I’m flying to Portugal for a few days this afternoon, so my upcoming posts won’t arrive as predictably as Jordans ‘Exclusive’ photo shoots in OK magazine. However, in the coming hours I will have to deal with airport taxi services, check-ins, airport security, cheapo airline service and Portuguese public transport. So rest assured. There will be plenty from me when I get back…

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Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day. Or so they say. But, give a man a name tag and he’ll be a shitbag forever.

There is something about the name tag that makes people drunk with power, the irony of feeling powerful in a job that requires a nametag is clearly lost on them.

A recent example of my brush with a nametag Nazi:

I arrive at a restaurant, I have no reservation. His nametag reads “Marco – Head Waiter”. He smiles smugly and tells me they are full, but I can wait 30 minutes for a table if I like. I reluctantly agree. I’ve waited no more than five minutes when another couple arrive, also ’sans’ reservation. They are seated immediately. I am obviously more than a little miffed about this.

“Why did they get seated? You said you were full?”, I enquire politely.

“I a managed to squeeze a them a in a as Meesta Simons and his a wife are regulars”

“So you lied, you weren’t full, you were just waiting for someone better than me?”

“Is a not a true sir.”

“Then why weren’t we ’squeezed’ in? You managed to squeeze them in. Why weren’t we squeezed in? I’d have been happy to be squeezed.”

“I am a sorry, but in a ma role as a Heada Waiter I have a to give a priority to a my regulars.”

“But they weren’t here. We were. We were sat right in front of you. Waiting.”

“I don’t a make a the rules, that’s a just the way it is.”

“Don’t quote Bruce Hornsby at me you smug twat, you might not make the rules but you do enforce them with a level of gleeful tenacity normally associated with Gary Glitter at a McFly gig.”

“It is a ma job to look after our regulars, of which meesta, you are not a one.”

He then gave me that patronising ’smile’ again, when what he’s clearly thinking is “Fuck off you despicable shit, I wouldn’t help you now if you were locked in a small room with James Blunt and an acoustic guitar.”

All I ask of you all is this. Look down. Is there a name badge on your chest? Yes? Well just don’t be a complete cunt about it.

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