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Barista spells your name wrong deliberately because you're a twat

A STARBUCKS staff member who always writes a terrible misspelling of your forename on your cup does so because the consensus of the staff is that you are an arsehole. 

Barista Sophie Rodriguez has a perfect grasp of the English language and a Classics degree, but has singled you out as the worst kind of coffee-purchasing bellend and consequently will not refer to you accurately.

Sophie said: “Funnily enough I can spell Tom. But the way you enunciate it implies I can’t. So I shall be spelling it Thoomb.

“I do it to every prick who regards me like I don’t understand the concept of milk. Debra with the fancy look, she’s now Zebra. James becomes Germs and Linda becomes Lidl. It’s the only power I have in this corporate hellscape and I will abuse it.

“But you’re the worst. The way you strut in here, filled with an exaggerated sense of your own self-importance, arrogantly saying ‘my usual’. We still haven’t forgiven you for requesting your almond croissant be warmed.

“Eventually, enough of our customers will have heard our inaccurate renditions of your name for it to become common currency. You’ll be called Thaume in your own office. Your own home. It’s all you deserve, you latte-swilling shithead.”

Colleague Oliver O’Connor said: “It’s a bold etymological experiment that explores the dialectical linguistic relationship between consumer and server inherent in a capitalist culinary environment. And you’re a twat.”

Three days snowed in at the pub: what it's actually like and why you'd hate it

A GROUP of drinkers spent three days snowed in at a Yorkshire pub and are gamely pretending they loved it. They didn’t and nor would you: 

Day one, snow

It is intrinsically exciting to look at heavy snowfall through windows while inside and warm. Add that to the adrenalin rush of getting pissed and the day flies by. It’s early evening and dark before you know it.

Day one, evening, snow

Except now you can’t see the snow. And you’ve got that queasy day-drunk feeling in your guts and while you were gazing out of windows the other patrons secured the best beds, couches and patches of floor. Continue to order pints in lieu of genuine merriment.

Day two, snow

Wake hungover and cold. The landlord’s doing cooked breakfasts and your stomach’s lurching, and he’s charging £22.80 for them which makes you heave. And full price for drinks? Three days in a Yorkshire pub’s going to cost you the same as a week in Ibiza?

Day two, afternoon, snow

After a morning of sulky abstinence you hit the booze and go out to make a snowman, have a snowball fight, and urinate your initials into a snowdrift. All tremendous fun until you return indoors, panting and red-faced, and realise your clothes are soaking and you didn’t bring any spares because you were only coming the pub.

Day two, evening, snow

Right. At this stage you’re trapped in a building with people you’d rather not be trapped with and all entertainment options have been exhausted. The thought of a pint makes you ill, but you can’t even have a Coke without it costing £2.80. Settle to getting shitfaced but grimly, as Captain Oates might have done.

Day three, more f**king snow

Still? Still snowing? Are they taking the piss? When you’ve woken up from a nightmare about The Shining, shivering under a damp coat, to the sound of the landlord taking a plunger to the toilets? You step outside into the snow to vomit copiously into it. This won’t make the regional news.

Day three, escape

The roads are cleared. The media arrives to cover the wonderful time you’re having. You pay a photographer £100 for a lift back to civilisation. It’s small change compared to the £600 you’ve spent locked in this f**king pub. Make it home. Vow never to enter a pub again. Go that night, to brag about how great it was.

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