Sometimes, as the sun glares through the misty window, and leaves break the sky up into tessellated blue, you get a strange idea that, perhaps this time, you’ll try to get your customer service from a real person. No more dialling a number, speaking to a machine, choosing from a menu for the closest thing you think applies to your bespoke query, starting the menu again because that led you to an automated message unrelated to your needs, finding the cheat code through the audio maze finally allowing you to follow automated authentication steps, mis-entering your account number twice, waiting for someone to answer to simply take that information all over again.

But outside. Where the vape shops give the high street hope of survival.

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Surely, looking into the eyes of another human, you will get a more positive experience. It is true that the amount that can be fixed automatically, means the only parts left to humans, are the difficult conversations. Maybe, we can find a way to make this one more fulfilling. We may only be naming each other because they are wearing a name badge that says ‘Stephen’ Store Manager, and my name is on the screen in front of them, but this does feel like, for a moment, we are two people sharing a common mission to solve something that has caused a distress we could fix together.

Unfortunately, some brick and mortar stores in British high streets do not exist for this purpose. From the outside, as you wander by the water feature that resembles the shapes from a dream you barely remember, your mind contemplating the errand list you should have written, you spot the logo of a company of which that was one of the things you needed to sort today! The illuminated box above the glass frontage giving you a sense of hope. Not only has it reminded you of the thing to do, you could actually get it done by entering the premises.

Or. So. You. Are. Led. To.

I walked into a phone shop, let’s say it’s the Three store, because that’s what it was. I had this dream in my mind. The hope warming my insides as I’d tried to park in a multi-story car park with all the skill that is on display at a school visit to an ice rink; most people are staying close to the sides because venturing into the middle is the disaster zone.

The welcome was on the cooler side of lukewarm. An old cup of tea, left in the sun, as if that was going to help things.

Whether they wanted to or not, I explained the situation that needed the special assistance of real people, rather than the suggested version on the website. I’m not sure they were really listening, but they asked if I would sit down because I was making things look untidy. This wasn’t the exact phrase they used, but it was definitely implied by the way they said, “let’s sit down to sort things out.”

I explained the situation again, twice. The situation itself doesn’t really matter here. It didn’t matter to them either. After the pleasantries they did the one thing I realise now is completely unavoidable. They called customer services and handed me the phone. I hung the phone up and asked why I couldn’t get this sorted by them in the premises of Three by someone with a Three name badge. They looked at me like I’d taken their car keys and thrown them at a sea gull. They were clueless, powerless, friendless. Somehow employed.

Shakespeare claimed that all the world is a stage. Three must have that plastered in the staff room in the back. This whole place is theatre.

It should have always been clear to me, in the same way as when a website has a ‘help’ section that is no help and a ‘contact us’ section that desperately avoids providing this information. This is that. In real life. I had walked into the .com/help section of a company. I had made a journey that I believed had real, genuine purpose. I had a mission and I was going to get it done. This wasn’t what they wanted though, was it? I had made this whole journey as an ode to the high street and been given the wholesome experience of being watched while I spoke to someone in a warehouse. These were the real people. The people who provided the service. The employees that populated the store were there as facade.

I had walked into a place that on the surface should have given me hope. It was as if I had scaled the first peak to see there was a higher peak beyond and someone in a tent at this initial summit had given the impression that they were a guide, only to point me into a void.

I persisted with my need to resolve my issue while in the shop. I was, at minimum, going to take up space and do it in a raised tone, except when divulging personally identifiable information. The tables had turned. I was now the actor, and the staff were the audience. All the world is, truly, a stage, and this performance was exquisite. The store manager was aware of things because I had clocked him at a moment of hold music and caught his attention. As I left, I made the point to question why this had to be like this and he made the ultimate statement that haunts me.

“I don’t care. I’m just an employee.”

A true manager.

Maybe we should have two doors to these shops. One is to the normal shop, where you can pick up an unoperational phone and play pretend with it for a bit to see if that feels nice under your fingers. The other goes to the warehouse where all the helpful people are. The normal shop has ‘just employees’ wandering about, collecting dust. The warehouse has employees+. The ones you really wanted in the first place, but hadn’t earned.

Maybe there is this other door and I never found it and, after I’d left, all the normal shop staff sniggered at my foolishness to perform the entire process over the phone when I could have just gone through the other door.

The true customer experience for a brick and mortar shop presence in a high street needs fixing. And, according to Three, that fix is:

* Entry is only allowed by entering an unknown 4 digit code. You can have as many tries as possible, because you will be given clear hints that you’re heading in the wrong direction by one of the employees reading out various responses, like “I’m sorry that’s not an option, press star to return to the main menu.” Once successful you will be handed a clipboard to provide them with all the information they need to make sure that you will see the right person once entering the shop.

* An ante-room. A lobby where, once you gain entry, you will be given a number in the queue, while a 4-piece band will play indistinct jazz. They occasionally stop for a person to pop in, holding an ice cream, telling you there’s no one available right now.

* Sit in this room and stare at a blank wall for around 90 minutes. Do not make eye contact with the jazz-four-piece. They will send you back outside to try again.

* Welcome to customer services! You will be introduced to a teenager who is happy to help and get things solved for you today. They will then ask you for your name, why you are here and you will inform them that this is on the clipboard information you gave earlier. They will inform you this has been destroyed as is the process and to provide all the information again.

* Routing: on providing the full query, this teenager will helpfully point out that they can’t actually help you and you need to speak to someone else. You will be sent back into the ante room for a few minutes.

* Welcome to account management! You will be introduced to a friendly lady who will ask you for the information you provided on the clipboard again. She will apologise and make it feel okay that you have been repeating this query both aloud and in your head for a number of days.

* Solved! Eventually. You will spend around 55 minutes with this lady who will fully and completely resolve all your issues including some useful tips for what would make a good Mother’s Day present. On leaving you will be led into the…

* Survey room! You will be handed a clipboard that looks remarkably like the one you were given at entry and asked how the service was and how they could improve things. Answer this honestly and then place it in the large mechanical bin by the door in order to exit.

* Daylight has gone. As you step back onto the street, the sun has set. You are exhausted. Your problem is solved, but your soul is slightly smaller.

A future we can all look forward to. Please hold.

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Local Running Club’s Ambitious Event Spirals Into Insurance Nightmare

April 27, 2026

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The Vision vs. The Reality

What was meant to be a straightforward 26.2-mile marathon through central London yesterday has instead become the subject of an ongoing investigation by three separate insurance companies and a strongly worded letter from the Port of London Authority.

The Thames Valley Running Club’s “Whisky Marathon” promised participants an unconventional experience: replace the standard 17 water stops with 17 single-malt whisky tastings. The organisers called it “a celebration of Scottish heritage and British endurance.” The insurers are calling it “a catastrophic lapse in judgment.”

The Setup: Ambition Meets Hubris

“We thought it would be fun,” explained event coordinator Marcus Pemberton, speaking from his home on Monday afternoon. “We had safety briefings. We had medical staff on standby. We even had a sponsorship deal with a local distillery.”

What the organisers did not anticipate was the cumulative effect of 17 whisky stops on the navigational abilities of 342 whisky snobs/amateur runners. It was one of the proposed activities from a collective Whisky Advent Calendar that the large WhatsApp group had completed over December.

The Divergence: When Runners Went Off-Script

By mile 8, the first “inadvertent course diversions” began to emerge. A group of 47 runners, having sampled the Islay single-malt at Stop 3, somehow ended up in Hammersmith instead of continuing toward Kensington.

“They were very committed,” said one bewildered local shopkeeper. “They asked me for directions to ‘the next whisky stop,’ and when I told them they’d gone the wrong way, they just kept going. I think they thought it was part of the course.”

By mile 15, the situation had escalated. A subset of 23 competitors had achieved what race officials now reluctantly classify as “ultramarathon status”—having run approximately 34 miles through a combination of the official route and several creative detours through South London.

The Thames Incident

The most serious incident occurred at mile 18, near Hammersmith Bridge, where the official route crosses the Thames via the pedestrian walkway.

“Several runners interpreted this as an invitation to complete a swimming leg,” said Thames Valley Running Club spokesperson Jennifer Walsh in a statement. “This was not the intention.”

The Port of London Authority was less diplomatic. In a letter dated Monday morning, they formally requested that the club cease and desist from any future events that might “encourage aquatic participation in a major shipping lane.”

The club’s insurers went further, issuing a directive that the River Thames must henceforth be referred to in all official documentation as a “water hazard”—a term typically reserved for golf courses and military installations.

“It’s absurd,” Pemberton admitted. “But apparently, there’s a specific clause about ‘encouraging unauthorised water activities in protected waterways.’ Who knew?”

The Finale: The Lime Bike Uprising

The event reached its surreal crescendo around mile 22, when approximately 18 runners—having lost the official course entirely and consumed roughly 12 whisky tastings each—commandeered a fleet of Lime bikes from a ‘docking pavement’ near Vauxhall.

“They were very organised about it,” said a Lime spokesperson. “They actually scanned the QR codes properly. We didn’t realise until later that they’d taken 18 bikes in a coordinated fashion and were using them to complete what they called ‘the cycling leg.’”

The resulting route was, by all accounts, “frankly quite serpentine.” Security footage shows the group weaving through residential streets, across three different parks, and at one point, through the grounds of a private school.

“They were singing,” reported one witness. “Very loudly. Scottish folk songs, I think. They seemed happy.”

The group eventually reached a finish line—though not the official one. Instead, they arrived at a Tesco Extra in Peckham, where they apparently believed the event had concluded.

“They were very disappointed when we told them this wasn’t the finish,” said store manager David Chen. “One of them asked if we had a medal. We gave them a Clubcard instead.”

The Aftermath: Counting the Costs

The official post-race report, released Monday evening, catalogues the damage:

* 342 registered participants

* 287 official finishers (those who completed the actual course)

* 47 runners who finished in Hammersmith

* 8 runners who are still missing (last seen heading toward Croydon)

* 18 runners who completed an accidental triathlon via unauthorised swimming and cycling

* 11 Lime bikes added to the growing canal bike population

* 3 insurance companies are now in active dispute

* Countless confused Londoners who witnessed the chaos

The Fallout

The Thames Valley Running Club has announced that next year’s event is “under review.” Preliminary discussions suggest several options:

* Returning to traditional water stops

* Switching to a different beverage entirely (IPAs have been suggested. The Club is looking for a BrewDog sponsorship.)

* Cancelling the event indefinitely

The impacted boroughs have requested a meeting with club leadership to discuss “event management protocols and public safety.”

Pemberton remains philosophical about the disaster. “Look, we set out to create an unforgettable experience,” he said. “And we did. For most people.”

Epilogue: The Missing Eight

As of press time, eight runners remain unaccounted for. The club has issued a statement asking anyone who spots runners in Thames Valley Running Club bibs to “gently redirect them toward central London.”

One runner, identified only as “Derek from Croydon,” posted on social media Monday morning: “Still running. Not sure where I am. The whisky was excellent, though. 10/10 would recommend.”

His current location remains unknown.

The Port of London Authority has declined further comment but will not press charges.

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This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com

Let’s be honest: no one has an interesting job. And those who do, we cannot cope with it, which is why televised extended adventures involving said jobs are much easier to process. Small doses of the nuclear scientist, intelligence agent, corrupt politician (regular politicians are boring), and rogue plumber are the only way to properly appreciate the exciting people that are in our lives.

This topic comes up in gatherings that people like to refer to as “parties” during the tradition or practice of ‘small talk’. I do not do small talk. Sometimes I will tell people I’m a stand up comedian. This may sound like a lie, because claiming this suggests it’s a full time thing, when it isn’t and won’t ever be in this economy.

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It’s like a casual runner who does 20-30k a week in the midst of their usual weekly commitments saying “I’m an athlete.” According to the email newsletter from runningfordummies.com, they definitely are. I will not take that away from them. Because I don’t want them to take my dreams from me. The difference between us, however, is the follow-up question. If they claim “athlete” as their primary answer, the next question will undoubtedly be, “what events are you competing in next?” To which the answer would be Battersea Park Run.

The follow up question for me on claiming ‘comedian’ is, “tell me a joke.” To which I can gracefully transition into a diatribe about that being a very one-dimensional understanding of ‘comedian’ vs. ‘joke writer’ and while there are certainly jokes I tell throughout a stand-up set, I wouldn’t be able to do it justice in this current setting due to...

And now we have gone from ‘small talk’ to ‘medium talk’.

Medium talk is when one party is dreadfully interested in the topic and the other is realising their mouth is a little parched and wondering if the free bar is still open. Your outfit portrays an invitation to light-hearted interactions thanks to your fun cat meme design on your tote bag, but this has betrayed them, and they cannot comfortably escape.

I use my own version of a ‘skip intro’ button in a new introduction by providing the recent weather reports in a 15 second sound bite, show them a picture of my cat and a recent holiday, and my latest LinkedIn post from 14 years ago so we can get on with an actual conversation.

The conversation in question? Big talk. One could refer to it as large or perhaps extra large talk, as a way to t-shirt size the experience, but let’s be real: t-shirt sizing anything that isn’t a t-shirt is incredibly annoying and I will not entertain that as an action item to estimate something for a work meeting.

This short guide should help to cut through the crust of pretense.

You will quickly find out who is worth being in the same room with, and who is there for the bottled beer. An odd trend will appear that, in the main, those that are there due to some close relationship with the person who was actually invited to the thing is probably going to respond better to this method than the core party-goers. This is intended.

If all goes to plan, you are now standing alone by the hummus; exactly where you wanted to be.

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This morning, my wife told me that some people don’t bring out the ‘best version’ of me. That is, I admitted, due to a general sense of fear. There are many versions of me (I made a typo there to suggest there were ‘manly’ versions of me to which I quickly course-corrected, because that is one thing I know is not true; ‘manly’ and me do not play well together), all of which are operating with a slow rumble of fear throughout the day. People operate on two options: do something out of fear OR do something out of pride. I believe it is better if everyone operates under the former if you are to operate at all.

At some point, in order to capture the imagination of the emerging generation, somebody somewhere was the first person to utter the words “living your/my best life”, and this is now the reason why everyone is depressed. Because this sounds like a target, something to aspire to or something that is possible. Now it is possible, but not the way that people who attest to it want you to understand.

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Here is the ultimatum: You are already living your best life, because that is what your life is. You have already subscribed to the other idiom “You only live once” and have not done the logical alignment to realise that if you only live once, then the life that you have, without any effort in particular, is your best one. And you are, admittedly, disappointed.

I’m sorry to have pointed this out to you.

It’s also your worst life, if that’s any consolation.

That is how lists work.

But when I say to my only parents that they are the best parents I’ve ever had, that is a true statement. There will be some who may try to point out where they could have done better, but I am not that person.

The generation that I belong to (Millennial) is powered by affirmations:

* Live your best life

* You only live once

* Good vibes only

* Self-care

* Living your truth

* That’s how I’m wired

* Trust the process

* Life is short

All of these are excuses for why this person feels friction in general society.

I am encouraged to “be myself” and then invited to a fancy dress party, derided for turning up as myself. I could argue that I am being ‘authentic’, but the reality is I’m exposing everyone else as turning “fun” into additional work that shouldn’t be impacting my work-life balance. I get invited to parties less often as a result.

We hear “YOLO” over the hubbub, but when we look, it’s being used as an excuse to have another Krispy Kreme on a Friday. And they’ve taken the best one again.

But you can say almost anything that is merely useless logical calculation, and then take up smoking or buy a dog.

It used to be that we had some strange observation that would justify behaviour; “you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs” is used to excuse aggressive people who can’t just take a breath. But that isn’t heard as often these days, and is replaced with “trust the process,” “it is what it is,” “all my chickens have hatched, and I’ve got no eggs, so try making an omelette now, you peanut.”

Before I leave that axiom alone, I think it worth highlighting the use of eggs is specifically for omelettes. Other things yes, but omelettes make the list. Without digressing too far into whether a vegan would approve of this as a metaphor for their latest campaign, I’m pretty sure someone on the opposite side of the picket line would have a sign that read “You can’t make an omelette.”

The very notion of eggs is they will be broken. Either for food or their more productive options: chicks. This does defeat the object of the phrase’s use. By all means, “move fast and break things” if you must, but do not make an excuse that those things were supposed to break and part of the ingredients, rather than the actual result; collateral damage.

How are we supposed to define things as “eggs” in the world outside of a metaphor that is literally a double negative framing of something? If I do the appropriate linguistic algebra, the phrase is literally saying “you make omelettes with eggs.” Now try to justify that to be why you “disrupted” the industry, but not fully being honest that your old business partner is now alone and on the verge of becoming the next Walter White. The ex-CEO of Brewdog probably had this sewn into every t-shirt he wore and had it tattooed across his chest. But in this case, it’s being used to suggest that “success” is made with the ingredient of destroying other people’s lives. An omelette folk metaphor should not be able to carry the weight of silencing dissent.

The millennial adjustment to ‘move fast and break things’ at least didn’t point to objects that undermined the underlying intent. We seem intent on building our lives on proverbs of five words or fewer.

I agree. Life is short, when compared with the infinite passage of time, but it’s taken ages to get here, and if we are speeding towards death, let’s be mindful of others along the way, please.

I cannot abide “Good Vibes Only” as a concept. This doesn’t work. If I got a phone call, as I once did, explaining that the vet had found an untreatable growth in my cat and she would need to be put down, I can’t just scream “GOOD VIBES ONLY!” at him and hang up. It doesn’t work.

There are people that claim they can maintain said “vibes” with “breath work.” Since when was breathing work? Only in the most stressful of situations, otherwise known as a panic attack. If we have a generation that are experts at breath work, we must be in an international health crisis. Every member of Gen Z are hiding their constant state of panic behind an oversized hoodie slogan.

And so we have got a population of people living through their screens, showcasing their life with captions to affirm their life choices, without just actually inhabiting them. Only made worse is we have too quickly passed this onto future generations, who have had to find ways to live ‘authentically’ and make sure that that is also captured on social media so people can approve of it.

Just approve, please. Approve of my schedule. Approve of my job. Do not be silent.

There’s a world of concern that people are only sharing their curated life online. But there is silence when it comes to just getting people to live.

What this doesn’t mean is find ways of captioning your life through a t-shirt that says “GAME ON” or “I WILL GO PLACES” or “ADVENTURE! Assembly required.” Be careful of these.

I have a hoodie that reads, “The Wilderness Awaits”, which sounds edgy and cool, but is probably the most terrifying thing to consider. You believe it’s going to be a scenic hike in the New Forest, but suddenly there’s no 5G coverage, and Waitrose is replaced by a SPA. No Gastro Pub in sight. I like the wilderness as long as there’s a proper facility to ensure I can have a suitable bio break and eat tasty things in the midst of experiencing said wilderness. I do not want the wilderness subjected to me. The idea of adventure might be fun from the outside, which is easy to imagine when binge-watching Netflix mini-series. But imagine that actually happening to you.

They say be careful what you wish for, but in this case, you have either brought incredible disaster on yourself with zero prep, or, as hacked to death in the preceding paragraphs, stated things over yourself that contain no actual meaning and your single solitary life is winning and losing at every ranking you can place on it.

Stop it.

Here are some alternatives that you can utilise to make yourself more tolerable to the incoming generations:

* One life is already too much responsibility

* I have settled for a good life, my apologies

* Be your many selves. Embrace your inconsistency.

* Check you’re still breathing. This is enough.

* Do not disturb

* Be authentically difficult

* Life may be short, but please do explain in more detail your life-changing sourdough starter

Remove all vibes from your activities. Strive instead for a life that is logically sound.

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In a world where everything has become so paperless, I’m unsure how to recycle the digital envelope the latest correspondence came in. I looked around my office and wondered what really mattered. My desk is on wheels for some reason. Maybe it felt left out because my office chair also has wheels and can also spin around. Perhaps it’s so that, if necessary, when asked about a particular Zoom meeting, I can apologise with a legitimate excuse:

“I’m so sorry, but my office is currently struggling to do 50 on the inside lane of the M2,5 and I needed to concentrate.”

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I think it’s technically referred to as a ‘mobile office’ even though that is quite a stretch. But there you go, the world was listening, in the form of my Google search history informing Amazon what I was in the market for, and an ad popped up for a complete package of “Office: Stationary.” I figured it was a typo.

That would make a bit of a change; I can tidy up all the various cables that seem to congregate in front of my computer screens after a ‘big tidy’, and I can rely on the things that require literally no battery power at all.

I must have misread the description. The doorbell rang, but it wasn’t DPD; it was a site safety engineer asking me to briefly leave the spare room so that he could install the stationary office. I had signed on the digital dotted line for an office that was legally required to never move. I’m not quite sure how to explain this to the landlord.

All the paperclips I’d recovered from the living room cupboard in preparation were now, ironically, stapled to the carpet in a fun navigable pattern, as if this immovable office needed to provide a topographical experience.

I feel quite stupid now. I hope I didn’t make the same mistake for when the standing desk comes next week.

(Next week came, and you’ll be pleased to know that it’s just a regular desk, which made me recheck the ‘sitting desk’ which, it turns out, is a desk in the sitting position of a dog; so utterly useless.)

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In the early days of the COVID-19 lockdowns, when we were all told that breathing could be deadly, I found some solace in the fact that the small retail space a couple of doors down from our apartment block had also become a vape shop. The increased popularity of people wandering around with kazoos in their mouths also came with the additional benefit of what I refer to as the “aerosol map.” While the health concerns for vaping in general are being largely ignored, the pandemic continued to spread. And I was grateful for the foolishness and proliferation of this seemingly acceptable, yet still antisocial, mix of ‘pastime’ and ‘self-medication.’ The general public became ever more overstimulated, creating a growing distance between my already quite steady pace, but the vaper unintentionally democratised the atmosphere, making it a considerable benefit to a cautious pedestrian such as myself.

On reflection, smoking could well be better, proverbially speaking, than vaping in a post-pandemic world; the newish normal. The normal that has not had a chance to collect dust due to the earthquakes and dropped bombs since.

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Smoking is, by design, a finite act. There is a beginning in the lighting and an end at the filter. The conscious decision by the consumer is to increase nicotine intake by a measure that is defined by the stick they have retrieved from the crushed box in their bag. Fire and a pause, outside, away from anything flammable and signs prohibiting the people group “smokers.”

Vaping is not this. The dosage is an uncertain liquid from a tiny bottle that was designed by the White Rabbit for Alice and exported to the urban streets. An intake of breath from one of the contraptions is not equivalent to a single drag, and there is no definitive end aside, obviously, from the chemicals inserted or battery capacity. But these limits are not equivalent. A vaper vapes for a single breath, but then, a few breaths later, takes another, and a few steps more, then another.

While it is supposed to be a tool for quitting smoking, the ease at which such a tool can be used to ‘quit’ it becomes itself, not merely a replacement, but a higher, more constant, more incessant need for the user to have. It is, by all accounts, worse than social media algorithms. I look at my phone every seven seconds, thankful that I am only addicted to that. The smoker observes the vaper, who is deceiving themself, believing they have the higher moral ground than those addicted to cigarettes, knowing full well that they are better off in so many ways.

For one, they have already accepted their fate: a seven-year life reduction. They can now factor this in and proceed with this as an expectation. But there are other benefits to smoking. They have a single cigarette break (which could theoretically be multiple cigarettes, but at least it’s a controlled dose), and then they can return to their responsibilities and function with a routine that means they are a contributing member of society. The Vaper does not know how this works. They will step away from their desk; however, more often than not, the work-from-home world means that they can take the occasional drag on their tiny pink electric test tube throughout the day and not know that this is becoming a dependence until they leave it at home while they pop to the shops and are unable to concentrate in the car after three minutes.

The smoker knows their limits and areas of operation. The vaper has found themselves unable to operate without the comfort of the glow-in-the-dark USB pacifier in their pocket. The aeroplane is moments away from leaving the gate on time, and fourteen people have to leave and have their luggage retrieved because they cannot figure out how they will last a moment longer before their flight takes off on its 45-minute flight to Amsterdam.

And let’s not forget, if you had to choose between inviting a smoker or a vaper to a summer barbecue, you would choose the smoker every time. They will be aware that to non-smokers, smoking is difficult to handle, and they will find ways to control their habit. And they will also have the right paraphernalia to solve any potential issues, should the barbecue fail to light, for example. Also, if it’s someone’s birthday, candles are already an easy decision.

Nobody wants a cinnamon bun-flavoured smoked salmon at a barbecue.

Now, let’s go back to reality, because I do not wish lung cancer on anyone, and would suggest that those who do smoke try to quit the addiction, as you will see real benefits. Vaping is the absolute definition of the intensity that is demanded from our overstimulated world. It is a never-ending practice that is only further entrenched, as every other high street shop will attest; you can no longer buy a range of lined paper notebooks, but you are definitely able to find the flavour for your next vape: Thai Red Curry. While there is an implicit impulse to leave vaping as an option and find something else, there is still an overhang of nervousness that remains from the airborne virus some of us were lucky enough to survive.

Which is why I would like everyone to at least be vaping while in public so that, where possible, I am able to see your breath clearly and avoid breathing the same air as you.

Thank you

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Many things have changed since the old school days I remember. I recall we played outside daily, though I’m not entirely sure how that was possible, given the UK has a rain streak that must have unlocked a “Legendary Weather” achievement in the Met Office basement. What I am truly grateful for is that I was never once asked for my Instagram handle. The resulting social anxiety would have triggered a paralysis so total I’d have ended up exactly where I did when setting up my first email address: [email protected]. Everything was a naming convention of [firstname][email protected].

I can only imagine—from my far-removed position of childless privilege—that the politics of the playground have been entirely replaced by the overspill of “The Algorithm.” Why is “6-7” such a phenomenon to parents and teachers? Because it is a physical overflow of the social media code, being channelled by the very toddlers who will one day control our oxygen supply. Everything is now a mere comment on the thing that should be happening; to pretend otherwise is a form of parental psychosis.

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If your child’s school is not actively combating this, you must immediately remove them from the establishment. The only acceptable curriculum is a rigorous education in developing and producing a podcast. Just as we were once expected to possess a ‘2000’ suffix in our email addresses, the current generation must learn to transform the tuck shop into a multi-part episodic exploration of small talk to be recorded and published for a world that simply must hear the critical debate about the price of a Freddo.

When I was finishing school, the expectation was that every other person would head to University simply so employers wouldn’t have to deal with anyone under the age of twenty. By 2030, the government will surely mandate that every school leaver possesses a podcast. You must get ahead of this. If your child is asked for their handle, the only acceptable response is a link to their RSS feed and a guest appearance schedule for the first eighteen months after education has ceased.

I know this to be true because of my nephews and niece. I innocently thought their constant huddling was a game; it transpired to be the rigorous pre-production planning for a Spotify deal that doesn’t yet exist.

To save your child from contemporary playground pressures, you must ensure they are the subject of a very specific type of bullying that can be rebranded as ‘content.’ If you are at a loss, simply hand your offspring a tiny microphone.

The Instagram Pivot

When your child is asked, “Are you on Instagram?” they must respond: “No, but I do have a podcast. Like and subscribe.”

Here are the necessary responses to the other algorithmic horsemen:

TikTok

The ‘For You’ page makes it sound as though the app was expecting you, curating a selection to address your exact soul-needs that were present when opening the app. In reality, it is a bunch of generic trends happening in your general microbiome. This must be ditched. Challenge the consumer with an important response to their dwindling attention span.

* The Response: “I find the short-form video format lacks the structural integrity required for my personal brand. Please see my YouTube lecture on the Geopolitics of the Climbing Frame.”

Snapchat

How can a child make a difference if every moment of their life is a disposable Polaroid lost in the ether of a disintegrating universe? They will not matter, but “eventually” not matter. They must, right now, believe every step they take is an act to celebrate. Ground their self-worth in documentation; show them that a tactile experience can be monetised.

* The Response: “I’ve moved to a subscription-only model. My archive includes a selection of the childhood photos my parents shared openly on Facebook. You can embarrass me for just £12 a month this year.”

Twitch

Other people having fun on your time is, frankly, disrespectful. Watching a sponsored teen attempt a jump-scare-free run of Five Nights at Freddy’s unfiltered is going to backfire when they make a sudden movement that dismantles their entire home studio—lighting rig and all. At what point do we escape? Learn from yourself, not from someone else’s mistaken activities passed off as wisdom.

* The Response: “I don’t do real-time. My current project is a reboot of the toddler years. The next episode drops after double Science.”

WhatsApp

You cannot leave a WhatsApp group once you’ve been added. I’ve tried. If you attempt an exit, you are immediately re-added with a message saying, “Looks like you left by mistake.”

* The Response: “I recently started a podcast called ‘The Rest is a Meme.’ Your group messages are going to be excellent source material.”

Pinterest

A niche is carved out for those creative few who really like gingham. They have a vision board for every extra-curricular activity. This is not enough. The dreamer remains a dreamer; they must be coached to think about “goals,” not “dreams.”

* The Response: “This week’s montage for scrapbook building is accompanied by a Mediterranean recipe and a reimagined version of Wonderwall by Oasis.”

LinkedIn

This is the fountain of all knowledge, provided you want leadership lessons from a recycling bag. The LinkedIn energy is unique; one must be “thrilled” to start a job, “thrilled” to be doing the same job year after year, and “thrilled” to post unflattering pictures of oneself under networking-event neon.

* The Response: Produce a series of interviews with well-to-do children who describe the “obstacles” they overcame to enjoy their protein-rich lunch box and high-end gadgets. Ensure there is no mention of parental help. Sponsorship must be sought exclusively from Steven Bartlett.

Facebook & Discord

* The Response: “I only do unboxing videos.”

I trust this helps you navigate the strange future where the new generation cannot date someone sitting right next to them without first checking their digital pulse. Some children will fall through the cracks and live a disconnected life, which will, naturally, form the basis of the content produced by their peers. For the rest, you are now equipped to pivot your child away from screen anxiety and toward a vanity so profound it elevates their every mundane thought into self-induced therapy.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com

If there’s one thing my social media algorithm is feeding my confirmation bias, it’s that everyone is a nutritionist. Me included. There are foods that are easy to eat, require little to no preparation and provide the same in nutritional value. This is what I was used to shopping for. They’re easy to find and usually on offer. For example, my locker at work used be have packs of 10 of two things: Penguins and Wagon Wheels. However, I am, more recently, at a loss. Adjusting my diet to contain less of this and more of that, shopping has become an escalation that historically has been something that was merely stressful due to my inability to find the right aisle that contained eggs. Now, despite my great effort to shop organic, and find “free roaming” tomatoes, there is a looming dread every time I look for nutrition. Not the shopping itself; it’s what comes next.

Salad is my fridge’s nemesis. Massive bags of air with a few leaves floating around inside. The fridge shelves are the wrong shape for this stuff, and they don’t squish like they should.

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Don’t get me started on Superfoods.

I’m entering a Waitrose (because that is where I shop and you can judge me for it; I bring a Lidl shopper, just to confuse the other patrons), about to tackle to vegetable aisle and the superfoods stand there, sizing me up. It has better branding, a higher moral ground, and a cape made of kale.

I have a number of issues with this. They creep up in many sections. It’s not just spinach. It’s nuts. Also, it’s nuts. Superfoods in supermarkets. Why couldn’t we just get regular foods in regular markets, like in the old days I’ve heard about? If you want an affirmation to swallow, just grab a handful of blueberries. Do they have a mild-mannered identity that they had been hiding behind until the 2010s?

Well, it’s time to lose weight. And I cannot bring myself to go to the gym because they represent everything wrong with city life: gyms. I have visited Los Angeles on a few occasions, and there are long stretches of outside space along beaches and waterways that are being enjoyed by athletes on the second-storey, mindfully taking in the view through floor-to-ceiling windows on row after row of running machines. You could be doing this outside, folks.

The one good thing about salad is if you eat salad, you don’t have to go to the gym, do you? Because eating salad is exhausting.

I have this pile of leaves in front of me, and now we enter a forty-five minute interval workout. Why did I choose a fork? In fact, what cutlery is even appropriate for this cuisine? A salad is the only food that actively attempts to avoid being consumed; it’s a high-intensity bicep workout involving a piece of watercress. Maybe this is why they call some of these ingredients “super” foods. Regular foods, being too easy to consume, make us feel like we’ve nailed mealtimes. Salad is there to teach us to put us back in our place. These leaves look harmless when you step all over them during a hike, but place them in front of me as a starter, and my main course is delayed indefinitely.

I thought I’d ordered a salad, but I’d actually ordered RSI.

I’ve been trying to eat this green mess for 45 minutes, mouthful after mouthful, working out my jaw with zero warm up and no guidance provided in the à la carte menu. I look down at the bowl, and it’s all still there.

45 minutes of this chewing endurance and you’re in better shape than you ever have been. They say you are what you eat, but I’d adjust that slightly to, “you are what you attempt to eat.” My jawline is incredible, and I now have an Unstrangleable Neck. There are nutrients in the foods I’m raising towards my mouth, and the bicep curl involved in a clump of spinach is adding definition to my limbs. I cannot overeat because the salad is already calorie deficient, and, on top of that, it’s impossible to finish anyway. The food waste bin was specifically designed because nobody ever finishes a salad.

Maybe the problem is “super” foods are for “super” people, and they’ve been banished to pocket universes. And maybe that’s where all the food waste goes.

The salad is an infinite gauntlet placed in front of those who desire a healthy lifestyle. And these people, who are dragged in front of us by the thumb activated interface of Instagram or TikTok reels, are forcing the rest of humanity to consider their flawed selves, while the truth dawns: they’ve been outmanoeuvred by a vegetable with a superior prefix.

What am I to do? I’m in better shape, but I’m in calorie deficit because I haven’t managed to finish a full meal in 10 days while ensuring my heart rate is in zone 4. It’s just too much. Or not enough. Do I go back to Penguins? Even with the ‘chocolate flavoured coating’ now matching the quality of the jokes.

I suppose you have two options.

The Gym option

You are required to immediately tell everyone in your WhatsApp history that you have joined a gym and post a “before” picture. You have to adjust your musical taste to enjoy the soundtrack of incessant beats that accompany you as you tour the apparatus. Lose focus on one sport. This is not going to help you. You must now gain deep and rich insight into every single sport that could be televised at any moment during your time in the gymnasium.

You must then film a series of reaction videos to various creotine shake brands while you select the wrong kettle bell continually. Your next task is to, over a period of 10 days, take post-workout selfies in awkward places that inadvertently show that you haven’t wiped down the equipment carefully.

If you must, you may use YouTube to learn how to properly use the rowing machine. You are allowed three total occasions where you sit on the rowing machine, but get distracted by unboxing videos.

After an approximate six-month period, you can either post a #gains Facebook story or be forcably removed by the cleaning staff.

The Salad option

Live a life intimidated by cherry tomatoes and pine nuts.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com

I entered through the solid glass entry (modern architecture demonstrating to the historic cobbles that the future will be paved soon enough and any vexation to the pedestrian’s saunter will speed it’s own demise) to a corridor coffee bar with the juxtaposition of exposed brick and mounted LCD screens displaying the static menu with unfinished prices. Americano | 2.8. 2.8 what? Are we versioning Americano’s now? A bargain (some might say), but a confusing bargain. Because what is “2.8” in money? Apparently “money” is not wanted in this cashless experience.

The far end had three stools and a circular, I suppose you have to call it a, coffee table with two low down seats that curled into themselves. A couple of suspended planks lent against suspended planks while they each in turn made some remarks to each other and then nodded as if they were listening. The furniture was arranged in such a way to send a clear message: “We welcome you to stay for our vibes, please kindly exit the premises.”

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There were two large and expensive, and clearly well-functioning Italian espresso machines, the sound of coffee beans grinding continually, while espressos poured from the tiny spouts into cardboard takeaway cups on a frankly too frequent basis for the sustainable judgment I had been met with on my transit. Considering all the varying marketing that promised net zero across the entire ecosystem of Nando’s, not a single patron had bothered to bring their own insulated flask. There was one or two, but if you were to use the far end of the bar as a true data point for citizens interested in moving the needle on air quality, the answer you would be met with would be less than a percentage point. It’s not the only proof point, I grant you, but it is a useful virtue signal.

This particular establishment had positioned itself strategically opposite a WeWork that would happily pay the prices it had made up. This name was doing a lot of work for the shared “collaboration space” when it was very clear that the people belonged to a collective known as WeDoNotWork, but rather join a long queue for the arabica blend. They wore varying degrees of smart casual that showed that they did not know how to actually collaborate, but merely shared a long communal table while they worked on their ‘pitch decks.’ These people had superficial chemistry, meaning they would laugh loudly and joke about nothing in particular, but they were all secretly elsewhere, enjoying their wealthy lifestyle in a damp city.

The staff, in contrast, were students. The collective noun for this is a ‘slavery of students.’ My generation of the newly graduated unemployed would find work in bars and pubs. This new generation is not subjected to the unsociable hours of this, and have found their 9-5 (though in this case it is probably 6-6) fuelling the office politics and can still go out in the evening to their book club. They were all in a production line, essentially performing a coffee-themed interpretive dance while singing in perfect harmony the song of the day. I did not know this song.

I couldn’t concentrate properly until I had ordered my flat white, which took a turn before I’d even paid my virtual 4.3 to the iPad. They asked, because they felt it necessary for me to out myself before passing down the imaginary conveyor of customers, “dairy flat white?”

“Erm… yes. The OG milk, please.” Bewildered. (Confession: I only thought the OG bit.)

I paid and walked on.

Hold on. What just happened? That’s not how it’s supposed to go. A flat white is coffee with milk. Special ways of preparing both elements, yes, but a dairy flat white is not a variant; it’s the original. Almond milk, or soy, or, heaven forbid, oat are options that a customer is granted to customise, but dairy milk is the original milk. It’s… well, it’s milk, isn’t it? Don’t make me out to be some monster because it’s the first. Don’t make me answer difficult questions about farmyard conditions for the dairy cows.

I don’t want to have to apologise for ordering a standard version of a thing. Have I just been outed as someone from the 20th Century?

I looked back at those behind me and in front of me. The slow dawn of this next moment made me nervous about where exactly I could lean. I was surrounded by matcha drinkers. Matcha does not belong in a coffee shop. This building had a sign over it that literally said “COFFEE” in it. I can just about forgive you for also serving tea, because we’re in the UK and tea & coffee break is just a normal thing. ‘Coffee’ is not a collective term to encompass ‘turmeric’ and ‘matcha’, and anything else you fancy putting with hot milk and adding latte.

“Matcha latte for Jean!” I heard a shout from the far end of the bar, where completed drinks were being lined up to be collected. My eyes slowly saw, one after another, the green foam-moustached clan waiting for ‘Jean’ before they all wandered back to the WeWork.

Matcha is not a drink. It’s a botanical performance. It is, if anything, ‘swamp-adjacent,’ and it really looks like these people are only allowed back into the WeWork if they have the strong work principle to endure the thing.

It looked like this entire group had been on a team-building excursion to have their morning spent face-down on the grass. It’s a distress signal of the generation entering the working world and hasn’t found out how to cope with saying “no” to things yet. That’s probably where it started. They were asked if they wanted to try the “new” matcha latte, didn’t fight before realising it isn’t coffee and won’t perk them up until lunchtime, and now it’s too late and it’s their ‘usual’ and they can’t go back on their word now, like when you’re 45 minutes into a conversation and you realise you don’t know the person’s name. Just roll with it and hope they tell an anecdote where they switch to third-person for a bit.

I stood there, carefully checking my phone every 7 seconds, not to look out of place. But I was dreading that moment. I had ordered neither a matcha anything nor a drink with an alternative milk. I was doomed. Judgment would fall, and I would be whisked away into the lobby of the head office of some corporation that sponsored Aston Martin.

They should all adopt the method spearheaded by Starbucks. They have figured out that the complexity of coffee ordering has become such an infinite wormhole, the only way to fix it is to give the customer the ability to carefully run through all the options, so when they do order an extra-hot caramel cappuccino, extra foam half caff venti with cinnamon and chocolate powder with full fat dairy milk from real cows, they don’t have to say it, nobody needs to hear it, and when you go in to pick up your preordered monstrosity, the only evidence of your order is the size of the cup. We are all safe.

I don’t think getting coffee will ever be safe.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com

I’ve been loyal to Gail’s for eight years. They’ve been indifferent to me for all of them. This is the relationship I deserve.

Before the brand police took over the marketing department, I clearly remember someone saying that O2 didn’t want ‘customers’ it wanted ‘fans’. Since then, there has been a drive for every business “serious about its future” to ensure that it created something called “loyalty.” Loyalty is a dangerous and slightly absurd term to be used in commerce. I was loyal to my local dry cleaners, whom I dropped in on regularly on the way home, welcomed his new wife to the business a few years later, and even their first child. And then we moved, and I never went back because I could get my dry cleaning closer. I was loyal in a very loose, transactional sense that would be defined by most people as ‘not loyal.’

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And now I have the digital graveyard equivalent of my derision. 83 loyalty apps. I am the most faithful man in the United Kingdom. I have not paid full price for a baguette since the Jubilee. Although, and this may surprise you, the folder on my phone containing these loyalty apps is labelled…. “Poly-loyalty.” Loyalty cannot be defined by stamps; otherwise, the post office would not have been put through what it has been.

The problem with these apps, or the little cardboard emblems we carry more carefully than our own driving license, is that they make me wonder whether any of them really know the truth. I have a punch card from Press that sits snuggly next to the half-finished Caffé Nero one, and I think they are communicating with the Mafia of organised grime. I live in perpetual fear of waking up to a horse head, rendered in high-contrast latte foam on my pillow. Some data analyst working from a bedsit in Shoreditch is highlighting my name because I haven’t bought a cinnamon bun in three weeks with a three-word message: “Send the Guys.”

Are they rewarding my return or, as is my experience at Gail’s, carefully monitoring my activities and treating me accordingly? The adulterer.

The only reason I got the app in the first place was because of the free coffee at the other end. What does that say about my loyalty? Is that what loyalty is now? A transaction? Why can’t we call it something else? We have this, or the membership thing. Which is basically pre-buying coffees. “I know I’m going to be tired next Wednesday around 1pm. Have my oat latte ready.”

Ok, let me be honest, it was the free coffee and the opportunity not to have to queue. The greatest thing to become a motivation for businesses is the ‘frictionless experience.’ I can finally reach a flow state. Flow state, in my case, is seamlessly drop by a Starbucks on my way to a Gail’s to seamlessly grab a cinnamon bun on my way to a thing. I have left the perfect amount of time and do not have capacity to deal with speaking an order and then waiting for it.

This is the ideal.

The reality is that the frictionless workflow that millions have been spent on designing and deploying has been entirely ignored by the staff. I walk in with an order number, and they stare at me with the look of a person who wonders why a poodle has gained sentience and is expecting microfoam in a cup.

They can see the professional courier with his large insulated cube on his back like a human escapee from Tetris. I am not a representative of the social equivalent of the barista, the gig economy community that supported this invisible visitor through lockdowns. I am also not a ‘real’ customer, despite my brandishing of the app that says I am “valued.” If I am valued it is by people that have expressed the words from afar and failed to consult the local shop staff who would choose another term; e.g. an interference, an irritation, a scab.

But is this not why we secretly love the local Gail’s? Hostility is the premium service we must receive. In a city obsessed with “Good Vibes Only,” their neon sign has a large red line through it; a sanctuary of indifference. I stare longingly at my Free Birthday Croissant email, don protective clothing and head over to the till.

Am I loyal. Yes. I have the proof. The data. The QR CODE!

Do they care?

No.

In a world where every brand is trying to be your friend, where every app is trying to personalise your experience, where every barista is trained to remember your name and your order, Gail’s just wants you to buy bread and leave.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com