Workplace Humour – untypicable.

Five Times I Dropped Myself In It

James Henshaw — Tue, 26 Aug 2025 10:00:00 +0000

There’s a certain smug self-satisfaction that comes with being the one who “has ideas” in meetings. A dangerous twinkle in the eye. The sort of misguided optimism that leads one to believe they can make things better.

That was me.

Once.

Now I know better. Now I sit in silence, eyes down, fiddling with a pen like it’s a bomb defusal trigger. Because every time I’ve opened my mouth to suggest something helpful, I’ve ended up project managing it, facilitating it, or—on one tragic occasion—being thanked for “volunteering” when I was quite clearly just thinking out loud.

Here, for the record (and perhaps your own self-preservation), are five “innocent” moments that spiralled into logistical hell.

1. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we had a shared document?”

Original thought:
We’re knee-deep in a reply-all email chain involving seven different people, three versions of the same spreadsheet, and a passive-aggressive attachment named FINAL_THIS_ONE_REALLY_FINAL_July_2025_NEW.xlsx.

I thought I was helping. I thought: There must be a better way.

What happened next:
I created the document. Shared the link. Gave everyone edit access.

Big mistake.

I am now the Document Goblin. Keeper of the Spreadsheet. Warden of Comments. I’m consulted for every tiny formatting decision like I’m the ghost of Clippy come back to suffer.

Someone once tagged me at 11:48pm to say, “Row 19 is acting funny.” I haven’t known peace since.

2. “I don’t mind taking minutes, just this once.”

Original thought:
The Chair forgot their notepad. Everyone else is “terrible at typing” (a suspicious claim in an office full of 70 WPM typists). I had a laptop. I had fingers. I was young and naive.

What happened next:
Two years later, I’m still taking the bloody minutes.

I’ve documented over 48 meetings, 17 of which were about the next meeting. I now type in bullet points even in casual conversation. I no longer experience time—only “action points.”

Colleagues ask for “the minutes” like they’re requesting a sacred scroll. Once, someone disputed an agreement, and I had to cite myself. I am become bureaucracy, destroyer of free time.

3. “We could probably make this into a workshop.”

Original thought:
We were discussing staff burnout. I, ironically burned out myself, said:

“Maybe instead of yet another 26-page policy document, we could do a workshop or something.”

This was meant as a throwaway suggestion. Like saying “we should go for coffee sometime” and then immediately forgetting the other person exists.

What happened next:
Apparently I have a “gift for engagement.” I now run a quarterly interactive learning session called “Burnout and You: Let’s Try Screaming Into a Mug Together.”

It includes icebreakers, “check-in wheels”, and a paper-based feelings volcano. Nobody’s enjoying it, least of all me. At the last session, someone cried during the mindfulness bit. I asked if they were okay. They said, “Not really, but you’re trying so hard.”

I don’t know if that was praise or a cry for help. Possibly both.

4. “I read something about that the other day…”

Original thought:
There was a lull in the meeting. I thought I’d throw in a light factoid to move things along. Harmless, right? Just a fun little “Did you know?”

What happened next:
I was declared subject matter expert on the spot.

“Since you’ve already been doing research on this…” they said, casually offering me leadership of the pilot project. I wasn’t even sure what the topic was. I only read half an article on LinkedIn during a slow spell at Pret.

Now I lead a working group. There’s a Teams channel with my name on it. I once explained a concept using a diagram I made in MS Paint. It’s been circulated to senior management. I now live in fear of being invited to present it at a conference.

5. “I’ve made a rough draft, but it’s nothing special.”

Original thought:
I stayed up late, slightly overcaffeinated, and bashed out a quick draft of a staff handbook rewrite. It wasn’t polished, but it didn’t have Comic Sans, and that already put it ahead of 60% of internal documents.

What happened next:
“This is great!” they said.
“This should be the new template!” they said.

I now unwittingly own the organisation’s tone of voice. People email me asking if their sentence is “on brand.” I’ve had an argument about hyphenation that lasted three weeks. I made a joke once about semicolons being “emotionally unstable commas.” It ended up in the comms strategy.

Honourable Mentions:

“Maybe we should have a survey?” → You now manage SurveyMonkey and the eternal inbox of complaints that is the “anonymous feedback form.”
“We should ask people what they want.” → Now you’re running a consultation. With stakeholders. With minutes.
“That meeting could’ve been an email.” → Congratulations, you now write the email.

Lessons Learned (Possibly):

Never speak in hypotheticals.
Never look directly at the Chair when suggesting anything.
If you must contribute, do so in riddles.

E.g.,

“Perhaps time is a circle and we are all but stewards of its confusion…”
Then nod thoughtfully. Take a sip of tea. They’ll never ask you again.

Conclusion

Some people rise through the ranks through hard work, ambition, and natural leadership.
I’ve managed to get noticed by saying “wouldn’t it be better if…” and then spending six months cleaning up the consequences.

Next time, I’ll just smile, nod, and accidentally mute myself for the rest of the meeting. It’s the only safe option.

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James Henshaw

James Henshaw is a brooding Geordie export who swapped the industrial grit of Newcastle for the peculiar calm of Lincolnshire—though he’s yet to fully trust the flatness. With a mind as sharp as a stiletto and a penchant for science-tinged musings, James blends the surreal with the everyday, crafting blogs that feel like the lovechild of a physics textbook and a fever dream.

Equally at home dissecting the absurdities of modern life as he is explaining quantum theory with alarming metaphors, James writes with the wit of someone who knows too much and the irreverence of someone who doesn’t care. His posts are infused with a dark humour that dares you to laugh at the strange, the inexplicable, and the occasionally terrifying truths of the universe—whether it’s the unnerving accuracy of Alexa or the existential menace of wasps.

A figure of mystery with a slightly unsettling edge, James is the sort of bloke who’d explain the meaning of life over a pint, but only after a dramatic pause long enough to make you question your own existence. His wit cuts deep, his insights are sharp, and his ability to make the surreal feel strangely plausible keeps readers coming back for more.

The Passive-Aggressive Politics of Calendar Invites

James Henshaw — Thu, 31 Jul 2025 10:00:00 +0000

At first glance, a calendar invite seems like the simplest of workplace tools. You pick a time, type in a title, and send it off into the void. Done. Organised. Efficient.

But anyone who’s worked in an office longer than a week knows that the calendar invite is not a neutral instrument. It is loaded. A digital power play. A subtle act of warfare dressed up in timestamps and agenda bullet points. The calendar invite is where meetings are made, reputations are bruised, and vendettas are quietly scheduled for Tuesday at 11.

Let’s explore the hidden meanings behind the most common calendar invite behaviours—what they seem to say, and what they actually mean.

1. The 8:30am Monday Meeting
What it pretends to say: “Let’s start the week strong!”
What it actually says: “I do not respect weekends, sleep, or joy.”

No one is at their best at 8:30am on a Monday. Not even the sender. But the point isn’t productivity—it’s dominance. This is the email equivalent of slamming a metal tray on a table and yelling, “Wake up!” Only instead of a tray, it’s your phone alarm, and instead of yelling, it’s Outlook reminding you that someone hates you.

Usage:

Popular with micromanagers who have no hobbies.
Often accompanied by a 43-page agenda and a 300MB PowerPoint no one opens.

2. “No Title” Invite
What it pretends to say: “This will become clear in the meeting.”
What it actually says: “Fear me.”

A meeting invite with no title is a psychological threat. It arrives like a ghost—no subject, no agenda, just a block of time. You spend the hours leading up to it running through everything you’ve ever done wrong, just in case.

Usage:

Sometimes accidental. Usually not.
Particularly effective when sent by someone senior and emotionally unavailable.

3. “Optional” Attendee Status
What it pretends to say: “No pressure to attend!”
What it actually says: “You will be judged either way.”

The “optional” tag is the Schrödinger’s cat of attendance expectations. Are you expected to be there? No one knows. But miss it, and you’ll somehow still be held accountable for not contributing to the thing you didn’t know was happening.

Usage:

Used to cover backsides.
Frequently deployed by people who will spend the meeting saying, “As I mentioned in the call…”

4. Recurring Forever
What it pretends to say: “Let’s keep this momentum going.”
What it actually says: “This meeting is your life now.”

There is nothing quite as soul-crushing as realising the meeting you thought was a one-off is now booked into your calendar every Thursday until the sun explodes. Worse still, you can’t delete it without declining the whole series, which is basically a resignation letter.

Usage:

Used by people who love structure and hate free time.
Most likely to be about “quick weekly updates” that run for 95 minutes.

5. Double-Booking You Anyway
What it pretends to say: “Let me know what works best for you!”
What it actually says: “I don’t care what works best for you.”

You already have a meeting at that time. Your calendar clearly shows this. And yet… here it is. Another invite. Like a second dinner guest showing up with their own cutlery and demanding to be seated.

Usage:

Sent by people who “don’t believe in calendars.”
Usually followed by: “Can you give me a quick summary of what I missed?”

6. “Catch-Up” With No Agenda
What it pretends to say: “Just a quick sync!”
What it actually says: “You’re in trouble, but I’m not telling you why yet.”

The phrase “just a catch-up” should terrify you. Especially when paired with no agenda and booked for 45 minutes. This is not a chat. This is a reckoning.

Usage:

Common among line managers trying to “check the vibe.”
90% chance of surprise feedback.

7. “All-Day Hold”
What it pretends to say: “Just blocking this off, no action needed.”
What it actually says: “This is a placeholder for something huge. Fear it.”

An “all-day hold” sits in your calendar like a dark omen. You don’t know what it’s for. No one tells you. But you daren’t plan anything else, because it might become real at any moment.

Usage:

The workplace version of “something’s coming.”
Often evaporates with no explanation, leaving only existential dread.

8. “Zoom Link Coming Soon”
What it pretends to say: “We’re just finalising details.”
What it actually says: “This meeting doesn’t exist yet. But I want it to.”

A calendar invite with no link is like a house with no doors. It stands for something, but you have no way of entering. You wait. You follow up. You never get the link.

Usage:

Sent by optimists. Or saboteurs. Sometimes both.
If it’s still missing 5 minutes before, it’s time to feign a power cut.

Choose Your Invites Carefully
Every calendar action you take—every time slot, every label, every optional attendee—is part of a delicate, unspoken negotiation. One false move, and you’ve booked yourself into weekly hell until Q4.

So next time you fire up your calendar, ask yourself:

Is this necessary?
Is this helpful?
Or am I just weaponising 2:15pm on a Wednesday to make a point?

If in doubt, do the kindest thing of all: make it an email instead.

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James Henshaw

Motionless in the Dark: A Lavatorial Mystery

James Henshaw — Thu, 24 Jul 2025 10:00:00 +0000

It began, as all tragedies do, with optimism.

Colin from Accounts had just eaten an uninspiring Pret wrap and wandered to the office loo—armed with his phone, a sense of entitlement, and the noble dream of five undisturbed minutes. The world outside could wait. Emails could rot. He had entered that sacred temple of beige tiles and uncomfortable echoes to answer nature’s call, ideally at his own pace.

And then, precisely 2 minutes and 57 seconds into his porcelain pilgrimage, the lights went out.

Total darkness. No warning. No flicker. No “Just so you know I’m turning off” blink of courtesy. Just the swift extinguishing of hope, hygiene, and visual orientation.

Colin paused, pants around ankles, heart pounding faintly to the beat of the motion sensor’s betrayal.

A Brief History of Sensor-Based Injustice

At some point in the last decade, a facilities manager—possibly drunk on power and Dairylea Lunchables—decided that switches were too pedestrian. Instead, we now trust our most vulnerable moments to motion-activated lighting systems, those fickle electric sentinels whose job it is to determine whether or not we still exist.

And they have standards.

According to the anonymous engineer James ~~threatened~~ politely emailed, the standard toilet light timeout is “180 seconds of inactivity.” Inactivity, in this case, being defined as not flailing like you’re attempting semaphore through a locked cubicle door.

So if you’re quietly sitting—reading, reflecting, gently questioning your life choices—you’re invisible.

You are nothing to the sensor.

Colin’s Hour of Darkness

Trapped mid-process, Colin had three options:

Call for help – unlikely, given the office’s culture of stoic emotional repression.
Wipe, stand, and re-activate the sensor – a logistical ballet requiring balance, precision, and a bravery not seen since the zipline incident at last year’s team-building retreat.
Wave hand wildly under stall door – easily misinterpreted by passers-by as either flirtation or distress.

He chose all three. In sequence. In silence.

No one came.

The Existential Implications

Why is the timeout so short? Who decided three minutes was the natural limit for bowel-based contemplation?

Is it a subtle productivity push? A quiet HR nudge to ensure no employee feels comfortable for longer than 180 seconds?

Or worse: a Facilities Department vendetta against “long-sitters”?

One theory (unconfirmed) suggests the sensors were calibrated by someone who’s never eaten fibre. Another posits that it’s a deliberate psychological tactic, designed to reinforce a culture of urgency, movement, and clenched restraint.

Proposed Solutions from Staff

Installing a small disco ball to reflect movement inside each cubicle. (Denied due to “vibe risk.”)
Rotating seats that keep the sensor happy while inducing nausea. (Shelved indefinitely.)
Encouraging staff to practice “express evacuations”. (HR was reportedly very interested in this until they realised what it meant.)

One intern allegedly brought in a desk fan on a timer. We are watching him carefully.

Final Thoughts (In the Dark)

Colin eventually emerged, blinking into the light like a mole in Dockers chinos. His dignity may never fully recover.

So to whoever set the timer, wherever you are, we say this:

Extend the minutes. Be kind. A bowel is not a stopwatch.

And to our fellow stall-sitters, torch users, and mid-dump dancers in the dark—we see you. Even if the sensor doesn’t.

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James Henshaw

Leaving Work on a Friday – The Different Types of Exit

Dwight Warner — Fri, 21 Mar 2025 10:00:00 +0000

It’s Friday afternoon. The work is technically still happening, but let’s not kid ourselves—by this point, productivity is hanging on by a thread. Spreadsheets are open but unedited. Emails are being read but not processed. The most important thing on anyone’s mind is how soon they can leave without it looking too obvious.

The exit strategy is crucial. Time it wrong, and you could get caught in a last-minute meeting. Show your hand too early, and you risk looking too eager to escape (which, of course, you are, but dignity must be maintained). Some will attempt a graceful exit. Others will sprint for the door like they’re escaping a burning building.

So, which one are you?

The Stealth Exit (a.k.a. The Great Escape)

No goodbyes. No fuss. Just a silent, surgical retreat. One moment, they were there—typing furiously, head down, deep in work mode. The next? Vanished. Like a workplace ninja.

The stealth exit is the elite way to leave work on a Friday. The key is to prepare in advance. Bag packed discreetly. Coat casually draped over the chair, ready to grab in one fluid motion. No unnecessary movements. No hesitation.

The biggest risk? Being seen on the way out. A brief encounter with a boss or a needy colleague could spell disaster. The only way to avoid detection is confidence—walk like you have a meeting elsewhere, not like you’re bolting for freedom.

If done correctly, you will be halfway home before anyone even realises you’ve gone.

The Loud and Proud Exit (a.k.a. The Friday Fanatic)

This person doesn’t just leave. They make it everyone’s problem.

At precisely 4:55 PM, they stretch dramatically, make a loud sighing noise, and announce:

“WELL, THAT’S ME DONE!”

It’s less of a statement and more of a performance. They will clap their laptop shut with an unnecessary level of force. They might swing their coat over their shoulder, like a cowboy leaving a saloon. They will definitely add something like:

“Right, I’m off for a pint.”
“Enjoy your weekends, everyone!”
“Don’t work too hard! Haha!”

They want everyone to know they are leaving. And they want you to resent them for it.

But beware—there is one fatal flaw to this method. If the timing is wrong, this can provoke the boss into remembering something they “just need to check” before you go. And then, my friend, you are trapped.

The ‘Pretend to Look Busy’ Exit

A delicate balancing act. This person knows they could leave, but they don’t want to be seen leaving too early. Instead, they do the classic routine:

Clicking their mouse a few times on an already open document.
Staring at the screen with a very serious expression.
Sighing, rubbing their temples, possibly even writing something down (complete nonsense).

This is all theatre. They are waiting for exactly 5:00 PM, at which point they stand up and leave instantly. No goodbyes, no chit-chat, just a clean exit.

They don’t get caught in any last-minute work. But they also don’t raise suspicion by leaving too early. It’s the perfect crime.

The Fake Last-Minute Work Exit

This person wants to look busy, but they also want to leave.

At precisely 4:59 PM, they send one strategic email. Something vague, like:

“Just circling back on this—let’s discuss Monday.”

This creates the illusion that they are deeply engaged in their work, when in reality, their coat is already on. The moment the email sends, they are gone.

The best part? They look productive while making extra work for someone else. A true masterstroke of Friday office politics.

The “One More Thing” Victim

This poor soul almost makes it to the door but is stopped at the last second by:

“Oh, before you go…”

Trapped. Helpless. Their weekend slipping away before their eyes.

This can come in many forms:

A manager with “just a quick question” (never quick).
A colleague who “just needs a hand with something” (definitely not a one-person job).
An email arriving at the exact moment they stood up, forcing them to sit back down and pretend they care.

They will now leave work 30 minutes late while their colleagues are already in the pub. A true Friday tragedy.

The Eternal Socialiser

This person could have left work ages ago, but they got stuck in a chat at the door.

They have been saying goodbye for 45 minutes. Their coat is on. Their bag is packed. They keep inching towards the exit but somehow never quite make it. Every time they try to leave, someone else says something interesting, and the cycle continues.

At this point, they may as well stay and get paid overtime for talking.

The “I Was Supposed to Leave an Hour Ago”

This is the unfortunate soul who meant to leave at 4, but somehow, they’re still here at 6. They didn’t get caught in a meeting. They didn’t have urgent work.

They simply got distracted, lost track of time, and now feel awkward about suddenly standing up and leaving.

Nobody will thank them for staying. Nobody will even notice. And yet, they will spend the whole weekend complaining about it.

However You Leave, Just Leave

No matter how it happens, one thing is certain—you must leave before something ruins your weekend.

The moment the clock hits 5, everything becomes a Monday problem. There is nothing that cannot wait.

So do not hesitate. Do not get trapped. And whatever you do, never, ever, check your emails on a Friday night.

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Dwight Warner

Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.

With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.

Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.

A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.

Neurodivergent People Are Secretly Bond Villains (and We’re Plotting to Take Over Your Office)

AJ Wright — Mon, 30 Dec 2024 11:00:00 +0000

Alright, so you haven’t made a mistake and accidentally clicked on a link for the Daily Mail or the Telegraph with that headline, you have found us at untypicable in a mood to reveal a big secret. Neurodivergent people are the quiet ones in the meeting who seem to have an unnatural ability to notice when someone’s borrowed our pen (without asking). We are the ones who reorganise the office kitchen “just because it makes more sense this way.”

But what if all those quirks are part of something bigger? What if the hyper-fixations, the need for routine, and the obsessive attention to detail are all part of a master plan? What if—brace yourself—neurodivergent people are actually Bond villains in disguise, plotting to take over the world (or at least the office)?

Sit back, pour yourself a villainous cup of coffee (two sugars, no small talk), and let’s explore this theory.

The Hyper-Fixation Lair

Every great Bond villain needs a high-tech lair. For neurodivergent people, this isn’t an underground volcano—it’s our hyper-fixations. While others waste time debating last night’s football match or planning the next team-building exercise, we’re laser-focused on our pet projects.

You thought Karen’s obsession with perfect Excel formatting was just a quirk? Think again—it’s the foundation for her plan to create an unbreakable monopoly on office efficiency. Dave’s fascination with ancient Roman aqueducts? It’s not a hobby—it’s a blueprint for taking control of the water cooler hierarchy.

We don’t just have interests. We have schemes.

The Power of Silence

Ah, silence. To the untrained eye, it looks like passivity or shyness. But in reality, silence is where neurodivergent masterminds thrive.

While everyone else is busy brainstorming aloud or throwing half-formed ideas into the void, we’re observing. Watching. Calculating. Our minds are running simulations, predicting outcomes, and pinpointing exactly when to unleash the perfect comment.

That quiet colleague who never speaks in meetings until they suddenly drop the exact solution you needed? Classic villain behaviour.

The Stationery Arsenal

Bond villains love gadgets, and neurodivergent people have their own arsenal—stationery.

Coloured pens: Not just for doodling but for creating intricate, colour-coded charts that map out every possible move in a meeting.
Sticky notes: Perfect for leaving cryptic messages like “Review section 4. Or else.”
The Whiteboard of Power: What looks like harmless brainstorming is actually the blueprint for a full-scale office revolution.

And don’t forget the clicky pen, which doubles as an intimidation tool when clicked repeatedly during tense discussions.

The Villain’s Weakness: Sensory Overload

Even the most diabolical plans have vulnerabilities, and for neurodivergent villains, it’s sensory overload. Sure, we can mastermind the reorganisation of the office filing system, but if the fluorescent lights start buzzing or someone starts eating loudly in the background, we’re out.

Picture a villain retreating mid-monologue because the room smells faintly of burnt popcorn. That’s us.

The Great Office Takeover

The endgame, of course, is total domination of the office. Not through chaos, but through meticulous, calculated change. Imagine a workplace where:

Meetings are silent unless absolutely necessary.
Open-plan offices are abolished forever.
Small talk is outlawed in favour of “companionable silence zones.”
The snack cupboard is restocked weekly and patrolled for biscuit thieves.

It’s not evil—it’s efficient.

The Big Reveal

Now, let’s address the question on everyone’s mind: are neurodivergent people actually Bond villains plotting world domination?

Of course not. (Or are we?)

In reality, this whole idea is satire—a playful way to poke fun at the misconceptions people often have about neurodivergence. We’re not quietly scheming to overthrow the office. Most of us are just trying to survive the day without having to explain, for the fiftieth time, why we rearranged the stationery cupboard “for better flow.” Yes, I have experienced first-hand someone who thought I was trying to mastermind the office, all down to not sharing my inner monologue at all times through the day, unlike them.

But the fact that this idea even feels plausible says a lot about how people misinterpret neurodivergent behaviour. Silence doesn’t mean plotting—it means processing. Hyper-fixations aren’t blueprints for domination—they’re passions that bring us joy. And our love of order isn’t about control—it’s about finding calm in a chaotic world.

So, no, neurodivergent people aren’t Bond villains. We’re just humans navigating a world that doesn’t always make sense to us. But hey, if organising the office snack cupboard with military precision makes us seem villainous, we’ll take it.

Conclusion: Or Are We?

Let’s leave it on a mysterious note. Neurodivergent people might not actually be Bond villains—but you’ll never be entirely sure, will you? Just know that the next time you see us quietly observing in a meeting, we’re probably not planning your downfall.

Probably.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

Tea, Coffee, or Something Else? The British Office Debate Over Drinks

James Henshaw — Mon, 25 Nov 2024 10:30:00 +0000

The office beverage game isn’t just about staying hydrated—it’s about identity, routine, and, occasionally, outright chaos. While tea and coffee have long dominated workplace drink culture, soft drinks and energy drinks have muscled their way in, bringing even more fuel to the debate. Add the sheer range of coffee options into the mix, and you’ve got a melting pot of preferences that keep office banter brewing all day.

Tea: The Reliable Classic

Tea drinkers are the backbone of office beverage culture. For them, a cuppa isn’t just a drink—it’s a ritual. They thrive on familiarity, brewing the same type every time, from builders’ tea to a calming Earl Grey. The strength of the brew and the milk-to-tea ratio can spark endless debates, and woe betide anyone who dares to “just dip the bag a bit.” Tea drinkers often claim the communal biscuit tin, matching their choice of dunker to the mood of the day. A Rich Tea for focus, a Chocolate Digestive for indulgence. Their mugs are sacred objects, often emblazoned with slogans like “Tea is the answer” or fading images of pets.

Coffee: A World of Possibilities

Coffee drinkers bring a level of variety to the office that tea drinkers can only envy. Gone are the days of simple instant granules; today, coffee is an art form. There’s the black coffee loyalist, the latte lover, and the flat white enthusiast. Then there are the wildcard orders: caramel macchiato, oat milk cortado, iced Americano (even in winter). Some colleagues bring their own espresso machines, while others smugly grind their beans fresh every morning. The sheer range of options ensures coffee drinkers can always argue amongst themselves—what even is a “long black,” and why does the queue for the coffee machine always take longer than your lunch break?

Soft Drinks: The Unconventional Crowd

Soft drink enthusiasts are often the mavericks of the office beverage wars. Armed with their cans of Coke, bottles of Diet Pepsi, or the occasional Fanta, they proudly break free of the hot drink tradition. They’re the ones cracking open a can mid-meeting or walking in with a branded fizzy drink that makes the tea drinkers wince. Soft drinks are the choice for those who want refreshment with a sugar hit, and their presence often sparks the cheeky mid-afternoon debate about whether fizzy drinks belong in a “serious” workplace.

Energy Drinks: The Chaos Brigade

Every office has that one colleague who powers through the day on energy drinks. With cans of Monster, Red Bull, or something with a vaguely alarming name like Nitro Boost Extreme, they’re the wildcard in the workplace. These drinks often come with a warning label about excessive caffeine, but the energy drink crowd scoffs in the face of moderation. They’re the ones staying hyper-focused in meetings, vibrating slightly at their desk, and offering questionable ideas after their third can of the day. Everyone secretly wonders if they sleep—or if the drinks have replaced their blood entirely.

The Hybrid Drinkers

Hybrid drinkers are the peacekeepers of the office beverage wars. They start the morning with a strong coffee, switch to tea after lunch, and maybe crack open a soft drink during the afternoon slump. These colleagues are impossible to pigeonhole, happily moving between beverages without loyalty to any particular camp. While tea and coffee purists view them with suspicion, the hybrids insist they’re simply playing the field. After all, variety is the spice of life.

The Mug and Can Politics

With so many beverage options, the communal mug shelf and recycling bins become battlegrounds. Tea drinkers bemoan the disappearance of their favourite mug, only to find it abandoned by the sink. Coffee drinkers, meanwhile, monopolise the fancy machine, leaving tea enthusiasts to tut about the kettle being hogged. The energy drink brigade clutter the recycling bin with cans, while the soft drink crew incite a passive-aggressive email about sugary drinks in the shared fridge. It’s a delicate ecosystem, kept in balance by mutual grumbling and occasional Post-it notes.

A Never-Ending Debate

The real joy of office drink culture isn’t in the drinks themselves but in the debates they spark. Whether you’re sipping a strong builders’ tea, nursing a triple-shot caramel latte, or cracking open a can of fizzy chaos, the camaraderie at the kettle (or coffee machine, or fridge) is what keeps the office ticking. So, next time someone asks “Tea or coffee?” don’t forget to throw in your vote for the wildcards—and get ready for the banter to begin.

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James Henshaw