Diary of a Misanthrope #2: On Days Like These...

...my rapid, ever changing fluctuation between benevolence and malevolence - an almost metronomic readjustment of my temperament from second to second - is so very, very pronounced. 

As I type this, I'm wondering if I'm unwittingly contributing to some future undergrad psychology gimp's research material, but I doubt it. I'm pretty certain of my own sanity, and I'm self-aware enough to realise that this rapid-fire change in my demeanour...

Sorry. I've just added 'realise' and 'demeanour' to the spellchecker because the fucking piece of shit Americanised (see? here we go again) language is trying to force itself onto the page and violate my output like a Sweaty Southern Sheriff. Bastard. As you were.

...is nothing to do with any internal imbalance, deficiency, anomaly or any similar thing. It's entirely triggered by other people. I don't need medication to treat what I have, I need isolation. Or a chainsaw. I can wake up in a perfectly amiable frame of mind and have it destroyed in seconds by a throwaway remark on breakfast radio that renders me incensed, and reinstated just as quickly by a nice cup of tea and finding out someone's left me a Sudoku puzzle to tackle while I drink it.

And okay, the vast majority of the things that evoke the inner sociopath in me are trivial, pointless things. But they stem from an important need in me to preserve basic human decency. There are one or two things that will always bring down the red mist in me. Physical cruelty to anyone or anything (such as an animal) weaker than you or unable to defend itself will result in me hurting you really rather badly. Verbal or psychological bullying also makes you an instant target. Moral of the story is: Be Fucking Nice. It doesn't cost anything and the whole space you occupy benefits from it. Sadly, this was not the case in my local cafe this morning...


'Cos I'm a man of routine, too. I enjoy sitting in the cafe with a coffee and my copy of the i - a borrowed pen from over the counter and I'm a happy boy. Most days, you have a handful of builders mixed with a few sixth form drama students, not forgetting Jurassic Pack (the regular octogenarian crowd) who claim their territories and keep themselves to themselves. Today, every rat-bastard and his dog came for breakfast. And I do mean rat-bastard. I think the girls in the cafe dealt with more assholes either complaining or trying it on than I've seen them cope with all the time I've been going there. And almost ALL of it from people over sixty. It was almost as if the local Sour Faced Belligerent Old Bastards Action Group were having an AGM. I clocked a few specific instances myself, such as:


'This coffee is made with sour milk' 
It's not. The milk is fresh, it's got a ten-day expiry period.  it must be your dog's arsehole of a face that turned it.


'The chair opposite looks like it might be sticky' 
Are you sitting on it? No. Is anyone else sitting on it? No. We've told you we'll see to it as soon as we've served these 50 people that have just come in. That's right, tell your husband you've just been ignored. We'll freeze fucking time and scatter rose petals at your feet, you vicious bitch.


'This milkshake doesn't look very full to me' 
Well it was full when I made it and served it to you. It's not full any more because two of us watched you take a huge gulp of it before bringing it back and demanding a top-up. It definitely won't be full when I empty the rest of it into your fucking handbag. Sit the fuck down.


Of course those weren't the responses by the waiting staff and management. They have a business to run, and even though I'm a regular and occasional helper-outer, I wasn't allowed to interfere. For some reason, they work on the principle that 'the customer is always right'. I've worked with the public, and I reckon that's bullshit. They're not always right, they're a bunch of opportunistic piss-brained fucktards that'll try and ruin your day if you let them. I am not cut out for a career in the retail sector. I accept that.


My own lovely breakfast date was late too, which did nothing for my frame of mind - but she made it there eventually, albeit after I'd decided 'fuck it' and ordered for myself. Swings and roundabouts. I'm going back for breakfast tomorrow, armed with poisoned blowdarts. They'll thank me come lunchtime.


JH