Or: Two Tills, One Grievance, and a Perfectly Avoidable Expletive

Oh, my dears.

This week’s Polite Savage begins with what a Reddit writer clearly hopes is an open-and-shut case of wrongful accusation, and in many respects, they are correct.

The queue situation was, by any reasonable assessment, ambiguous. Two tills, three to four metres apart, one visibly unoccupied. An adult of sound mind and functioning eyesight would do precisely what our writer did. There was no cutting. There was initiative. These are different things.

The Man at the Other Till, however, had already written his version of events before the transaction began, and no amount of reasonable explanation was going to interfere with his narrative. He had, it seems, been quietly saving his indignation like a loyalty card, and today was redemption day.

"Well, you could've asked," he offered, which is perhaps the most magnificently unhelpful piece of social instruction one can deliver after the supposed offence has occurred. Asked what, precisely?

“Excuse me, are you in fact queuing for this entirely separate and empty till, or merely standing near it in a vaguely directional way?”

One cannot ask questions one does not know are necessary.

So far, so innocent.

And then.

Now. I understand. Truly. When someone refuses an apology, dismisses an explanation, and deploys the sort of theatrical contempt usually reserved for international incidents rather than garden centre queues, the temptation to respond in kind becomes, shall we say, considerable. Our writer held on admirably. They gestured. They offered to wait. They attempted, twice, to explain. And then, upon being told their perspective was unwelcome, they told the man to go forth in colourful terms.

But I must be honest with you.

Was it warranted? Arguably, yes. Was it wise? Alas, no. One expletive, however satisfying in the moment, is the only thing The Man at the Other Till will remember. He went home with a story about a rude customer. You gave it to him. That is the minor tragedy of an otherwise entirely justifiable afternoon. The kind that will keep you awake at night, kicking yourself.

The till attendant, who apologised for not calling the man over, is the unsung hero of this piece. He did nothing wrong either, and was simply caught between two strangers having a feelings-based disagreement about geometry.

Our dear Redditor was not wrong about the queue. They were, by the smallest of margins, wrong about the farewell. A cool (withering) smile and silence would have been the superior move, and significantly harder to complain about on the drive home. Or they could have used my favourite go-to:

Whichever way someone answers this question, ‘yes’ or ‘no’, they’ve lost the upper hand.

5/10 for restraint

8/10 for the explanation

2/10 for the exit.

Ah. Bins. If our homes are a Briton’s Castle, bins are our outposts. Or crown jewels, depending on your point of view. Either way, the message is the same: Hands off.

For those of you unfamiliar with the British Way of Life, bins take up an extraordinary amount of time and emotional energy on these shores. Most of us have 4 of them (at least), with strict rules about what can and cannot go into them. The ‘Refuse Operatives’ will refuse to take them if they spot an infraction. And they’ll be smug about it. Not that I myself have ever fallen foul of the bin rules, obviously. But my neighbours have. They spent the next 2 weeks playing bin bag Tetris

Aside from what goes in the bins, we also have rules about when we can take them out. The refuse collection truck occasionally likes to keep people on their toes by coming earlier than usual, so you can’t rely on a schedule to time when to take the bins out.

They also like to come at 6 am when it’s highly likely you will either be sleeping or, at the very least, not dressed for leaving the house, so you’ve no real choice but to leave it out the night before. I’ve lived in several houses in several parts of Great Britain and somehow they always come at 6 am. They travel with the same magic as Father Christmas.

However, put them out too early, and you might get a knock on the door from the Bin Police. You also run the same risk that the writer of this Reddit post faced.

Brass-necked Bin Brendas.

Bin Brendas don’t believe they should be inconvenienced by their own rubbish. Why risk having the Refuse Operators refuse to take your bin when you can pass the problem to someone else?

In this case, the writer was concerned about the contents of the bin bags because the owners of said bags were known for ‘illegal activity’. Now, I am fairly sure putting contraband in a neighbour’s bin is not going throw the police off the scent. If the street knows the family are dodgy, and they are currently enjoying life outside of prison, they probably know that opposite’s bin is not the best place to dispose of things you don’t want to be caught with.

I suspect Brenda has been reading Marie Kondo, and half her house didn’t bring her joy.

But to answer the writer’s question, “Are we being petty?” The answer is no. Are the bin bags likely to contain a Breaking Bad-style lab setup? Also no.

10/10 for having cameras trained on the bins.

10/10 for confronting Brenda

1/10 for not triggering a revenge plan involving the cover of darkness and depositing enough rubbish in Brenda’s bin to ensure the Refuse Technician refuses to take it, as you watch from behind the bedroom curtain.

Whilst Brits are famous for politeness and understatement, ironically, we save the worst names imaginable for the people we love the most: Get called d*#khead or c**t, and you’ve been welcomed into the family. If you’re called ‘nice’ or ‘sweet’, a Brit has no time for you whatsoever.

When it comes to ‘feedback’, bland phrases such as “I can see you’ve made an effort,” at a work review, or “the decor was inoffensive,“ in reference to a hotel, are not compliments. Best start looking for another job for the former, and you will never see those guests again, for the latter.

Don’t get me wrong, Brits LOVE to moan and complain, just not to someone’s face. Generally speaking, we save our ire until we can get to a computer. That shouldn’t be so, and this habit is probably why we have such poor customer service and mental health in this country. If you’d love to grow a spine and stop apologising for being right, you can pick up my handy cheat sheet over on my SHOP page.

But this leads me to this final entry in this week’s Savage Roundup. Could there be anything more complimentary than a glowing review disguised as a complaint?

Delightful!

And of course, The Railway met the challenge head-on.

Whilst I am a big advocate for complaining politely and directly to the person or place, this method of delivering compliments is best saved for typing, at a distance. There’s a fair chance that you’d not make it to the big ‘it’s a joke, we loved it!’ reveal in one piece, should you decide to dust off your am-dram experience in person. However:

10/10 for the complainant’s initiative and British approach

8/10 for The Railway’s Response. Marks deducted for not quite enough savagery. But what a masterpiece in self-deprecation, whilst also basking in glory.

Chapeau.