A Rant About Self-Service Checkouts

Intro:

You're listening to The Binge. And if you're here, you already know the deal. We don't dabble, we don't sample, we devour. Movies, TV, books, music, hobbies, cultural obsessions both highbrow and low... if it can be consumed with unhealthy levels of enthusiasm, we're on it. I'm your host, and each week, I'll be your enabler, your partner in obsession, your guide through the glorious rabbit hole of all-consuming passion. Consider this your official invitation to abandon all sense of moderation. Clear your schedule, loosen your belt, and prepare to surrender to the insatiable hunger. This is The Binge.

Intro to the Rant:

And now... we reach the point in the show where polite discourse takes a flying leap out the nearest window. Yes, it's time for The Rant. That segment where I, your humble host, unleash my pent-up fury on some topic that has thoroughly and utterly ruined my week, my month, or possibly my entire goddamn existence. So buckle up, because things are about to get loud, possibly a little sweary, and almost certainly completely unreasonable. You have been warned. This is The Rant.

Right, I need to get something off my chest. Self-service checkouts. Has there ever been a more godforsaken invention in the history of retail? I mean, who the fuck came up with this idea? Some sadist, clearly. Some soulless automaton who gets a kick out of watching human beings struggle with technology that's only slightly more advanced than a toaster. A toaster, I might add, that at least has the decency to not yell at you when you try to use it.

You walk into a supermarket, right? You've got your basket full of carefully selected groceries, you're ready to go home and maybe, you know, have a bit of peace and quiet. But no. The supermarket, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that instead of employing actual human beings to do the job they're paid to do – a job, I might add, that they're generally quite good at, because they do it all day, every day – they're going to make you do it. Yes, you, the customer, who just wants to buy some goddamn bread and cheese without having to perform a goddamn song and dance for the machine. A song and dance that usually involves a lot of frantic scanning and muttered curses.

So you approach the self-service checkout, and immediately you're confronted with a barrage of beeps and flashing lights and a voice that sounds like a constipated robot barking instructions at you. "Place your item in the bagging area." What bagging area? The tiny ledge that's barely big enough to hold a tin of beans? And why is it so insistent? "Unexpected item in the bagging area!" BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Jesus Christ, I put a bag in the bagging area, you stupid machine! Is that so unexpected? Is it really beyond the realm of possibility that a human being might want to, you know, put their groceries in a bag?

Then you try to scan your items. You hold the barcode up to the scanner, you wave it around a bit, you try angling it this way and that, but no. The machine just sits there, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the existence of your goddamn groceries. It's like it's playing some kind of elaborate game with you, a test of your patience and your will to live. You feel the queue of increasingly impatient human beings behind you, their eyes boring into the back of your skull, silently judging your incompetence. Their tuts and sighs are a symphony of disapproval, a chorus of "get a move on, you Neanderthal!"

And then, when you finally manage to scan everything, you have to deal with the payment. "Insert your card." Okay, fine. "Enter your PIN." No problem. "Remove your card." I did, you twat! "Are you sure you have removed your card?" YES, I'M FUCKING SURE! I WOULDN'T BE STANDING HERE STARING AT YOU WITH THIS LOOK OF SHEER, UNADULTERATED RAGE IF I STILL HAD MY CARD! Do you think I enjoy standing here, bathed in the sickly glow of your screen, while you question my every move?

And then, if you're really unlucky, the machine decides it needs assistance. So you have to stand there, like a lemon, waiting for some poor, overworked shop assistant to come over and press a few buttons, all the while trying to maintain some semblance of human dignity as the robot voice continues to berate you for your failure to operate its idiotic contraption. You're standing there, a grown adult, defeated by a machine that was probably designed by a teenager in his garage.

I tell you, it's enough to make you want to abandon your trolley and walk out of the supermarket altogether. And you know what? Sometimes, I do. Because life's too short to argue with a self-service checkout. Life's too short to feel the cold, unblinking stare of a machine judge your every action.