The Starbucks Conspiracy Theory

It was while I was standing watching Mysterious Coffee Bean Sorting Girl that I began to ponder the institution of the Coffee House.

Long gone are the days where you would pop into you local Wimpy on the high street and order a cup of black coffee; and it was in a basic cup and saucer, there was no choice of Grande not a Tall not a Massimo or whatever they decided was best for you. It was just a bulk standard, Nescafe served in a stained cup and saucer complete with water mark in the indented rim maybe the added possibility or chip on the handle and that was as exciting as it got. Milk or cream came in little metal jugs and sugar would be neatly compressed in cubes and tightly wrapped in pairs by Tate & Lyle, which you always would take when your mother was not looking for consumption later that day.

We were not fussy; were we not bothered that the orange plastic chairs were uncomfortably attached to the tables by thick black metal pole which made it so difficult to get into even the most advanced contortionist could bend her frame elegantly enough to prevent the old guy in the corner from copping a perverted peek from behind his copy of the Daily Star whilst, ticking off the afternoon’s dead cert. with a stubby pen removed without knowledge from Argos. You see, this was another reason why we did not need the likes of Yoga or Pilates, a trip to your local Wimpy, once a week and you were sorted. Everything was fine, you had Wimpy, British Home Stores and Woolworths to keep us happy and we did not need the giants from across the pond dictating to us how we should take our beverage. Starbucks, for all we knew, was name of the leading man from Annie, who incidentally was played by an English man.

Ah, Starbucks. The global institution which, try as I might, even the likes of myself could not resist. Oh, the lure of intoxicating Java fragrances mingled with the aromatic melody of lounge bar jazz, possibly my one weakness, could not, in part, hold me back any longer. Yes, dear reader, I too have caved. To sit enfolded within her leather seats, entwined in the headiness of her caffeine induced rush, it is enough to make even the strongest will break and let’s face it even Samson cut his hair for a gorgeous siren. Coincidence that the mighty Starbuck trades under the brand of a Mermaid, whom legend has it, appears as gorgeous siren of the sea enchanting misguided sailors to the depths below? I am not saying another word, but you heard it here first.

Yes I admit it, I, Angel, of Southeast London, am addicted to Starbucks. I hold my hand up and publicly proclaim, within my chosen creative medium, that I, Angel, have fallen hook, line and sinker head first into the net and now dance in the belly of the corporate fat cat. 

But am I not alone, no, take a look around you, even the inspired Kristin Chenoweth has fallen into his clutches. Singing a beautiful melodic rendition of love which has captivated her heart, there she is pouring out her heart one caressed note after the other stating her intentions with all eagerness and sincerity, but under what guise I ask you? Starbucks, there you go, so subtle, so sophisticated, however, deadly sinister, notice how the Mermaid fluidly manoeuvres her elegant charm and encapsulates Miss Chenoweth within her institutionalised grip, is there a romance in the making or was it just Romance in the Java?

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