Fuck you too C**e C**a, you don't know me either

Not so very long ago, seeing your name in print was a Very Big Thing, especially if it was for the right reasons rather than as a result of your name appearing in newspaper story titled ‘Convent School Flasher Apprehended’.  Even today, certain Sunday newspapers, not all tabloids, contain little glossy magazines you can order personalised items from.  Golf balls seem to be a speciality, although surely it would be simpler to change your name to ‘Slazenger’.  There’s a cottage industry, presumably, stamping initials on everything from handkerchiefs to corkscrews.  The same sort of chap who has his initials on his jumper probably has them, or a close approximation, on his car’s number plate.  But if you don’t have a tiny cock, there are acceptable uses for personalisation, such as school kit or, well, that’s about it really.  And of course where your name appears is all important, for instance, on a car parking space, probably good, on a cell door, probably bad.

Recently, Starbucks started to ask you your name, rank and serial number when you ordered a coffee, and so it came to pass that a lot of immigrant, minimum wage workers learned first hand that the English can be a surly, belligerent but oddly creative bunch first thing in the morning before they have had their coffee.  Either that, or ‘Fuksake’ is a really, really popular first name.

Where one beverage giant wanders, another aimlessly trundles after, and so we have the personalised cola bottle.

That’s right, a cola company has decided to add a little bit of soul to a product that is, if the ingredients are to be believed, water, sugar, more sugar, syrup and a colour to turn the entire thing the shade your piss goes after a three day fast.  OK, so that may not be exactly the ingredients, but I can’t be arsed to fetch a bottle and check for myself.

Cola is suffering something of an identity crisis itself.  During the adverts it’s drunk by attractive people.  When the adverts end and it’s back to ‘Britain’s fattest slobs’ it’s drunk, by the gallon, by fatties who are crying either shame, or because they have a self-righteous teevee presenter screaming at them.

Now though, somebody who had obviously drunk far too much fizzy pop for breakfast decided to put names on cola bottles.  This is genius!  You can actually drink out of a bottle that has your name on it or, even better, drink from a bottle with somebody else’s name on it.  How subversive is that?

The upshot of this is that there are now three categories of cola drinker.  The first is the ‘don’t give a shit whose name is on the bottle’ type.  The second is the sort who will look through the stock to see if their name is there, and be a little bit disappointed if it’s not.  Finally, and also my favourite, are the people who will choose the most interesting name, often of the opposite sex, just like in the early days of internet chat rooms.  Surely nothing is more impressive than the sight of a hairy arsed tattooed, bearded bloke builder sucking on a bottle labelled ‘Marjory’.  It’s so wrong it’s right!

Like everything that comes out of the boardroom, there’s room for conspiracy here, so certain names are forbidden no doubt (so (more) bad luck if you have the misfortune to be called ‘Adolf’) whilst there is probably no chance of you, or more likely your servants, finding a bottled labelled ‘Crispin’.

I am actually all for personalisation of beverage containers.  I remember years ago a Scottish beer company used to adorn their cans with, I understand the technical phrase is, ‘dolly birds’.  Collect the set and become a harmless alcoholic with a soft porn gallery that you will one day display on ‘Antiques Roadshow’, rather than a sugar fuelled rage machine because the shop has run out of ‘Jimmies’.

Although, obviously, if you should see a ‘Kylie’, you must purchase it at once and keep it about your person at all times, so that should you ever chance to meet the Aussie songstress/goddess you have an opening line other than ‘er….er….er…’

Cheers!

Fuck you S**rbucks, you really don't know me!

In what has to be the worst ever corporate mandate, or simply an astonishingly ham-fisted attempt at analogue data gathering about customers, Starbucks staff now ask you for your name when you buy a coffee.  Presumably this is because ‘Jeff’ is easier to remember than ‘double no-fun skinny latte and give it wings’.

The only plausible reason for a coffee shop drone to ask you your name is if you are the fiftieth person in line to sequentially ask for a latte and they need to differentiate you from all the other folk who can’t think of a more interesting beverage.

I do not like being asked my name in Starbucks, as a corporation famous for ending individuality on the high street by trying to drive independent coffee shops out of business with their mugs, and their staff, and their shots of syrup instead of the traditional stale cup of filter whatever-is-on-special-at Costco blend available in traditional coffee shops, it’s a bit bloody rich that they are trying to introduce individuality by writing the name you choose to give on a mug.  Also, I expect them to then ask for your rank and serial number.

Really, if I wanted personal service, I would have spent my money in the little independent coffee shop next door that Starbucks put out of business years ago.  Of course, if I had done that, it wouldn’t have gone out of business.

Or I would get my morning coffee at the Krispy Kreme Koncession, where they greet me with ‘Good morning sir, latte?’.

Sir!  What’s wrong with Sir?  The Krispy Kreme Krew don’t want to know my name, nor do they care, nor do they pretend that they care.  They just want to know that I am latte guy and that, even if I actually wanted a flat white that morning, I will now have a latte instead.  I can respect that.

Obviously the drill in Starbucks is now to at least give a made up name, or answer ‘Sir’ or ‘Valued Customer’ or ‘Master’.  Or ‘Doctor Claw’ or any of a number of cool names, if you can summon the courage to do that to some poor Starbuckian who has been on shift for eight hours slinging coffee to an ungrateful public, a suspiciously large number of whom seem to be called ‘Gengis Kahn’ or, if you are a Star Trek fan, ‘Kahhhhhhhnnnnnnnnn’.

As it was, I panicked and gave my real name.  And I’ve seen ‘The Great Escape’ loads of times, I should have known what I was doing.

As it was, she not only wrote my name down wrong but she also made the wrong coffee.

Thinking back on it now, it’s just possible I may have picked up the wrong cup.