and had a wander into lovely and scenic Wigan. There's a new little stand in the middle of one of the shopping centres that sells real ice cream milkshakes. Oh. Yeah. This wasn't the reason I wanted to go into Wigan really. I did have a few things that needed to be taken care of. It wasn't the idea of a sweet and cold mint chocolate chip ice cream shake that wretched me off the couch. I committed to the milkshake. I made a promise that I would enjoy it's deliciousness for all of the calories it would cost me. In short, I was really looking forward to this fucking shake. Mr. Me and I ordered our precious shakes with food for a light little dinner. Wouldn't that be a nice way to end a Saturday afternoon? I paid the girl without realizing that in 15 minutes all hell would breake loose.
The girl behind the counter gave me my sandwich first whilst she went through all the effort of heating up Mr. Me's steak pasty. This is not the thing that goes on a stripper's nipples it's instead a savory pastry with meat in the middle. That's right, pastry with meat. The Northern English can't get enough of these fucking things. Go past Birmingham and you'd kill for a salad if at all aware of your cholesterol count.
They also eat them all the time in every conceivable shape and form, which sometimes means little animal shapes but most bizarrely, includes sandwiches. A sandwich with meat filled pastry as a filling is an enormously popular thing to eat. Amazing, no?
So we waited for the girl to bring our shakes and Mr. Me's pastry with meat. And waited. And waited. After about 15 minutes our milkshakes were delivered without Mr. Me's pasty. The girl had forgotten. Q another 5 minutes of waiting. To top it off, the milkshakes tasted like mint chocolate chip flavored... well, milk. By now I was seething because nothing was coming to plan. The shake was not delicious. I was not happy and I felt a bit like John Travolta wanting to know what a 5 dollar shake tasted like and then blowing the head off the stupid Asian girl that had dicked it all up because this was not even a 50p shake made by a day out in the community. This was also supposed to be a quick stop on the way home that had encroached on 20 minutes of my limited life.
When I begin to grow annoyed my normal hybrid accent of Wigan, Manchester, Texas and West Coast American just turns into a high pitched and fucking fast generic American. The tirade comes out speeding and strong and I start telling people they're hoochies or 'all sorts of fucked up.' I stop saying 'aye' and start swearing a lot more. My voice also projects directly at the person on the receiving end of my asshole filled fury until they can not only smell everything in my teeth but also the lovely reek of lung air. Thank god for debate training.
I geared up my quick and abusive Ameican and went to the counter. The conversation was a bit to and fro, suffice to say that I managed to get my 4 pounds back in the end. The owner of the franchise said that most people don't choose those types of icecream for milkshakes. Sure buddy, whatever. He also shouted back which shouldn't really surprise me. The English are like that: never in the wrong. The summary of the situation is that due to the girl's incompetence and the owner's asshole nature, I'll never go back. I spent my money on a small McDonald's shake which probably wouldn't have been as good but was at least cheap and efficient.
The reason for this post? CNet has a story today about how businesses that have a higher customer satisfaction index, er, make more money. Who knew?
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