I’m queuing in the Manchester Airport Terminal 2 Pret because I want my life to be a Tim Key poem. I’m waiting for my turn to ask if they sell decaffeinated tea despite the hands on the clock boasting it’s four in the pissing morning. The chap behind the counter has a quiff fit for a chat show. He’s singing the orders to the hundred baristas behind him and quipping at the knackered customers. This shortbread-jawed bastard is not reading the room. When I reach his counter and ask if they sell decaf, I’m met with a Family Fortunes UH-UH from his poisonous white grin.

Carl Burkitt 2026