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Subway Stories: That Time I Got Blamed For Famine

No, you didn’t read that title wrong.

So, in Subway, you can get three different sizes of sandwich; the foot-long (over which there was some controversy in America, when customers began to question whether they were actually getting a foot-long sandwich); the six inch (which after ordering, one guy once walked out of the shop after ordering and finding my co-worker had cut it at 5.8 inches); and the kids pack, which is four inches long.

I don’t know if adults are technically allowed the kids pack, but what the heck, I don’t work there anymore. It’s behind me now.

Anyway, this one time, a guy comes in; it’s late, he’s pretty drunk, and asks for the smallest thing on the menu. I try to be nice; I suggest the kids pack; it’s like a quid cheaper than everything else on the menu. He’s all for it.

So I get the bread out; cut two inches off a six inch. And since no one get’s two inches of sandwich, I put it with the other wasted bread.

He instantly catches on to this.

“What’re you going to do with that piece of bread?” he asks me. And I tell him. I’m tired, I just want to go home.

“You’re throwing it away?!” he asks. I already hate him by this stage. But I don’t show it.

He goes on to remind me there are people starving in Africa. A whole continent of starving children. And here I am, throwing away two inches of bread. He looks at me as if asking how I sleep at night.

And then he just goes ahead and says it. That those same children are starving because I’m throwing away food.

He then asked me how I felt about the whole situation. How I felt that I was causing people to starve.

HOLD UP. Not that this is entirely relevant; but you’re a white Irish guy. I’m a second generation African. I FEEL LIKE I HAVE MORE BLOODY STAKE IN THIS THAN YOU DO. Prick.

And I’m making you food. I could just tell you to fuck off. Don’t act like you’re better than me. Drunk, alone and heckling someone who’s making you some much needed food.

So I turned it around on him. I asked how he felt ordering such a small sandwich to force me to cut some bread off and waste it, thereby starving those same children.

He didn’t like that. He tried to glare at me. But he was too drunk to maintain eye-contact.

He tried another retort. I’d stopped listening by this point, so I told him whatever he said was ‘Great’ and asked if he would like any salad in his sandwich.

He shut up after that. The silence was bliss.

Now, on one hand, I understand that it is a waste. But then, if we were to cut some of the bread into thirds, and no one ordered kids packs, that in itself would be more of a waste. Kids don’t want smaller bits of food. They want what adults are getting.

And more importantly, as I’ve already mentioned. If you’re asking someone to do something for you, maybe DON’T FUCKING TRY AND INSULT THEM IF YOU WANT THE JOB TO GET FINISHED. I don’t care if you need to sober up. Try dealing with your drinking problems without being an arsehole, yeah?

You just can’t win.

So that was the time I got accused of famine in Africa. I don’t miss Subway.


 

Anywho; completely unrelated; this week I’m working on a project researching if it’s possible to make money off film reviewing. Because watching films and getting paid for it sounds quite lovely, am I right?

That’ll be up in a few days. So film buffs, keep an eye out. It’ll feature input from a couple of magazine film editors, provided they actually allow me to cite them.

I don’t know how confident I feel about this. I won’t lie to you.

There will also be less anger and swearing. Probably.

 
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Posted by on May 23, 2016 in Life

 

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Moving Plans, Moving Places (or ‘Kitchen Complaints’)

There is no conceivable way that I’m going to finish writing about every season of Doctor Who before tonight. I’ve only watched halfway up to series three, I’ve only posted about series one, and I’ve not even finished writing about series two. It’s just not happening.

This isn’t me giving up, however. I’m not rescinding my previous declaration; I’m just altering it slightly.

Thing is, when I decided I was going to write about Doctor Who, and drafted my ambitious ten-post series, I was still living in Llanfair, freshly back from America, and bored out of my mind. Since then, I’ve moved house, got a job, been spending more time with certain groups of friends on and off, attended family functions, and got another job.

I haven’t been this busy in at least two years (although truth-be-told, I’m not that busy now. I only work a few days a week). And so obviously, something that I decided to do when I was anything but busy no longer has its place. As I said, I will get back to that, but that’s not what this post is about.

What is this post about? Well, I’m not sure really, but criticisms of what’s going on in ones life can always make for amusing reading, so I’ll go with that.

And what do I have to complain about? Work, I suppose. I’m grateful for it, obviously; I’m desperate for the money. But there are always those little things, aren’t there? The little touches about the workplace, or tasks handed down to you that you just can’t bear.

My first new job, working at a delicatessen, has left me pretty well off, if I’m honest. The only actual complaint I would have would be my declining amount of hours each week, and that’s partly my fault anyway.

So instead I’ll complain about something much more futile that really has nothing to do with how the establishment is run at all: the leftovers I have to dig out of the sink.

The Muck Hole

Yeah, the muck hole. I think the chef/my-sort-of-boss at the deli thinks I love washing up. I don’t; it just kills time quickly, and there’s always some of it to do. Plus, you can’t make a mistake washing up, like you can with an order. It’s peaceful, relaxing, and after you’ve been in the hot steamy kitchen for over an hour, stepping out into a cool breeze makes it feel like you’re entering paradise.

The biggest downside is, of course, that by this point you stink of all the dishes you’ve just had to clean. And the reason they smell so bad is because no one ever wipes them down or empties them! Its not that hard! There is a bin right next to the sink! (This isn’t particularly aimed at my current workplace, this is something I’ve found in multiple jobs). And then, there are the people who not only don’t wipe, but dump all their metaphorical shit in the sink, and then walk off.

I swear to god, two weeks ago, I dug out the contents of what I can only imagine was a whole chicken and bacon sandwich, just crammed into the plug hole.

Or mushrooms; mushrooms are bad. I like mushrooms, but I can only take so much of them when they’re cooked and on my plate. When they’re soggy, flaccid and feel like a butchered slug, I have no intention of touching them. Unfortunately, I have no say in the matter, because its my job.

I have a load more to say about this, but as I’ve been typing I’ve come to realise that this needs to be split in two, lest it become too long for anyone to bother reading, which I fear it may be already.

So today’s my first solo day in the aforementioned second job. When my shift is over, I’ll be back with part two, and a host of new complaints, I’m sure.

 
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Posted by on August 23, 2014 in Life

 

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