What The Fuck Is Going On

Before I start, let’s have a moment of silence and celebration for the departure of the prolapsed arsehole dressed as a human that is David William Donald Cameron.

Personally, I can draw a lot of similarities between Dave leaving today and that time when someone took a shit on my dining room chair and then quickly exited without helping to clean it up. The only difference between Dave and the anonymous Shitter is that the Shitter didn’t make the whole nation watch them do it.

So yes, let’s all have a moment to be really happy that he’s finally gone.

*  *  *

Everyone enjoy that? GOOD, because you won’t be enjoying anything else in this post.

Today I want to ask, What The Fuck Is Going On? 
Because I am confused. Britain has made me confused, and sad, and blind with rage. I think if I write down why, maybe people who know What The Fuck Is Going On will be able to let me in on What The Fuck Is Going On, too.

To hark back to a Facebook status I made recently:

• We have left the EU.
• All the key orchestrators of that decision have resigned.
• By Thursday, Theresa May is going to be our prime minister, unchallenged.
• The only potential serious opposition, The Labour party, is too busy eating itself to actually do any real opposing.
• The opposition may be run soon by a woman whose first name is "Argh".
• The opposition is also polling EIGHT points BEHIND the Tories.

So yes, please if you happen to know just What The Fuck Is Going On, please do read on, and help me.

*  *  *

Ham Cam has left, but he is being replaced ~in super democratic fashion~ by Theresa May. Let’s have a wee chat about Theresa May.

Theresa Mary May is 59 and was born on the 1^st October. If you were hoping I would continue to be impartial about her, I’d stop reading now. Theresa May – and I really mean this – is a fucking bellend. 
Don’t believe me? I went to the very useful website They Work For You to have a look at her voting record. Here are a few things that she voted for and against. A full list can be found here. 

• Theresa May voted against reducing the age of consent for homosexual acts from 18 to 16. (BECAUSE WHO NEEDS EQUALITY)
• Theresa May voted against a new law requiring private vehicles to be smoke-free where a person under the age of 18 is present. (BECAUSE KIDS INHALING CIGARETTE SMOKE IS SUPER COOL)
• Theresa May voted against the hunting ban. (BECAUSE FOXES ARE SCUM AND WE SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO SIT ON ON HORSEBACK WHILE OUR DOGS RIP THEM TO PIECES, THEN WIPE THE BLOOD ON OUR FACES AND RIDE GLORIOUSLY INTO THE SUNSET)
• Theresa May voted in favour of repealing the Human Rights Act 1998. (BECAUSE WHO THE FUCK NEEDS HUMAN RIGHTS, NOT US)
• Theresa May voted against allowing a terminally ill person to be lawfully given assistance to end their life. (BECAUSE IT’S NOT YOUR DECISION, FATALLY ILL PEOPLE IN TERRIBLE PAIN, AND YOU CAN’T DO WHAT YOU WANT TO MAKE YOURSELF MORE COMFORTABLE, FUCK OFF)
• Theresa May voted for the Iraq War. (Let’s not even go there right now, christ)
• Theresa May voted in favour of a referendum on the UK’s membership of the EU. (AND JUST LOOK AT WHERE WE ARE NOW, WONDERFUL)
• Theresa May voted for the bedroom tax. (BECAUSE THAT CUPBOARD FULL OF BOXES AND BABY CLOTHES AND ACTUAL SHIT IS IN FACT A BEDROOM YOU IDIOT SO SLEEP IN IT OR PAY ME)
• Theresa May voted against those unable to work due to illness or disability receiving higher benefits. (I don’t even have a comeback for this one, it’s just fucking nasty.)
• Theresa May voted against a banker’s bonus tax. (BECAUSE THEY NEED OUR HELP, THEY’RE SO VERY POOR, WAH)
• Theresa May voted against implementing a series of proposals intended to reduce tax avoidance and evasion. (I WONDER WHY)
• Theresa May voted for higher taxes on alcoholic drinks. (SO WHEN YOU’RE IN YOUR BEDROOM/CUPBOARD CRYING BOTH BECAUSE YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO FEED YOURSELF AND BECAUSE OF GUILT OVER THE DEATHS OF INNOCENT CIVILIANS YOU CAN’T EVEN HAVE A DRINK TO TAKE TO THE EDGE OFF)

And now, this woman, with her stellar voting record, and her vans telling immigrants to GO HOME is our prime minister. Now this woman, with her numerous similarities to Satan, is the leader of our nation.

This is nice, innit

One of the worst things about this? She wasn’t even close to being democratically elected. She just sat back, watched everyone else fall to pieces, and took the crown (how very Cersei). This, by the way, also makes her a hypocrite, given what she said about Gordon Brown in 2007. 

We need Theresa May as prime minister like a dead pig needs a dick in its mouth.

Having said that: I am actually delighted about her new position. This is because Theresa May is a WOMAN.

*  *  *

Let’s have a wee chat about WOMEN,or as they are affectionately known by me, The Superior Gender. I put the word in pink, because that’s what females like. They like pink, shoes, handbags, and of course other WOMEN. Which is why we should support, unthinkingly, our new overlord (sorry, overLADY) and all of us females should throw ourselves headfirst into the love-in over Angela Eagle. 
Because that’s what feminists do! We blindly back any woman, regardless of how much she is harming other women! Because a xenophobic, elitist, out of touch, maniacal WOMAN in power is better than no WOMAN in power at all. And we’d do well to remember that.

Let’s have a wee chat about Angela Eagle, or as she is affectionately known by me, “Argh” Eagle (due to her disastrous campaign posters featuring her signature over both a patriotic and FEMALE union flag).

Look at all the things ladies like being displayed here

I looked up someone’s voting record again. Less extensively than last time:

•         Angela Eagle voted for university tuition fees. (After enjoying free university herself. Because when you reach the top of the ladder the best thing to do is to kick it away, so none of those peasants can join you.)
•          Angela Eagle voted for the Iraq war. (AAAAARGH)
•         Angela Eagle voted against an investigation into the Iraq war. (Will the real Sir Chilcot please stand up)
•          Angela Eagle voted for air strikes on Syria. (AAAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH DID YOU LEARN NOTHING)
•          Anglea Eagle abstained on the welfare bill. (Bloody brilliant, not like those poor people need you anyway, right?)
•          Angela Eagle voted against selling England’s state owned forests. (Because everyone has some redeeming factors, don’t they? #HOOF)

With a voting record like that, you could probably confuse Argh for someone rather right wing. 
The Labour Party defines itself as a “democratic, socialist party”. Correct me if I’m wrong, but 'socialist' and 'right wing' don’t tend to go hand in hand, do they? We had a go at having someone not really all that left wing in charge, and look how well that went.

Rly thrilled with how everything is going

If Labour are actually going to be the “democratic, socialist party” they claim they are, perhaps they should stop fucking around and try and unite behind the ~actual socialist~ that was democratically elected last September with an overwhelming shitting mandate. The Labour party needs Angela Eagle (or Owen Smith, whoever he is) as its leader like a dead pig needs a dick in its mouth.

While I’m here, let’s have a wee chat about Jeremy Corbyn, or, as he is affectionately known by me, Heart Eyes Emoji In The Form Of A Human Man.

It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that I love Jez. I love his face, and his beard, and his crumpled shirts, and the t-shirts he wears under them, and his withering looks, and his overall aura of giving absolutely no fucks. And that doesn’t even touch on his politics. 
I’m a raving left wing socialist fanatic, of course I love him. The man who opposed apartheid so hard he was arrested for it.  The man who objects to austerity in all of its ugly forms and never shuts up about it. The man who is a pacifist, and proud. The man who has announced a plan to scrap tuition fees. The man so full of integrity that actually he might be running the party into the ground a bit because he’s that stubborn but actually who cares because he’s the opposite of Personality Politicians and in my own stubborn brain I think that might be exactly what this shithole of a nation needs right now. 
And I know, I know, that Jezzer Corbantz might not be the most charismatic man that ever lived. I know sometimes in interviews he comes off as cold, or as if he thinks the interviewer is stupid (often justified, loads of them are), but get this – we had a charismatic Labour leader; we tried that. Blair was charismatic as hell, and over a hundred thousand Iraqis died because of him. (Yes, because of him. Fight me.)

I love you, Heart Eyes Emoji In The Form Of A Human Man. I’m going to be voting for you again. Obviously.

This brings me very neatly to the PLP, or as they are affectionately known by me, The Backstabbing Bastards Who Only Give A Crap About Their Own Careers. Three quarters of MPs supported a vote of no confidence in Corbyn the other week, conveniently ignoring that 251,417 Labour party members and supporters expressed extreme confidence in him when they voted him in last year (not to mention the hundreds of thousands of people who joined Labour after he was elected). Funny that.

Yesterday, it was confirmed that Corbyn would be allowed to be on the ballot for the leadership election. However the NEC, or as they are affectionately known by me, The Gang Of Massive Fucking Judases, waited till Corbz left and then did a super sneaky thing. Robert Peston yesterday reported that the NEC ruled that the 130,000-ish members who signed up since Brexit would be denied a vote. Unless – and it’s a big fucking Unless – they could pay £25 in the next two days.

UNDERHANDED CUNTS.

Here’s my take on this. £3, even to someone on JSA or living solely on benefits, is not a lot of money. £3 is a reasonable amount to pay to sign up and be given a voice. £25, however, is not. Shelly Asquith, Vice President at the NUS, put it this way:

To any working class people (i.e. a huge number of Labour's support), £25 is quite a lot of money! So to have paid your £3, and been assured that you will have the right to vote in all leadership elections, only to be told that the amount is now 8x the size and payable in 2 days? You’d feel a little put out too, right? How wonderfully democratic and fair of the NEC. I cannot express enough how much this has annoyed me. 

EXPLAIN THIS.

For a “democratic, socialist party” they are certainly doing a lot to alienate their working class voters in the most undemocratic way possible. I became a member last September, so I’m fine, but I’ll be fucked if I’m going to sit back and watch other people be denied the vote THAT THEY ALREADY PAID FOR. So if anyone hears of any protests that need numbers, petitions that need signing, or for someone to puke on a piece of paper and mould it into the shape of a complaint letter, please do hit me up.

. 

*  *  *

So, in summary:

•        I am still SO MAD that this rainy fascist island voted to leave the EU. Why, Britain? If, on top of everything else, we lose Scotland and Wales over this, I'm going to shit a whole brick. 
•      The Tories were, and still are, shithouses. Fuck you for making us all suffer Theresa May.
•      The Labour party, who have *quite* the window to be doing some stellar opposing, are instead hell bent on opposing each other, which as you can tell I am THRILLED about.
•      Don’t think we’ve forgotten about you, Nigel Farage, or as he is affectionately known by me, Man For Whom The Word Cunt Is Too Good. I remember your racist poster in the run up to Brexit. I remember your words after Jo Cox was murdered. I remember you conveniently resigning but holding on to your MEP salary until we ‘officially’ leave the EU. I remember it all, and if you even try to make a political comeback, I will personally campaign as hard as I can to ensure that you are deported to the heart of the sun.

•         If anyone wants to try and secede from the UK, create a nice new country where everyone is just better to each other, and we have festivals all the time (perhaps like an independent Scotland, but warmer), get in touch. I’m well up for it.
•         Seriously, What The Fuck Is Going On.

The Grey Cloud.

I have depression.

I was diagnosed around 18 months ago, but am only really telling people now. Immediately after I found out, I went through a period where I told lots of people – I got very drunk and very high (sorry dad) at a party and told 4 people in 10 minutes. They were some of my closest friends, and they weren't surprised. It’s taken me a lot longer to tell my family, and any of my other friends – some very close, some distant, all wonderful.

In October 2015 I’d gone to speak to a nurse at my GP, and she told me, very frankly, ‘I think you have depression.’ As soon as she said it, I realised I already knew. That’s all I thought - I know. And at that time, just to know was a relief.

* * *

Depression (as with all mental illnesses) is a very personal thing; I don’t believe that two people experience it in the same way.

Mine is what you might call “mild”. I have scores of good days; weeks can go by and I won’t notice it. Then I’ll have a cluster of bad days and nights. I won’t sleep much, I’ll over eat, I’ll be unfriendly and sullen, and I’ll cry and cry and cry for hours at a time. During these times I find it a struggle to get out of bed and into the shower, to leave the house or to talk on the phone. Recently, my brain has developed the clever strategy of convincing my body that it’s ill, I guess so I have a “reason” not to do any of those things.  This is something I discovered at my last counselling session.  

Churchill described his depression as a black dog; I think of mine as a grey cloud. It comes, it will linger, but it will always leave.

I've found some amazing coping mechanisms. Something that very unexpectedly helped – and I can sense some of you about to roll your eyes – was Twitter. It was an odd thing at first, being witness to thousands of other people’s mental illnesses, but it’s actually an amazing support network. I've had conversations with people I will likely never meet about their own experience with depression, and it’s been unimaginably helpful. It was through Twitter that I learned about self care in a mental capacity, too. Self care refers to any of the little things I do to stop it from all being too much.

Before I was diagnosed, when I would feel the grey cloud starting to appear, I would take myself off to Heathrow airport and watch the planes leave. I would spend time under the bed, keeping myself to myself. I recently bought myself a 5 year diary, and I write a line a day about what I've done. It helps. Last summer, when I was feeling particularly lonely, I would go and sit on a bench by Hammersmith Bridge and listen to Zero 7. Sometimes I take my lovely boyfriend and cocoon the both of us for a while. He lets me, because he’s the best. It helps. A few weeks ago, I left Facebook.

* * *

Facebook was a funny one. I love it, usually – I like to hear what you’re all getting up to, and I'm the rare breed of person who enjoys the countless baby updates from new parents. I also feed off likes; they give me an almost scary sense of self-satisfaction. I have said something funny. People like this, so they like me.

Of late though, I had enough. I read some things I didn't like – I found out some people I thought were friends were harbouring some really bigoted views, and that was too much.

In the wider world, I'm used to feeling like The Other. As a black person, a black woman, I can be made to feel inferior or stupid at times, and though I hate it, I can cope with it. I didn't think those feelings would ever come from people I’d like to consider friends.

When the grey cloud appears, I can convince myself that I am worthless, that my opinions are meaningless, and worst of all that I'm the reason other people are uncomfortable. I started to worry if it was a problem with me – that my blackness and my Otherness had made these people think that way. My rational self knows this isn't true. But hey! Turns out most of the time, Depressed Me just isn't that rational.

A few weeks ago, someone posted something racist. I started to feel terrible about it, and then I decided I didn't need it any more. I didn't need to see this every day from people I knew and liked. So I left. And fuck, I feel so much better.

I'll probably be back at some point in the near future, photos of all of you are too much to resist.

* * *

The final thing I want to do is apologise.

To anyone I have flaked out on, and given a bullshit excuse for – I'm sorry. Sometimes I genuinely am just flaky, but now and again, it’s because I can’t. Thank you for understanding.

To my dearest friends that I have occasionally been awful to – I'm so sorry. Thank you for sticking with me, I appreciate it so very much.

To my family, for not telling you sooner – I wasn't ready. But I am now. I love you.

* * *

“I think you have depression.”

I know.

And now you know, too.

Thank you. xx

Tiger Face Paint is Cool

Three weeks ago I was walking home from work and a man shouted out that I was sexy. He called me “baby”. I did not appreciate this. I told him – and his giggling friends – why this was the case.

A very kind father and his children stopped to make sure I was ok; something I am incredibly grateful for.

I then went home and wrote letters to the people involved – letters that I will never be able to send, sadly. I have paraphrased them for blogging purposes.

Side note: I use the F word, the C word and the L word. The L word being ladyballs. 

To the friends –

I hope you’re proud of yourselves. I hope you’re proud of the fact that when I called out your friend you all went completely silent – cowardice at its finest. I get the idea that a woman has never confronted any of you before. 

When the four of you go out and sit by Hammersmith Bridge and catcall female commuters, is your friend usually the ringleader or do you all take turns?

Do you all take turns making these women feel like they’re dressed inappropriately? Do you all take turns making these women think that their walk is maybe too provocative? Do you all take turns in making these women think that maybe they did somehow invite the comments, that you were within your rights to say these things?

Does it make you feel like you’ve accomplished something, making these women think and feel these things?

Does it reinforce your sense of “manliness”?

Does it make you happy?

To the man who stopped –

Thank you. Thank you so much.  

Out of all of the people who walked past me being sexually harassed on the street, you were the only one who stopped and asked if I was ok. You backed me up while I was spewing rage at the sexist pigs.

You went beyond that, too. You went on to explain to your daughter why the men were saying what they were saying, and why it was sexist, and why that upset me. You explained that if anyone was to say similar things to her, she had every right to question them, just as I did.

You then stood by her when she took it upon herself to question the men then and there.

You are clearly a fantastic father and an all-round lovely man, and I cannot thank you enough for stopping.

To the little girl with the tiger face paint –

First of all, your dad did a really good thing by stopping and making sure I was ok. If you ever see anyone in an uncomfortable position, I hope you do the same.

Second of all, you are AWESOME. Not just because of the tiger face paint, either. At the age of seven you had big enough ladyballs (sorry) to stand up to those horrible men and ask them why they were making unwelcome remarks.

When they couldn’t answer, you kept asking. You helped them to – hopefully – come to the realisation that what they were saying was wrong.

If ever something seems immoral or unethical to you, never ever stop questioning it. Never stop asking why. Continue to be awesome, continue to wear that tiger face paint and continue to challenge sexism.  We women thank you for your services.

To myself –

I’m proud of you. Well done for turning around. Well done for not simply walking on, ashamed, when he said those things to you and all of his friends laughed and high fived.

Well done for standing your ground. Well done for looking him straight in the eye and asking if he was talking to you. Well done for telling them you didn’t appreciate being called “sexy” and “baby”.  Well done for not running scared from the problem and wallowing for the rest of the day.

I really hope it doesn’t happen to you again. If it does, do exactly as you did. Next time, maybe more people will support you.

You won’t always have ridiculously cool seven-year-olds there to school horrible sexists. But hell, you can do it yourself. You did well.

To the main culprit –

Those things that you see with the breasts and legs and bums and eyes and hair and skirts and heels and dresses and bras and vaginas are people. They’re women. I don’t know if it’s because you’re afraid of us, or if you had a bad experience with one or several of us, or if you are trying to conceal latent homosexuality, or if you really are just that socially retarded, but it is not ok for you to make us feel like objects.

Does having a cackling crew of cunts (yeah I fucking said it, enjoy the alliteration) make you feel brilliant about yourself?  Does it make you feel like the big man, having people laugh when you humiliate women? Does it help with your own self-esteem?

I feel sorry for you. Sorry that you are unable to speak to women as if they are human beings. Sorry that it probably impedes on your success with the opposite sex. (Unless I was right about the latent homosexuality, in which case, embrace your preferences. If your friends don’t want to be your friends because of it, fuck em. Make new friends. It’s 2014; homophobia should not be acceptable (HEY, JUST LIKE SEXISM). Stop being so gay about it.)

When you called after me the other day I could only assume, by the sheer arrogance present in your voice, that you had been doing it to women for years, and that nobody had stood up to you.

Well I did, and I’m proud of that. Hopefully now you’ll understand that women don’t like being defined by what they’re wearing that day and whether or not they have a nice pair of tits.

It’s a shame that it took the logic of someone twenty years your junior to make you stop grinning that perverted grin at me, but I’m glad it did. I’m glad you were humiliated by a child. I hope that someone so young questioning your behaviour made you stop and think that perhaps you were being childish yourself.

More than anything, I hope that you think twice before you speak to another woman in that way. Life is better when we all respect one another.

I'm cross again!

Hello everybody! (Presuming more than one of you will read this. I really hope so.) 

I exited my little Norwich bubble last week to visit London. I love going home – my family are there, my friends (not all, but lots) are there, it’s all busy and bright and it’s my home. However, I was irked by something this time.

It’s not hard to be irked by things in London, especially if you hate the general public with a burning passion, like I do. Many of these irksome things occur on public transport – long queues; stupidly long delays (leaves on the track does not a 40-minute standstill make); people pushing you for no earthly reason; bizarre smells (not a good bizarre. A horrific bizarre); and advertising all over the place, wherever you look, forcing its way into your brain until you daydream in fancy colour schemes and £700 tablets and a foot spa that you’ve only just seen but now remember you’ve been needing for your whole entire lifes.

Grrr.

In case you haven’t guessed, this is an advertising-related irk.

There’s a new Nokia that’s just come out. The Lumia 39346456754yourlifeisshitunlessyouhavethisimmediately68123862835904K, or something. Now, I think smartphones are great. I recently became the owner of one and I love it with all my heart and fingertips. It’s got no buttons! It’s got the internet! It’s got an app where you can add tiny pizza slices to selfies which is TOTALLY NECESSARY! It’s fabulous. That’s not what irks me so.

What irks me so is the advert for the new one. Nokia Lumia’s have Windows on them, which is cool. This means you can do all your Microsoft shit anywhere you want. Revolutionary, man. So you can edit your spreadsheets or time your presentations or even draft a blog post (lolz) anywhere. I have no issue with this; it’s actually a really good idea. What I have an issue with is how they have presented this really good idea.

The advert in question features a picture of the phone, looking all shiny, with a display of an Excel spreadsheet on it. The words next to it read “EXCEL IN BED.”

WELL DONE NOKIA AND WINDOWS, YOU MADE A FUNNY, SO MUCH LOL.

What on earth possessed the advertisers to do that?

You might be thinking there’s nothing wrong with it; that actually it’s pretty funny. The reality is that the advert has been sent to us straight from Satan. I’m 100% sure of this. Before I rant on, have a look at it:

An image I took whilst ABSOLUTELY ENRAGED on the tube. Taken on my Nokia Lumia, ironically.

So – Nokia and Windows want us all to “Excel in bed”. Only not in the good way. Nokia and Windows are advocating people using their phones in bed, rather than doing more fun things like sleeping and picking at scabs and eating Chinese food and watching Green Wing. (You thought I was going to say sex, didn’t you? You dirty minded little minx.)

What a moronic idea, Nokia and Windows. Bedtime is the best time for pillowtalk, or having a good long think, or reading a book, or yes, getting down and durrrrty to some good old fashioned Marvin Gaye.  It is not the time for inputting formulas or making graphs or whatever else Excel is supposedly useful for.

The idea that doing work on your phone (or your laptop, or any device, really) is more important than getting the relaxation you’re supposed to at bedtime makes me cross. So cross that I’m considering writing a stern letter to Nokia, Windows and Transport for London. “Dear Advertising Imbeciles, I’m REALLY FUCKING ANGRY with all of you. Here’s why…”

I don’t want to tell anyone what to do, or how to live, but you shouldn't be doing work in bed, regardless of whether or not you share it with someone. You also shouldn't be checking texts, or on Facebook, or taking those god-awful after sex selfies that have started sweeping social media like a disease.

I am basically repeating every Guardian commentisfree article written by a young person in the last eight months, but I really think it’s important. Technology is such a massive part of all of our lives now, but we need to remember to switch off every once in a while.

Enjoy the things in life that don’t come with a screen. I can say this because I am one of the biggest screen-loving offenders; I watch about 400 shows a week, am completely addicted to Facebook and will binge watch TV like nothing you've ever seen.*  However, even I know that the short time I have between getting in to bed and falling asleep is precious. I know that if I spent the whole time on my phone I would be missing out. I've had some of the best relationship-solidifying conversations in bed. Some of the short stories I'm most proud of were formed in those moments, too. If I’d been scrolling through Tinder I highly doubt inspiration would have struck.

Although now that I've said that, a story set in a parallel universe where a Tinder-user meets what she thinks is the love of her life, but is in fact a cyborg centaur, is slowly forming in my mind.

Now stop reading this on your phone, turn over and sleep/read/think/sex it up. You wouldn't want to irk me, now would you?

*I actually think binge-watching would make an excellent competitive sport. Watching people watch TV for 400 straight hours? THAT WOULD BE SO FUCKING GOOD. 

Customer gripe.

Good afternoon all.

I am a disgruntled worker in the customer service sector. Before you assume that I’ve been working as a waitress for a week and hate it because I’m a lazy youth who would much prefer to be sitting down watching movies and stuffing my face and wouldn’t know a hard days’ work if it hit me in the behind and therefore can’t possibly comment, let me give you some background. I very nearly wrote “let me hit you with some knowledge”, but I fear a Dodgeball reference would only reinforce your view of me as the aforementioned lazy youth.

I’ve been working since I was 13, specifically in the customer service sector since I was 15. I’ve worked as a babysitter, waitress, shop floor attendant, nanny, bartender, and receptionist (at various times, not all at once. I’m not fucking Jesus.) I have, over the past seven years, honed my customer service skills to perfection. I mean perfection. I can detect the mood of a customer from 100 paces, therefore knowing how to adjust my facial expression and tone of my voice accordingly so they believe I am truly interested in them personally, and don’t think I’m taking the piss.

Seven years is a long time. I’m 22; seven years is almost a third of my life. I have devoted a third of my life to making sure that other people are so happy they can barely contain themselves, whilst simultaneously making sure they believe that I am 12,000 times happier than I actually am. This fact is vaguely soul-destroying. In order to stop myself from tearing out lots of hair (my own, someone else’s, I’m not fussy) or smashing glasses or smearing a poo-filled nappy into someone’s face, I created a list of things that annoy me about my customers. This list may seem masochistic to you, but I find it cathartic.

Whenever I have to serve a grownup more whiny and needy than a one-year-old that’s been sat in urine for three hours, I remember the list. Suddenly I no longer want to tear/smash/smear anything, and can continue to dazzle them with my winning smile. (I’m not being facetious here; I actually do have a winning smile. I went on a customer service course a few years ago, an hour of which was dedicated to creating the perfect smile, and I was the only one to be given a “good work” sticker during that hour. It may sound trivial, but it was the single greatest achievement of my entire life.)

I realise I could get into real trouble for not only thinking these things, but daring to write them down and then – gasp – publish them on the internet. If I am fired it won’t be in vain, as long as just one customer who has ever acted in any of these ways has read and learnt from my grumbling. (Obviously, though, I would rather not be fired.)

Below is the list. And below that are anecdotes of some encounters with particularly odious customers.

In order to get the most out of the list, imagine that you are the customer who has just done something utterly fuckwitted, and that I am saying out loud to you what I usually say in my head behind my sticker-earning smile.

1. My name is not “Oi.” Do not use it to get my attention. Would you call any other person working in any other profession “Oi”? I bet you wouldn’t. When was the last time you called a police officer “Oi”? Exactly.
2. On the subject of names, mine is also not “darling”, “sweetheart”, “love” or anything else repulsive. Those nicknames are reserved for my parents and my boyfriend. In case you were wondering, my name is Shoni. (Just like that, I’m no longer anonymous. Let’s hope I don’t get fired.)
3. On the subject of knowing my name, if you pronounce it wrong and I correct you, please try and remember. If after correcting you three billion times I start answering to “Shona”, it isn’t because I enjoyed your pronunciation of it so much I went and changed my name. It’s because I’m bored of correcting you and have other things to be getting on with. I may answer to Shona, but it’s not my name. There’s an entirely different vowel sound flung in there. If your name was Jon and I went around calling you Jen you wouldn’t like that, would you?
4. You are not always right. I know, I know, I’m going directly against everything I’ve ever been taught. Honestly though, you are not always right, and in this instance you are definitely not right. I am right. I’m always right. I work here. I know more about it than you do. I am right. Christ.

(Heads up, number 5 is aimed at a specific group of people, so if you’re not a racist, head straight down to number 6.)

5. STOP BEING RACIST. That deserved capitals. It is 2013; this should no longer be an issue. If I have to say to one more person ‘No really, I’m from London. I was born there. So were my parents,’ I’m going to break a plate over their skull. Just because I’m black and don’t have an English-sounding name doesn’t automatically mean I can’t speak English. I’m actually pretty eloquent when I’m not silently fuming or writing a passive-aggressive blog post. Also, don’t ask me if I’m sure I was born in Britain. Of course I’m sure. Are you sure you’re a dickhead?
6. (If you’ve come straight here from number 4, I congratulate you on not being a total cock. Here’s the next thing I’m cross about.) Don’t assume that just because I work in the industry I do that I’m not intelligent. Yes, I realise someone intelligent would have phrased that better. Oh, the irony. Seriously though, I’m a university graduate. Even if I wasn’t, how dare you assume that because I’m serving you it means I’m not as clever as you?
7. Wave your arms or click your fingers all you want mate. The more you do it the less I want to serve you. No really, keep going, I’m here all night and I’m bored; playing “Let’s Pretend I Haven’t Seen Them” with myself is actually super fun. 
8. Don’t even think about asking me for something while I’m clearly serving someone else. Why would you do that in the first place? It’s not only distracting for me; it’s disrespectful to the person who actually waited in line to be served. It’s the equivalent of going up to a doctor while they’re sticking a thermometer up someone’s arse and demanding they examine your tongue. That was a stupid analogy; it’s nowhere near the same thing. But the image of a doctor finishing a rectal exam and immediately sticking their fingers in your mouth is making me really happy.
9. For the love of Pete, don’t complain about me while I’m right there. Either do it to my face, or wait till I’m out of earshot. Once I’m away from your table, I don’t care if you moan to your friends about some horribly huge mistake I’ve made, like putting the ketchup next to you. (Sounds ridiculous, but it actually happened. See anecdote 3.)  Go ahead, wait till I’ve walked away and gripe about it till you’re satisfied but don’t do it while I’m only two paces away. I can hear you, arse face. It hurts my feelings when someone bitches about me loudly while I’m right there. I’m a human being.
10. On the subject of human beings, please try and remember that I am one. It’s really easy. You only have to ask yourself one question: ‘If this was my friend I was talking to, would I say to them what I am saying to her?’ If so, you’re probably a crappy friend. If not, you’re probably being a dick. No matter how annoyed you become with the person serving you, there is no excuse for turning all Gordon Ramsey on them. They don’t deserve to be the recipient of your insecurities about your penis (or vagina, try to keep it gender neutral). They’re trying to do their job. And do you honestly believe that you shouting and swearing at them and calling them horrible names is going to make them serve you quicker or get your order right? No. It’s going to turn them into a crumpled mess of emotions, like any normal human being. Because that’s what they are, what we are. Human beings.

That just about concludes my list of things. Of course, it’s a hell of a lot longer, but I'm writing a blog post, not a book. Those ten are the most annoying things customers can do. More will crop up in my anecdotes below. If you've succeeded in reading this far, you deserve your own “good work” sticker. Sometimes I find my own writing horrible to read, so well done.

Now for the anecdotes. Some funny, some horribly unbelievable, all containing gobshites. For the sake of me remaining un-fired, I have not referred to anyone by anything other than gender and haven’t written where all of this happened.

1.                I was cleaning things, and a customer came in and ordered a pint (no prizes for guessing in which environment this story takes place.) The lovely customer asked me my name, I tell him, and his reaction is one of complete surprise. Oh, I'm so sorry I'm not called Elizabeth, a proper British name that you would understand. (Actually, my middle name is Elizabeth, what a scream.) Here is how the rest of our conversation panned out:

‘So, where are you from?’

‘London, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Were you born in London though?”

“Yep, in Roehampton.”

“Your mum and dad are from there too?”

“Yeah, they are.”

“But were they born in London?”

“Yes…”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Oh….” (At this point, I knew he was stumped. I could put him out of misery, and tell him my family history, but I didn't feel like doing that.) “What about your grandparents?”

(There it is.) “Blah blah blah Africa, blah blah America, blah blah the Caribbean.”

“Oh, ok. I knew you weren't all British, just had to figure out where it came from.”

Excuse my French, but what the fuck. Where what came from? While the rest of the conversation may have been paraphrasing, I remember the “where it came from” like it was yesterday. It’s been bothering me ever since. And the worst thing? I've had this conversation with so many people in so many workplaces that I've lost count. Recently, someone was surprised when I said hello and good afternoon to them. When I asked if they were all right, they replied ‘Oh yes, I just don’t expect your people to be good at customer service.’ That knocked me for six. "Your people"?? All the same are we? Get out. Oh, and there is of course the age old statement: ‘We don’t see many of your lot round here.’ which I worked out is best responded to with: ‘What, women?’ as it confuses them. Generally people I ask that to make the same face as my cat when confronted with many pieces of paper.

2.                Customer comes into the workplace with a bag of Chinese food. It is right in the middle of dinner service, so he can clearly see that we serve food. He asks ‘If I buy a drink, is it cool to eat this in here?’ No, customer. No it is not “cool”. Get out. I try and tell him this as politely as possible, and he asks to see my manager. I explain that my manager is currently busy, and that they would see him but until then he would have to wait outside. At this point, another customer comes to me and asks what he can smell, as it smells great and would like to order it. Realises what he can smell is Chinese food. He and his date leave abruptly to go and buy Chinese food. Customer with original Chinese food doesn't see a problem with this. Says he’ll wait for the manager inside, goes to the recently vacated table, sits down. At this point, couple who actually want to eat our food come in. Table with Chinese food man is the only one available. Fuckity fuck. Obviously that did not end pleasantly. I would like to say that was a new experience for me, but unfortunately it had happened before at another workplace, where a customer came in with a Caffé Nero cup and couldn't possibly imagine what might be wrong with that.

3.                This is the one I referred to in number 9 on the list. A wonderful man ordered a meal. In this meal, he wanted nothing red. ‘ABSOLUTELY NOTHING RED’ (accompanied this with huge sweeping hand gestures). I get that, I don't really like tomatoes either. I tell the kitchen. Dinner comes. His friends ask for ketchup. I go and get ketchup, and place it on the table. I have taken less than three steps away when I hear ABSOLUTELY NOTHING RED say ‘Did I or did I not tell her I wanted nothing red near my meal? And now she puts the ketchup down here. She knows I didn't want it. Is she stupid?’ I know this word for word as it happened only a few nights ago and I'm still quite upset it, being a human being with emotions. I'm sorry, Mr ABSOLUTELY NOTHING RED, that I put the ketchup near you. I'm sorry that upset you so very much. Next time I will squeeze the ketchup out onto your friends’ dinners myself. Or better yet, load a water gun with it and squirt it directly onto your friends’ plates from a safe distance. Naturally, your friends will be sitting at a different table to you, as you can’t possibly be in the same area as ANYTHING RED.

4.                I was working a particular establishment where we were encouraged to look very nice for work. So nice in fact that the main reason our customers would want to come in was because of the way the staff looked. No it was a strip club or Hooters, but thank you for thinking I'm attractive enough to work in either of those places, how kind.
Anyway, one of customers decided it would be appropriate to comment on how my backside was looking that evening. To be fair it was looking fantastic but that didn't mean I was going to enjoy him commenting on it. The fact that I didn't enjoy him commenting on my backside confused the customer – he pulled the cat/paper face and everything – to the point where eventually he ended up calling me frigid. I'm not sure in what universe me asking a stranger to stop talking about my arse makes me frigid. Perhaps you would have preferred me to fall at your feet, gushing: 'Oh, What’s that customer? You really like the way my bum looks? Bear with me one moment while I take all my clothes off and lead you by the tie to my bedroom.' NO.

5.                Another one along the lines of being stupid. Serving a lady, who asks for a gin and tonic with no ice. First of all, no ice? Are you a Neanderthal? Who drinks a gin and tonic with no ice? Anyway, I forget this, or deliberately ignore it, according to them. No matter that she could have stopped me while I was putting ice into the glass – they did watch me do it after all – it’s clearly my fault, as I'm an idiot who doesn't listen or did listen and chose to ignore them, not simply a person who had been working for 8 hours on her feet and simply did the very human thing of forgetting something. No, by all means customer, please listen to your friend and say: ‘She’s put ice in there. Why has she done that?’ and then say in return: ‘well what do you expect from someone who works in a bar?’

EXCUSE ME? Just because I am working here doesn't mean I'm some sort of idiot. I may be younger than you and wearing incredibly dirty jeans and working a minimum wage job but that does not mean you’re allowed to judge me, in any way. As it turns out, I have a degree, not a bad one either. I'm working to earn money to go back to university so I can become at teacher and one day hopefully teach your children that their parent is a rude old bugger. Please see grouch number 6. Even if I hadn't been to university and didn't have A Levels, or GCSEs, or anything at all, how dare you judge me in that manner. I am the recipient of a “good work” sticker for the creating a perfect smile section of the customer service course, so you can fuck right off. How’s that for customer service.

Those of you who have read this far, I'm very surprised at your dedication. If you are one of the people who has ever acted in any of these ways, shame on you, and I hope you change your ways. If you’re my boss, please don’t fire me. If you work in customer service, I salute you a thousand times. If you are none of these things, how on earth have you just read 3,000 words of this utter tripe? Find something better to do with your day.

Oh and also, the sticker thing was bullshit. Sorry.