In what can only be described as a cultural contagion more virulent than the American squirrel grip, the monstrous, 'out of control' tipping culture of the United States has breached our shores. Yes, readers, the land of the free and the home of the brazenly entitled is now exporting its most dubious invention since the deep-fried Oreo: the expectation that every transaction requires a charitable donation to the person handing you a lukewarm pint.
Sources confirm that the British public, already reeling from the trauma of having to make eye contact with baristas, is now being asked to tip for the privilege of being served a latte by a barista who has just called them 'boss' for the seventh time. This is not hyperbole. This is the new reality, a world where a simple request for 'a packet of quavers and a copy of the Guardian' now triggers a point-of-sale screen asking if you'd like to add twenty percent for 'outstanding service in the realm of crisp procurement.'
The tipping plague, having ravaged the United States where service industry workers subsist on a diet of hope and loose change, has now metastasised into British cafes, pubs, and even takeaway establishments. I recently had the misfortune of buying a sausage roll from a bakery in Soho, only to be presented with a tablet that offered three options: 'No tip,' '10%,' and 'I am a moral vacuum.' The pressure was so intense I felt I was being mugged by a man holding a croissant.
This is not merely an economic phenomenon. It is a societal bellwether. The tipping culture represents the final triumph of the American concept that every human interaction is a transaction, and every transaction requires a performance review. In the US, waiters are effectively freelance hostage negotiators who bring you a burger in exchange for your opinion on their life choices. Now, we are importing this model. Soon, we will be expected to tip the postman for delivering a letter that contains a bill. We will tip the person who holds the door open at Greggs. We will tip the man who reads the gas meter, lest he deem our energy consumption 'unsatisfactory.'
Economists are baffled, of course. They use words like 'inflationary pressure' and 'discretionary spending erosion.' But they miss the point. This is not about money. This is about the soul of a nation. The British pub, once a refuge from the tyranny of social niceties, is now a minefield of digital guilt. I watched yesterday as a man in a flat cap stared at a card reader for forty seconds, trying to calculate whether a pound coin would be adequate penance for ordering a gin and tonic. He chose to leave without his change. He is now a broken man.
The irony is that the British are famously bad at tipping. We resent it on principle. We see it as a foreign imposition, like a dentist who wants to discuss your emotions. Yet we are being forced into this gratuity gulag by a combination of corporate greed and social pressure. Restaurants now include a 'service charge' that is automatically added to the bill, but then ask for an additional tip on top, because the service charge 'does not necessarily go to the staff.' I am not an economist, but I am a man who has spent a great deal of time in pub toilets contemplating the nature of existence, and I can tell you that this is a recipe for revolution. A quiet, passive-aggressive revolution, but a revolution nonetheless.
What is to be done? Some have suggested a national strike of all non-tippers, where we simply refuse to tip until the madness ends. But that would require organisation, and we are British. We cannot even organise a queue properly. I propose a simpler solution: carry a jar of pennies at all times. When presented with a tipping screen, simply dump a handful of copper coins into the poor soul's hand and say, 'There. Now you have experienced the authentic British spirit: disappointment mixed with petty cash.'
The tipping culture will not stop until it has infected every corner of our lives. Mark my words. Soon we will see signs in hospitals: 'Tip your nurse: she is the only thing between you and the void.' And we will tip, because we are weak, and because we fear the silent judgment of a digital screen. But I will resist. I will not tip my barista. I will not tip my butcher. I will not tip the man who delivers my newspaper. I will, however, tip my gin bottle. Because it understands me.
