It
is not my habit to eat sandwiches at lunchtime. There is a time and a place
for sandwiches and that is in summer and on picnics. They should be made from
thin white bread without crust and be cut into neat, small, triangles. Lunch
is not a time for sandwiches unless one is working on a building site. On a
blue-collar working day lunch should always be taken in a local restaurant
and should feature four courses, one of which should be fish, and be accompanied
by a light white wine. Ideally it should take no more than two hours, so leaving
enough of the afternoon left to do a little work before going out for
a proper meal in the evening.
This is how it has always been done in enlightened countries such as France,
Italy and Spain and it has done them no harm. Indeed France is fighting a valiant
battle to keep its lunch hours. One of the many drawbacks of England’s
ongoing shameful retreat away from its European neighbours, and into the dubious,
burger-ridden, embrace of the USA, is an increasing adoption of that continent’s
ways. Once an Englishman could take lunch with a clear conscience, today lunch
is seen as sinful. The Human Resource department, that modern Gestapo of the
enterprise with powers that are virtually unlimited and which answers to almost
no one, does not allow anyone to behave normally. Not only must a ‘resource’ come
in earlier and earlier, and leave later and later, in order to not receive
a black mark in the HR ledger, the worker must also not take a lunch hour to
avoid being regarded as’ not a team player ‘or some such nonsense.
And so at lunchtime in London millions of browbeaten ‘resources’ scuttle
out to a sandwich shop. The choice is simple. An independent sandwich shop
or a chain sandwich shop. The former are run by people who maintain the shop
in a run down condition, pretend to speak almost no English and have a Bentley
or two parked around back. After you have queued for almost fifteen minutes
you may make your choice from the selection of equally repellent mixes lurking
under a glass counter. Whatever you ask for the person serving you will ask
you to reconfirm your choice several times throughout the process as he (it
is invariably a he) will be too busy shouting flirtatious comments at all the
girls in the queue to concentrate. So great is their disdain for customers,
and so secure are they in the knowledge that you have no choice, they will
clearly show you that the sliced bread ‘brown or white?’ is coming
from a no-brand pack. Unit cost about 2p per slice, mark up about 200%. They
will ask if you would like butter on your bread, even though the industrial
sized pot of cheap margarine they really use is also clearly on display, and
will ask you on average four times whether you want black pepper. With a deft
movement they will throw the completed sandwich into a paper bag, twist the
corners and hold their hand out for the extortionate amount of money demanded
whilst at the same time already not listening to the next customer.The sandwich
will,of course, be only half cut through so that you will need to literally
tear it apart back at your desk.
A chain sandwich shop offers a different experience entirely. Here the sandwiches
are made in advance in order that they can be refrigerated to a degree that
ensures that each and every one tastes exactly the same – of nothing.
There are other choices; some appalling things called ‘wraps’ and
odd boxes of largely unidentifiable pseudo-Japanese items. Whichever of these
you choose, you take to the pay desk, although there seems no reason why you
should not just walk out as security is minimal. Here some irritatingly breezy
foreign student will pretend to be your long lost friend, but will at least
concentrate on taking your money and giving you the right change.
No matter your choice of shop you are then required to hurry back to your’ workstation’ where
you must spend what remains of your lunch hour eating with one hand whilst
answering unimportant emails from self-important colleagues and clients with
the other. Whatever happens you must not undermine the impression that you
are ‘very, very busy’ as the HR cameras and spies will be watching.
Of course your work doesn’t take up all day, of course you don’t
need to go home so late, but woe betide any ‘resource’ that says
so.
Sandwiches are a symptom of the sickness that has gripped Britain’s offices,
the paranoia, the guilt, the jobsworthness. I ask you to march under my apt,
if unwieldy, slogan. ‘Proper work in reasonable office hours’.
Join me in hunting down all the idiots that work in HR, who pass their overpaid
days dreaming up new ways to oppress and humiliate the people that actually
earn the money. It is a crusade for self-respect and sanity. Unfurl the flag
and blow the trumpets. Oh and pack some sandwiches, it could be a long day.
Illustration by: Al Stuart al.stuartcreative@ntlworld.com
