Starbucks is a Cesspit

Cesspit (noun): A pit for the disposal of liquid waste and sewage. A disgusting or corrupt place.

There are few places more hellish on Earth than a Starbucks. In all seriousness, I loathe, detest and despise it for being a cesspit of all the ills of 21st century living. This morning I had the inconvenience of finding myself inside such an establishment – and not by choice, I assure you. I was in the rather unfortunate position of having run out of the house without my iPhone. I did however manage to remember my phone charger (which gleefully bounced on the pavement as I ran to catch my tram, which I inevitably missed anyway – going to show that all exercise is pointless, and one should never, ever run for public transport as there is always ‘another one’). I was greeted at the train station by hoards of people, throngs in fact. Gormless saps staring idly at the timetable switchboard illuminated with alerts stating ‘Rijdt niet’ (train not riding – a very literal Dutch translation). Row by row, each train was accompanied by this message, meaning effectively: we are all stranded and doomed! So what is there to do in a situation like this, I hear you ask? Take a photo of course, which serves as effective proof to your employer that there was absolutely no way that you could have possibly made it to work on time today, and through no fault of your own, obviously. However, this act alone is simply insufficient, any workplace tardiness should always be accompanied by a frantic screaming telephone call to your line-manager, explaining how the end of the world is imminent (hand gesturing is encouraged on your end of the line, your manager will not see it, but it will make you breathless, adding to the dramatic effect of the situation). But as I said, I left this morning with no phone. Therefore, I had to try and plug in my iPad in order to make communication with “the Man”, who would be expecting me at my post by no later than 09.15am.

Surprisingly, at this particular train station the only charging point is at Starbucks. Who knew? (*I ask myself rhetorically, for those unable to detect irony in text form). Is this not the case in virtually every train station, airport and high-street up and down the country? I should clarify, I mean on every high-street and country on planet earth it would seem – because everywhere has a Starbucks in 2016. Nobody (with standards, even the very lowest of standards) actually goes to Starbucks as a “coffeehouse” to order a beverage these days. You go so as to charge your phone, go on the free-Wi-Fi (with great difficulty), or use one of the toilets where the manual locks are definitely a construction lifted from Fort Knox – it has to be at least one of the three, combinations of the aforementioned are also acceptable. Simply put: I was left with no other choice – stuck between a Rock and a 'Starbucks Rocky-Road Frappuccino' (which probably exists, I didn’t make it up, and I promise you: it’s bound to be disgusting). I swallowed by pride (and my saliva) and reluctantly trudged inside, all the while knowing that I am far superior (in my own mind at least) to any of the clientele who frequent this hellhole out of their own free will.

There are many reasons why I hate Starbucks, too many to mention, but I should at least mention some of the more noteworthy reasons, or else I will appear lazy. I hate the “coffee”, or at least the muck they market as coffee, which is more akin to coating your oesophagus with a thin layer of tar. I ha

te the “tea”. I hate the cream that comes from aerosol cans and contributes to killing whatever we have left on this planet that is natural and beautiful. I hate the red cups, I hate the white cups, and I hate the lady on the cups – I guarantee you that it is impossible to grin like her when you are aware of how many calories are in your “skinny bitch” ‘Chocolate Chai Tea Latte’ with soy milk (the soy makes it skinny, FYI). I hate that the barista asks me my name, and pretends like they actually know how to spell it. Or I hate when the barista asks me to spell out my name, and still manages to somehow spell it wrong (I see you nodding your head in agreement here). I hate the other people at Starbucks, the ones who are not being paid minimum wage to spell peoples’ names incorrectly on cardboard cups all day, but rather that small section of society actually excited for being here, the ones who order two drinks and place them conveniently on the stupidly small round-tables in order to take a photo for Instagram, accompanied with something trivial like #festive #starbucksdate #winterwarmer, because remember people: “it didn’t happen, if you didn’t Instagram it”. With regard to the previous story, I have in fact seen a young Asian woman purchase two such drinks, and photograph such, while being totally alone. To make matters worse, they were two turbo-charged ‘Grande’ XXL Whipped-cream Frappuccino monstrosities, completely unpalatable, and decorated with a ghastly array of creams, liquids, and sauces. I doubt even Marie Antoinette would have had the stomach for something so irrevocably sweet, and needless to say, tacky.

In the end, I tried to settle for the cheapest item on the menu: a simple espresso (double in my case, considering the horrors of the morning thus far), accompanied by a plastic cup of tap water: yummy! The only thing more eye watering than the drink itself was the price: €2.75 (take-out). If anyone out there would like to take the time to explain to me (very slowly) how Starbucks justifies their prices: I’m listening. But then again, why should they have to validate their extraordinary margins? It’s not like anyone actually cares about what they are consuming anyway. It’s more of an event, nowadays, Starbucks is a verb, you do it: do a Starbucks. Who cares that it’s considerably worse than the free coffee dispensed from the automated machine at the office, who cares that it makes Nescafé Gold Blend seem like a Michelin worthy beverage. It’s just all about consumption: caffeinating, WC-ing, and charging, and not in that particular order.