work with. I like (some) of the customers I serve. The tasks I undertake, while an inconvenience, aren’t as soul crushingly painful as I make them out to be. My life for the past few months has just been a ridiculous, hyperbolic whine. I’m just complaining for the sake of complaining and things really aren’t that bad.
Luckily now, everything is becoming a little more zen in my hectic world.
That is until Aging Metalhead Twat comes in and ruins everything for everyone.
You know Aging Metalhead Twat. He’s that guy that sits in dingy little rock pubs, studiously drinking Newcastle Brown Ale or, if he sees himself as an even higher level Aging Metalhead Twat, some locally brewed ale that tastes of warm piss but he insists is a “true drink”. He’s the guy with the scraggy old beard, dirty long hair and a stained Motorhead T-shirt. He’s the guy who is always spouting about tales long ago when he was a roadie for Deep Purple (he wasn’t) or when he snorted cocaine in a toilet with Ozzy Osbourne (he didn’t).
He is sometime surrounded by a group of impressionable teenagers who think a guy who essentially hasn’t changed his lifestyle since he was 16 years old is the coolest thing in the world. He pretends to act superior to his followers and will use phrases like, “You kids nowadays don’t know what Metal is.” But he is constantly worried that this band of followers will one day become tired of his bullshit, filter away and find a new idol (or just grow up).
So why, I have to ask, would someone who clearly has something passionately against all things modern/commercial/brightly lit, come into a modern, multinational coffee chain with all its bulbs working? Why? Because he just wants to complain.
“This coffee isn’t black enough!”
“This coffee isn’t strong enough!”
“This music is rubbish!”
“The young people next to me are too loud and dress in colours far too bright.”
It’s as if Abe Simpson has suddenly donned a dirty leather jacket with AC/DC patches.
So here’s my advice to Aging Metalhead Twats everywhere: Go back to the dark little corner of the pub that you inhabit and leave coffeeshops to proactive commuters and jittery white collar workers. You knew before you came in that you weren’t going to like the place and I’ve heard every single one of your complaints before. You’re not cool for complaining. You’re not “metal” for complaining. You haven’t showed the system by complaining. You haven’t stayed true to your lifestyle because you haven’t had a hair cut for twenty years. Now brush the cobwebs out of your beard and fuck off. You've ruined my zen.
No comments:
Post a Comment