Tag Archives: Subway

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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Subway Stories

I’m not sure what time I fell asleep last night, but I think it was around seven pm.

And now I’m awake, and I have to tell you, I don’t think I’ve felt this refreshed in about nine months. Which, coincidentally, is how long I’ve worked in Subway. Which, also coincidentally, I finished working at at 3.30 am on Tuesday morning.

Any time I’ve logged onto this computer, I’ve been confronted by the fact that this blog has slowly been falling by the wayside. And of course, it would be stupid to blame all my problems on Subway. But in a few days, depending on how I feel, I may well put the majority of my weariness, lack of confidence, and general aggression at life down to Subway.

But that’s not really Subway, the job. It’s just making sandwiches, cleaning a shop, handling money and prepping food. It’s easy. It’s an easy job. It’s easy money.

No, the problem with Subway, specifically the one I worked at, is the customers.

Let me lay down the basics for you. The shop opens at 7am, and closes at 3am Sunday (Subway’s so ingrained into me that I can’t write ‘Sunday’ without automatically typing ‘Subway’ first. Little info-bite for you there)through Thursday. Friday and Saturdays, it’s 3.30 am. Fun fun fun.

And in Falmouth, the street Subway is located on, Church Street, has this rule. After 11pm, we can’t do hot food of any sort. The toaster. The coffee machine. The microwaves. They’re all cleaned and shut down.

And you know what tends to make people unhappy? Going to Subway and getting a cold sandwich. Or working a long day and then being denied coffee.

It’s a stupid rule. But you know what? Us workers? WE DIDN’T DECIDE ON IT OURSELVES, SO ORDER YOUR SANDWICH AND FUCK OFF.

Of course, I never said that to a customer. I like to think for the most part, I was polite to the customers. Even the ones I wanted to stab.

But the store gets a lot of shit from it.

I’m just painting you a picture here. I feel like over nine months I’ve amounted too many complaints/stories from working there to fit into one post. Maybe it’ll be a recurring theme. Maybe, with each post, I’ll chart how much better I feel, both physically and mentally, and come to a conclusion on whether or not I’ve made a mistake by resigning.

I’ll give you a hint, I (probably) haven’t.

But I felt an introduction was necessary, so you understand how our Subway works, so you’d understand before I begin aimlessly raging at all the people I’ve served.

One other important thing to mention. I obviously didn’t hate all the customers. I’d say there were a third I was indifferent about, a third who I genuinely did like and will probably miss talking to, and a third who… well. I’ll get to that in future posts no doubt.

But for now, I’ll say this: I am free.

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Posted by on May 18, 2016 in Life


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The Professional Writer, part two.

The course induction continues to be a thoroughly enjoyable experience.

Our final project for the week of creating a radio show is coming together, as we named the show Something to Declare: Stories of Arrival. As previously stated, it will air on Source FM 96.1 FM on Friday, at two o’clock. Please tune in.

For said show, I have prepared a piece about my dog, Raggs, but I’m obviously not going to post that here, you can wait for that, you eager beavers, you.

Instead, I present to you two more warm-up exercises in the same vein as the ones we did yesterday, as well as a final exercise that the lecturer presented to us by ordering us to ‘tell the story of your shoes’.

Words: Flowers, Milkshake, Awful & Wine

Story #1: 
“Those flowers look awful” Jeff argued. I looked down at the flopping mulch in my hand and agreed, although not out loud. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction. God, he’s such a bastard. He knows I’m really trying here; why can’t he just let me do things my way.

But nonetheless, I continued on with my plan. I was to meet up with Sara later in the afternoon, where we would go to her favourite milkshake bar, and then indulge in her favourite pastime of wine tasting with some cheese bites.

“That’s also an awful idea” Jeff chimed in. “Cheese, wine and milkshakes? Why on earth would anyone consume those three things in quick succession? I mean wine and cheese, sure. But then adding milkshakes into the occasion? That’ll just make you feel sick”.

I ignored him and continued out the door.

A few hours later I met with Sara and presented her with the flowers. She looked at them disheartened.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Those flowers” she admitted, “They look awful”.

This wasn’t going well. Maybe she should be going out with Jeff instead of me. The pair definitely seem to think alike, and then they could sit in a little room and critique all my ideas whilst I went out and find someone who may actually appreciated dying flowers and sickening mixtures of fluids and cheese. That’s the dream, and maybe one day I’ll get there.

Words: Profiteroles, Smoothies, Pencil, Reincarnation

Story #2: 
This was a bizarre feeling, and one that I didn’t fully understand. The day before, I had been in the desert, the sun scorching down upon me, thinking of smoothies and profiteroles and what life might be like if I were a chicken. Things had become dire, the heat had become too much. I didn’t think I would make it. And I didn’t. I dropped dead right there in the desert, the heat and dehydration had become too much for me.

What followed this was a series of blurred senses, the wind brushing against me, what seemed to be soil encompassing my lower half, and after long periods of time, the feeling of a part of me falling off as the world grew colder. I could not witness any of these things happening, for I no longer had eyes. As far as I could tell, I didn’t have much of anything. No body. No real mind. Just a vestige of my soul having undergone what I can only assume to be reincarnation, and found myself in what I now have decided is a tree. Because it wasn’t truly yesterday I died, but instead many years ago, and my mind has been struggling to remake itself ever since.

And just when I finally was coming to terms with my new existence, something even more strange happened to me. I now believe myself to be a pencil, caught in the grubby little hands of a preschooler.

And finally, The Story of My Shoes:
Who does this guy think he is? Just because he got me fifteen percent off, doesn’t mean I’m a lesser pair of shoes. This jerk. This is clear abuse. If I had a mouth, I would scream the largest range of profanities at him that I could muster. It’s outrageous.

I was there when he was speaking to his new boss, the guy clearly said ‘comfortable shoes that you don’t mind getting dirty’. I remember it like it was yesterday. Come to think of it, it may well have been yesterday; being a shoe, you don’t have much of a mind for time-keeping. It’s a depressing existence.

It was bad enough when I spent my life in a boxes, eagerly waiting for someone to decide I would be the one they would insert their feet into.

And now here I am; olives, lettuce, pickles and jalapeño’s being mushed into my once perfect suede skin. He used to be good to me. He would scrub me down most days of the week. But I’m pretty certain I’ve only seen that brush once since we came to this new town. God, I hate him. If I had a body I’d punch him right in the face.

I’m not a pair of Subway shoes. This is not where I belong. I’m meant to be worn on nights out and to special events; I’m a good pair of shoes! I don’t deserve to spend my nights being caked in the reject ingredients from some drunk students sandwich.

But I’ll find a way to get back at him. One day, when he needs me the most, I’ll catch my zipper on something. Yes, that’s a beautiful idea. Perhaps I could take it a step further? I could catch on something deadly, and teach this punk that you don’t wear £75 shoes to work at Subway.

Maybe when he’s lacking a couple of limbs I’ll have a break from this horror. Maybe he’ll give me away to a new owner; someone who will treat me right. Someone who knows my true value. Not this prick. This idiot who claims to be a ‘reverend’, ‘sandwich artist’ and ‘professional writer’. He’s so full of himself. God, I hate him.

Taking his limbs is definitely the best course of action. Maybe it’ll teach him some humility.


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Posted by on September 22, 2015 in Life


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