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You Can Do it Too! (No, you can’t. Arsehole.)

Warning: This post is severely angry and has very little merit, artistic or otherwise.


I don’t know if this has actually ever occurred to you, but just because you are capable of watching someone else do something, it doesn’t mean you can do it. You know how birds fly? Yeah? Well flap your fucking arms and try it. Preferably from the top of a ten storey building.


If I have one more customer this week imply that they could do my job, I am going to hand them my mocha-stained apron and tell them to get the fuck on with it. Okay, steaming milk is not difficult. Getting it perfect, however, is an art. Getting it to 90 FUCKING DEGREES without spilling it everywhere, scalding your own face, watching as the chemical bonds fall apart and trying not to gag on the smell of burnt milk, well, that’s not just art, that’s science. And skill. And a variety of other pointless things that I have, and you do not.

If you realised just how irritating it is to have to make two shots extra strong, one normal, with the milk steamed so that it sits on top of the coffee, and then have you desecrate the ridiculous coffee concoction you made me create with FIVE PACKETS OF SUGAR, you would cry. And then you would slap the ridiculous human who wanted the stupid drink in the first place (that’s you, FYI).

You know other times you would cry? When people make you redo their drink THREE TIMES. And then there’s a queue. And then you want the ice ‘crushed’ instead of cubed. And then you want me to brew three green teabags for exactly 90 seconds before pouring it over ice and making sure the ice doesn’t melt. You could do my job? Fuck you. No, really. We should do a Barista for The Day Challenge, where every uppety, super specific, ‘I’m so fucking important and so is my drink’ customer has to serve other uppety bastards. Oh really, you can count change, take the next order, ask about someone’s day and pretend not to care when they treat you like crap? Fine, do it.


Oh yes, sure, you’re a Head of Industry, doing the job of ‘the little people’ is so easy. You think because you’ve stood there chatting for thirty seconds every day whilst we make your extra hot mocha, you understand the logistics? You think because you put the sugar in before the espresso hits the cup, or because you stir the sauce before we pour the milk in, you think you’re a coffee expert, do you? Well, you’re WRONG.

You know what else is wrong with you, whilst we’re on the topic? Just because skimmed milk is called ‘skinny’ does NOT mean it’s a magical fat-burning potion. Just because I’m required to ask your name does not mean I personally want to know your name, and you’re allowed to look at me like a stalker. I don’t care about your name, age, where you live, what you do or what you think about when you’re not ordering coffee. (Sometimes, I care. But that’s only if you’re pretty or nice. Or preferably ordering something that doesn’t make me want to slap both of us in the face for taking part in this charade). Replying to my request for a name with ‘If you really want it’ is not acceptable. I do not want anything. All I want is to get through my abysmal day with no-one telling me I can’t do my job, calling me a ‘good girl’, handing me a package of what I thought was merely rubbish, but turns out to be a soiled nappy, or calling me ‘incapable’. That is all I want. Preferably a ‘thank you’ at the end of a transaction, or a smile, if I’m going to start asking for miracles.


Oh, whilst we’re at it, a QUARTER shot of coffee in a large size, is actually just flavoured milk. Complaining to me that our coffee is too strong, when you clearly have an intolerance to anything that tastes good, is out of order. Price? Not my problem. You think, as a VERY IMPORTANT customer, you could arrange our prices? Fine, I’ll still be getting minimum wage, as I assume the poor monkeys who work for you are also doing. Send them over to get your coffee next time, will you? That way we can bitch about you. And they never assume they could make your coffee. You know why? Because they know that you’re a control freak, and they congratulate me on being able to make your coffee five times a day without stabbing someone. DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING? DO YOU?


Just in case this whole thing was a bit subtle for you, I’ll reiterate: You are not a special or unique snowflake. Just because you designed your coffee order based on a desperate need to feel important, does not mean you can actually make it happen. You might be able to wax lyrical about Van Gogh, or talk about the ballet. Doesn’t make you a black swan. In fact, I think you should work on the idea that you’re not very special at all. And that if you’re the type of person who shouts at a minimum wage coffee monkey that your ‘almost dry’ (honestly, what the fuck does that even mean?) cappuccino isn’t ‘almost dry enough’ then you should consider that you’re not only unimportant, persnickety and average, but you’re also a bastard, and a raving lunatic.


Just some food for thought. Why don’t you snack on that, with your small half-caf, half shot, two pumps sugar free vanilla, soya, extra hot, almost wet latte? Fucker.


Mr Stingy (Or…How Refusing to Waste a Twenty Five Pence Discount Makes You the Least Appealing Human Ever)


I’ll start with the fact that I am so very good at my job (the projecting an image of a sane and friendly human being part, not just the making coffee part) that this man thinks I like him. Not even just ‘like him as a customer’ like him. He thinks I’m giddy as a child when he walks through the door. Which means he’s as bad at interpreting a grimace as he is at spending money.


Well, you'd be smiling too if you were shagging Nathan Fillion. And eating pie all the time.

He comes in every weekend to moan about the same thing. We used to do a promotion. Buy some coffee beans, get a free drink. That promotion is now over. It has been over for a while. And whilst other customers may have been a little sad that their freebie was gone, no-one was as bothered as this guy. Which is why EVERY week we heard the SAME argument. ‘But why? Why is it gone? I deserve to have it! Why should I no longer get a free drink just because you’ve removed the promotion?’


'i'm watching you'

Firstly, nothing happens because WE do anything. You want to bitch about making nationwide-changes to a promotion that happens in hundreds of stores across the UK, you call head office. You don’t bitch at someone who makes minimum wage and pretty much just exists to do the bidding of both bosses and customers. That makes no sense. Yes, democracy means we can all make a difference, but whilst coffee monkeys can vote, attend demonstrations and have their own opinions, they aren’t really qualified to argue about why something that’s costing a company money should exist, just so a snooty little man from East-Jesus-Nowhere-Town can get his free drink.


No-one like a scrooge. Or a stingy duck

We’re BORED of this now, ya hear? We don’t give a flying fuck. You’re in here buying your coffee anyway. You’re ALWAYS in here, despite the lack of free drink. You know how we know this? Because you’re ALWAYS TALKING ABOUT THIS. If it was up to me I’d give you a free drink just so you’d stop talking about how the shop in Dagenham gave you a free drink, or the one in Newham, or Milton Keynes. They probably gave you the drinks because they wanted you to go away. Also, if you are going to these places on a regular basis, you probably have bigger problems than missing out on free coffee, because it’s very likely your life sucks. Everything else in Milton Keynes does.


He then comes in for a ‘business meeting’, which as far as I can tell is two overly pompous men drinking pretentious coffees and looking at graphs on an iPad, whilst looking up every thirty seconds to check if people can see how important they are. But what do I know, I’m not a business person. Mr Stingy offers to buy his colleague’s drink, which allowed him to raise a few notches from ‘very annoying person’ to ‘very annoying person who hasn’t mentioned his free drink in two days’.


I should mention that whilst he’s been moaning about this, he has been ‘arranging’ his drink order in such a way that he thinks he’s getting one over on us. Ordering espresso shots with hot water, instead of a black Americano, which saves about a pound. Then he brings in his own cup. That saves him 25p. The man is clearly saving for retirement.


He orders his friend’s drink in a mug, then sadly sighs. ‘I’d quite like to have my drink in a mug as well, today.’

‘Well, we can absolutely do that for you, sir!’ I chirp with very well hidden self-loathing.

‘No! No, I couldn’t do that! I couldn’t waste twenty five pence!’

Waste? WASTE? How are you wasting a discount? You’re not spending an extra twenty five pence…I…uh…you have an IPAD. Unless you paid for it over three years saving up the ‘own cup’ discount I can’t see the fucking point.

This is the sad, sad story of a man who couldn’t bear to waste twenty five pence. Which, to be fair, is the only legitimate discount he should be getting. He then explained what his job is. One that earns approximately eight times my yearly salary. So, if anything, Mr Stingy, you should be giving ME free coffee. Yeah. How’d you like that rationale? Because it makes entirely as much sense as yours. No-one likes a cheapskate. Especially a cheapskate rich person.


But...this is super cute. Look! Look how cute it is!

Coffee Crushes- A Valentines Special

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: There are only three reasons we will remember your drink.


1- You’re in so often, and such a victim of routine that we’d have to be brain dead not to.

2- You’re a vile human being who has made our lives such hell that we recognise what drink to serve you in our sleep, when you arrive in our dreams wearing horns and a tail.

3- You’re wonderful.


Just as a horrible interaction with a mean customer can seriously fuck with your day (after being shouted at I will usually get the next six orders wrong in some way) a lovely exchange with a nice customer can keep your sanity intact for a good few hours. Especially if they’re cute

We all have them, our favourite customers. Mostly, they’re based on people we like having a chat with, who make us laugh, say please and thank you, give us a little tidbit about their day that we can talk about. Because otherwise, we have to talk about the weather. And I hate talking about the weather, it’s farcical. And overdone. And boring.

So having a little chat about your plans for the day is nice. Also, when Christmas comes around, and the painfully nice customers have sent us a card, or bought us a box of choccies, we know that we’re appreciated. So you guys become favourites too. We’ve very buyable.

And then there’s the crushes. The ones who we look forward to coming in, because they perk up our day (and always seem so surprised that we remember their drink) and yet we also dread it, because we are SO UNCOOL. It’s also painfully obvious when you’re way nicer to your favourite customer than the one before. Awkward.

I’ll get this straight- we don’t want to date you. I mean, we might, if the situation arose, but then it could go bad, and where would you go for coffee? It would send you hurtling into the ever-waiting arms of the baristas at Bosta, and that’s just not right. No, we’d much rather see your cute face, garble something that’s meant to be conversation but actually just turns out to be words that don’t string together, until you smile through the awkward silence. And then, thank goodness, your coffee is ready, and off you go.

But maybe you made a little joke, or you were wearing a particularly humorous t-shirt that day. And that is enough, in our little coffee monkey lives, to make it through the wilderness that is caffeine provision, and the inevitable abuse that comes with it.

So thank you, coffee crushes, be you young, old, male, female, witty, sullen or so, so stupid. Thanks for stopping by. And have a very nice day!


NOTE: Not quite enough anger for you? Stay tuned for an extra angry update this week!

The ‘Hot Lid’ Fiasco

This was a problem quite a lot in my old store, where customers had so much money that they were not accustomed to following instructions. A bit like buying IKEA furniture, and deciding you could put it together yourself. It all looks very pretty at the end, but there’s a screw missing. And then it collapses, and you curse the manufacturer, because it couldn’t possibly be your shoddy handiwork. Because you’re important.

In fact, that analogy fails, simply because this customer is not the kind of woman who does anything for herself. She has her nails done for her, her legs waxed for her, her coffee made for her. She probably had a caesarean because pushing out her spawn was too much trouble.

She has appeared in this blog before, and we commonly know her as ‘medium-mocha-frap-in-a-large-cup-extra-cream’. I have moaned about her trying to rip us off by essentially stealing whipped cream, and then causing such an earache when we try to explain that she should pay for half a cup of whipped cream, that we let it go. Because my hearing is fairly precious to me. As is my sanity.


Now, we don’t know her as ‘the annoying mocha frap woman/whipped cream bitch’. Now we know her as ‘that evil hag.’

If you type 'evil coffee hag' into google, this is what you get.

The following occurred, unusually not to me, but to a fellow barista, who handled it with flair. I instead cranked the ‘Cheerful Barista’ reader ALL THE WAY TO 11. Mainly to prove to customers who came after her that we’re really nice people, and she’s a douchebag.

She orders a caramel macchiato and a small hot chocolate. She normally gets this caramel macchiato ‘to stay but in a takeaway cup’ (sidenote: I don’t care where you’re having your drink. I just want to know in which type of receptacle you require it. I do not need a whole story about how ‘the paper ones keep them warmer’. We’ll all have to deal with our recycling demons one day. Your day will come.) but she didn’t say it this time. And she saw me writing it down and placing the note on one of our new shiny china mugs. So I assumed she, like many others, is interested in novelty value. Because she’s that kind of vapid bitch.

She then does that thing that drives me CRAZY. Waits quietly whilst the whole order has gone through and has started being made before she goes: ‘Oh that should be skinny.’

Cue the barista throwing away a jug full of perfectly good milk. Not at all passive aggressively.

Then she comes back. ‘Oh, those should be take away cups!’

Cue barista throwing the ready made drinks out of the mugs and into the sink. Not at all passive aggressively.

I’m also trying to serve a few OTHER PEOPLE WHO EXIST IN THE WORLD, so she’s kinda stopping me from doing that.

‘Oh, and I want cream on the hot chocolate.’

‘NOT a problem Madam!’ gritted teeth.

The barista puts the caramel macchiato down without incurring any sort of wrath. Then he puts the lid on the hot chocolate. AND THIS SHIT GETS REAL.

‘WHAT are you DOING? I don’t WANT a lid!’

Wow, the drama quote in your life must be super-low right now, if this gets you riled.

‘I’m afraid it’s store policy, we have to put lids on hot drinks.’


Is it, is it really? You handing a hot drink to a young child and then suing the shit out of us when he burns himself….sound at all like the manipulative work of a middle-class bitch like yourself?

‘That may be so, madam, but those are the rules.’

‘Maybe they’re just YOUR rules.’

Yes, baristas love their work so much they spend time making up pointless rules for individual customers to follow. If that was the case, the rule here would be ‘Under no circumstances serve this dumb bitch.’ But no, we have no rules.


If you liked it then you shoulda put a lid on it.

Sweet, merciful coffee god, in the name of all that is caffeinated, please remove this woman from my immediate vicinity, before I lose my shit. My voice gets an octave higher and infinitely more cheerful (think Minnie Mouse) as I greet the next customer, who looks rather frightened by my enthusiasm.

‘I’m sorry, those are the rules. I’m not going lose my job over a….lid.’

Anyone else sure the end of that sentence was going to be ‘whipped cream bitch’?

‘WELL, put it in a regular mug! Did you HEAR ME? A REGULAR MUG!’

I’ll show you a fucking regular mug…when you look in the mirror. That’s right, I went there. Ooh, burn.

The loud cow then obstinately walks over, dumps the poor kid with this mountainously creamy hot chocolate (which she proceeds to eat- that skinny macchiato working out well for you there?) and then actively encourages her son to play loud music from her iPhone. Is there anything ruder than playing music on a phone in public places? Isn’t that reserved for chavs on the back of the bus? The worst part? She only had THREE songs, so he kept repeating them. Two of those three songs were Michael Buble.


She then kept shooting weird death glances over to us to see if the music was annoying. Erm, duh. Yes. Yes it was. She then left, and we knew there was going to be carnage left in her wake. It was like a coffee death scene. Ripped sugar packets, crumbled cookie, shredded lids and spoons sticking to the table with left over whipped cream and spilt milk.

So there’s another customer we’ll be running away from next week. Because, you know, we make up the rules about that.

VIPs: Very Irritating People (Or, Why People on Phones are Bastards)

VIPs: Very Irritating People (Or, Why People on Phones are Bastards)

Can it possibly get any ruder than someone trying to order whilst they’re still on the phone?

I miss these days...big phones, and Michael Douglas still made watchable films

Especially when they answer/call someone during the ordering process? So then I have to mime out questions (there’s a few other hand gestures I’d most certainly like to use instead) and point to different sized cups until they nod. Or usually, wave away my questions with a shrug and a fluttering manicured hand, only to complain very loudly when the drink they’ve received is incorrect.

This is dumb. And rude. People who do this, listen closely: You are not that important. You are not special, you are not ‘in demand’. Unless it’s a doctor telling you that the heart surgery you’re scheduled for is about to happen, or your university application forms haven’t gone through, or it’s your kid at home telling you someone is breaking in downstairs, I DON’T CARE.

It’s about old-fashioned consideration. Which perhaps only happens in places where there aren’t mobile talking devices. If you want to text and permanently ignore that I’m a human being and not just a coffee retrieval device akin to a talking vending machine from the future, that’s fine. As long as you can cogently get your fucking order across and let me do my job.

So there’s one customer who comes in on the phone, walks straight up to the bar and makes a desperate motion for pen and paper. Thinking perhaps that she needs to write down a helpline for people with lifelong rudeness problems, and is looking for a local support group, I oblige. She then WRITES DOWN HER ORDER and carries on talking. And of course, she forgets the ‘here or takeaway’ ‘which size’ and a bunch of other questions that customers never realise are necessary. So I again have to do the ‘Guessing The Specifics Dance of Death’. Which looks moronic.

Now this doesn't make me want to puke. This is NOM. But this is not what irish cream coffee smells like.

Now, she’s a regular, so I would probably let her off. Except for the fact that she has an Irish Cream latte. At nine in the morning. Which smells like whisky. Which makes me want to vomit. Thanks. I really needed you ignoring me, and then making me dance the coffee monkey dance, and then making me want to puke. Awesome. This has been a wonderful encounter that’s enhanced my day, and truly made me feel that minimum wage I get for being here is completely worth it. Thanks.

She’s not even the worst, though. Sure, there’s the pinched-face bitches who think they’re so important because their manicurist is on the phone, asking to change their appointment, who make more and more outlandish faces as I suggest drinks for them to shoot down, until I eventually get the right one.

Possibly the only people I would accept this behaviour from

If your daily dose of caffeine means so little to you, then stop ordering stupidly complicated things and expecting me to understand your little one-act play of ‘This is what my face looks like when I drink my drink.’

Anyway, onto the worst. I’ll start with a disclaimer: I am not a man-hater. I’m a feminist, an egalitarian, and generally, I know a lot of nice men. Some of them like football. So it’s not about that. But this guy was the biggest Big Male Response Cliche of all time. So know that when I write this, I think HE is a massive tool. But the rest of you, you’re okay. For the most part.

He wanders up to the counter on the phone, and stands there, talking away, not making eye contact, until eventually my frustration causes me to throw my arms up in the air in a ‘what the hell do you want?’ sort of gesture. (It’s okay, I was smiling my coffee-monkey smile. You know, the one that’s held up by staples, gaffer tape and self-loathing.)

He then stands there, the phone still to his ear and says:

‘Hmm…I’lllll haaaaaave…..I’llll haaaaave…..Hmm…I’lll haaaave…’

I’ll spare you the repetition, this went on for approximately seventy-five seconds, whilst I bit my tongue to stop me from screaming out ‘WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHAT?’

I’m assuming the person on the other end of the phone would be in the same position.

He orders a medium cappuccino to take away, thank goodness.

And then he LEAVES THE QUEUE. As in, he suddenly carries on his phone conversation, and walks back to the pastry case, where he briefly inspects the paninis, and then stands staring into thin air.

There are five people in the queue behind him, waiting to be charged at my till.

So in the interest of fairness (or just that I was briefly shocked into stunned silence- doesn’t happen often) I give him thirty seconds to find a panini. Except that he’s not looking for one. He’s just standing there. Talking about the BLOODY FOOTBALL.

Hardly a business call worth holding up five people, who all have equally important things to be doing.

So, after sharing a variety of incredulous stares with staff and customers alike, I call over to him.

‘Sir, if there isn’t anything else, would you mind coming back here to pay for you drink?’

He then does the single most infuriating thing I may have ever experienced. He puts his finger to his lips, makings a ‘shh’ing gesture, and tells me to wait a minute. Luckily enough, I didn’t have a rage blackout, as I thought I might, but instead erupted into hysterical giggles, which was probably safer for everyone.

Phone bastards. I hope he’s paying too much for his contract and his football team lost. There. Hah.

If I’m Shouting, You’re Not Listening.


Some would say this blog is an extension of the fact that I am an unheard barista. The ignored voice expressing the plight of the everyman. You know, something nice and metaphorical like that.

But quite literally, no-one can hear me. I shout! I do! But you try balancing two milk jugs timing four and a half shots and adjusting the blender whilst screaming (politely) for someone to own up to ordering a fucking panini.

I don’t know about you, but when I go to a coffee shop (which to be fair, outside of work, is now very rare) I have gone for a purpose. I have paid for something I wish to consume. So I’m pretty bothered by whether or not it turns up.

Here is how it should go:


I order a heated wrap.

I pay.

I sit down.

I hear a barista announcing said wrap is ready, and I happily claim it so that I might immediately consume it.


This makes sense, yes? So why do people insist on ordering things, and then making me walk around the shop wailing the name of their sandwich and making uncomfortable eye contact with people who would much rather leave me alone?

I then return with the unclaimed sandwich, put it on the side, call it out a few more times to no avail. Lo and behold, five minutes later I get a ‘why haven’t you brought my sandwich yet? It’ll be cold now!’ (Assume a whiny, irritating-as-hell voice here)

It happens with drinks, too. People seem to forget that there was a queuing system when they ordered the drink, so there’s probably a queuing system in the making of it.


So when I shout:

‘Medium gingerbread latte to go’

and they reply

‘is this a gingerbread latte?’

and I say


they then take the drink.


They open the lid, throw some sugar in, take a sip, then say:

‘I don’t think this is my drink.’

‘It’s a gingerbread latte.’

 ‘I ordered a regular latte.’

Yes, that’s why you shouldn’t have taken that one. Which I now must throw away, and make a new one before I can hand over yours. Because there’s a SYSTEM. One which you’ve just fucked up by the way, thanks. Considering how English people are so good at queuing, it’s amazing that they have such trouble with the concept that they’re not the only person in the world sometimes.

Why don’t you listen? Why? Is it me? Am I actually saying it in my head? In a different language? Is my enunciation lacking? Or perhaps is it that you think anything I put on the hand-off point must be for you, because you are so special?


One of my favourites is when I shout out:

‘Medium Latte’

And the eager beaver standing there simply says ‘No!’

Like I’m a moron. No, actually. You’re the moron. I’m not assuming this is yours, you’re just hogging the drinks-retrieval area, and pissing off other customers as well as myself.

A special one this week was the man who made me scream out four times ‘Grande skinny Americano-one-shot-decaf-two-shots-regular’. (You try – it’s not easy!) And then I simply left it on the side.

Then he ambles over and angrily asks ‘Is this my drink then?’

‘It’s a grande-skinny-Americano-one-shot-decaf-two-shots-regular, sir.’

‘Yes, that’s mine.’

‘Well then, feel free to take it, Sir.’

I am making fifteen other drinks, I do not have time to confirm whether or not you know what you ordered. Fuck off.

‘Well you could have TOLD ME you’d made it. GOD.’ Hearing an old man emphasise certain words like a teenage girl is rather disturbing, let me tell you.

Normally I’d let it go and bitch about it here, but I replied with a ‘I called it out MULTIPLE TIMES, SIR!’ 

When really what I wanted to say was the following:

‘I’m very sorry that the volume of my drink-announcements was not to your liking, but seeing as it’s the festive season, maybe you could go fuck yourself?’


I have a suspicion that if I did a search on all the times I used the f-word in this blog, my mother would be rather disappointed. Perhaps I’m not quite using the vocabulary instilled in me by an English Literature degree. But perhaps by gaining a literature degree, I should be making coffee for a living. What have you got to say to that, government officials? Because I’ve got some choice words for you, as well.

Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls…Piss off and Bug Someone Else, Like You Used To.


I’m going to have to return AGAIN to the problem of hot water. Because really, some people get it, some people don’t. We’re not insured for hot water. Because it is free, and therefore we cannot be insured against it. And it is a bit burny. Which means it’s dangerous. Which means we need insurance so our LOVELY fuck-over-anyone-for-something-free customers don’t sue us. Without even buying a drink.

So another stick-up-her-arse-golden spoon-not-wedged-far-enough-down-her-oesophagus  type comes in. She wants hot water. No. Sorry.

‘I’ve had it before.’

This is steam. It burns. It also comes out of my ears when you insist on being a moron

So what? Not here.

‘I’ve had it before.’

Sometimes, just because things have happened once, doesn’t mean they happen again. Times they are a-changing. Roll with it. Also, your argument is illogical.

‘Well, I’m going to Bosta then! THEY’LL give me hot water. How do you like that?’

I like it very much. Very, very much. So much that I might send Bosta a Thank You card for getting your arrogant arse out of here, and a complaints card that they didn’t do it soon enough.

Also, why are you coming into a coffee shop to get hot water, you fucking cheapskate.

Also, you’re not going to outsmart us by asking for tea without the tea bag in it. She gets this smug smile on her face like she’s worked out E=fucking MC squared.

Then we tell her she has to pay for tea, even if she’s not using the teabag (duh). And watching the smile fall from her face was probably the only moment of enjoyment. Apart from when she tried slamming the door behind her. The automatic door. Quite frankly, I’m scared of what the dumb bitch could do with a cup of hot water.


Phew. Man that feels better.


(This post was written in typing, blinding fury at the end of a shift. Mainly because I was scared that by the time I’d driven home, I would have retained my composure and sense of perspective. And no-one here wants that, do they? They want my rage! So, hope you enjoyed!)


Happy Bloody New Year Indeed!