I have taken the momentous decision that, in order to cope with the difficulties thrust upon us all by the events of the past 12 months, the only answer is to (continue to) order by the crate.
So you can imagine how delighted I was to hear about the concept of Pay@Pump.
Nothing to do with winter fu-u-el or any other method of powering the one-horse open sleigh, this is, in fact, the new way to get a drink more speedily (allegedly) than standing at a crowded bar waving a tenner and doing your Mrs Invisible impression.
As a publican of my acquaintance once remarked while waiting, less than patiently, to be served in another establishment: “You could get drink quicker from a clubbie book.”
Pay@Pump, let me tell you, is a method via which customers can serve themselves at bars instead of fuming away behind those irritating people who want 13 gluten-free, decaffeinated cocktails with no ice, three straws and Tayberries out of season, plus precisely three leaves of mint and no lemon rind. On the bar, fast as you like, squire.
And I don’t mean the people who have real trouble with food allergies and reactions.
I mean the annoyingly entitled ones who are seriously unable to order a gin and tonic without going through a list of 130 artisan spirits and 25 specially created mixers, for whom “Gordon’s” and “Schweppes” are dirty, dirty words.
The kind of people who, when you are standing in the only coffee chain that seems even vaguely willing to pay its corporate taxes and that’s really the only reason you are there in the first place, order something along the lines of a venti iced skinny hazelnut macchiato, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, light ice, no whip.
Or a grand chai tea latte, three pump, skim milk, lite water, no foam extra hot whatever.
When all you want is a black coffee of a size reasonable enough to carry to a table without ending up doing the wall of death round the premises because of the level of caffeine involved.
Now, Pay@Pump has a lot to recommend it in my book, being that I could squirt out 250mls of house merlot and a pint of DoomBar faster than you can say JD Wetherspoon.
So what is not to like, I hear you say?
I just get the feeling – and I have no problem with drinking alone, it’s what easy-use corkscrews are for – that it’s all a bit soul-less, pointless and, like the payments in question, contactless.
I don’t want to do ranks of struggling teenagers, students and even qualified bar staff with skills I cannot even begin to contemplate, out of a job.
And I just have a vision of people (not unlike me) hogging the pay pumps to the extent that vast queues build up elsewhere in whichever establishment has chosen to install these things and the whole point of the exercise is lost.
It will not, therefore, come as a surprise to you to learn that this is the suggestion of a bank, or at least, the financial product section of a bank. After all, if they’re not adept at making the rest of us pay, pay and pay again, who is?
Learning stuff
I have learned a lot of things over the past few weeks, most of which were instantly forgettable or totally useless, if temporarily entertaining.
Like Donald Trump’s “unpresidented” (see Wry & Dry, Dec 23 for a full exposition), undoubtedly the best presidential foot-in-mouth for some time, right up there with Dan Quayle’s “potatoe” and George W Bush’s “misunderestimated”, with an honourable mention for Secretary of Defense (sic) Donald Rumsfeld’s “known knowns” and “known unknowns”.
But just occasionally, you discover a new word that adds considerably to the greater gaiety of nations and this year, dear reader, for me at least, that word was “lametta”.
I am, it is well known, the single most unfestive person in the world, despite nods to the Grinch and E Scrooge, Esq, but I do like a nice, shiny Christmas tree.
What I did not know until this very year of grace was that, in complete innocence, I was festooning said tree not just with tinsel but with lametta.
This, it would seem, is tinsel without the connecting thread, something that seems eminently suited to someone like me who lost the thread long ago.
I’m just glad to know there’s a name for it, even if it sounds like a stylish Italian motor conveyance rather than trashy seasonal bling, easily acquired from the fulfilment centres of dontgiveamonkeys.org or upyours.com.
I suppose the one thing I can be grateful for is that it might just prevent the creation of what in our house have come to be known as “tin-selfies”, where members of the family find themselves unwittingly on Facebook, festooned with the stuff, yet not enough to hide their identities and thus, the associated shame.
Or as these things are alternatively known in Scotland, gaun yersel-fies.
Hell, it makes you glad to know that the dreichest time of year is just around the corner, doesn’t it…