A TRIP to the tip is a deadly minefield of stress and potential embarrassment for the sensitive Guardian-reading male. Here’s how to bluff your way through it like a blokey bloke.
Exude confidence
Act like you own the place, which, in your higher Council Tax bracket, you sort of do. Park wherever you like, ideally blocking the entire one-way system. Remember to switch from Radio 4 to Kiss FM. Greet the staff like they’re old chums from boarding school. Finally, don’t let anyone see the 76 ramekins from Gü desserts you’ve carefully washed out and put in a Waitrose carrier bag.
Talk ‘working-class’
It’s a common prejudice of the middle classes that anyone in a job that requires high-vis clothing is a moron. This simply isn’t true – it’s more like 65 per cent. On your next trip hedge your bets and talk to the people working there on what you assume is ‘their level’. End every sentence with ‘mate’, ‘boss’ or pal’. Swear liberally, even if it sounds a bit unnatural, eg. ‘See the f**king Villa the other f**king night? F**king on the f**king telly, I f**king saw it. F**king hell.’
Never ask for help
After flashing your permit at the gates like a detective at the cordon of a crime scene, try and get through the experience without asking for any help whatsoever. The moment you talk to anyone, they’ll realise you’re not a builder dropping off sacks of rubble but a graphic designer trying to discreetly throw away their old CD collection, clothes they’ve got too fat for and various damningly bourgeois items like a music stand from when Emily tried to learn the oboe.
Look the part
The rough and tumble of the tip means you should wear your ‘worst’ clothes. You wouldn’t want to snag your cashmere sweater while trying to throw your old John Lewis coffee table into a skip. Try to blend in, even if your ‘tip clothes’ consist of spotless Nike trainers, a £90 Lacoste polo shirt and your oldest North Face jacket. Also go in the shittest car your family owns. Leave the Beemer at home and use your wife’s Mini Countryman. But put some blankets down in the boot so you don’t scuff the interior because you are scared of her.
Be utterly pathetic
The last thing any middle-class wimp wants is get told off or shouted at. For your own protection, revert to being a self-deprecating husk of a girly man. Make it painfully obvious you’re ‘useless’ and thank the workers for every little thing they do in an over-the-top manner, even if they’re clearly just a bunch of lazy knobheads. And tip them a tenner. If all else fails, get back in your car, lock it, put the radio on at volume 50 and curl up in a ball on the back seat until it’s all over.
