AS a mature adult you should keep your emotions in check and never lose your shit in public. Except when you visit these places:
After scouring Google Maps and walking four miles to find an open branch, you’ll be greeted by a cheery advisor who informs you that you need to make an appointment to see a specialist advisor for your banking needs, and they are unavailable for the next four weeks. You blow your top and are barred from the branch, meaning you have to walk nine miles to find one next time.
You enter hoping to find meaningful employment, and within five minutes you have been stripped of your dignity and are ablaze with rage. The only job available is at a fish processing plant an hour’s drive from your house and they want you to work the 11pm to 5am shift. You begrudgingly fill in the ludicrously long form, only to be informed when you return it to the desk that the role has been filled, sorry. You understandably lose your rag, and end up in a Daily Mail article about attacks on security guards.
A day out at the beach will be lovely, you think, and this delusion lasts all the way until you almost get in a fight in the car park for allegedly nicking someone’s space. When you finally arrive on the sand it’s too hot, you can’t swim because the water’s full of sewage and you get hit in the face with a frisbee. Cue you screaming at seagulls to f**k off, terrifying small children and being decked by a similarly sweating and pissed off dad.
Going to see the latest Marvel epic on its opening weekend seems like a fun idea, but in reality you’ll be surrounded by teenagers who are texting their mate two rows back and won’t turn off the pinging notification sound. Factor in the woman sitting next to you browsing Amazon with her screen brightness turned up full and the kid behind kicking the back of your chair, and you’ll be throwing your popcorn at the screen and shouting obscenities before you can say ‘banned for life’.
The car is the best arena to lose your shit in because it feels private, even though everyone else in the queue at the Tesco mini roundabout can very clearly see you. The main thing is to stay in the car and, after you’ve wound down the window and called a man in a Range Rover Evoque a ‘stupid bellend driving a car specifically designed for wankers’, lock the doors.