Cafes of the inner North, I get it. You’ve got an image to uphold, an image that says “we’re against The Man, in every way except for hoping that our own property values go up before everyone else’s do”. There’s no gluten on your minimally-typeset menus, avocado is infused into everything, and you pour your dog-bowl water from old Four Pillars gin bottles.

I can get behind this. I have to be honest, my Velvet Underground records are mostly for show, so I understand making a big song and dance about being hipper than everyone else. I’m one of you.

I really am.

But fuck you guys for your absurd stance on Coca Cola.

When I ask for a Coca Cola, I don’t want a dusty bottle of Karma Kola (which is a real thing), I don’t want home-made lemonade, and I don’t want a fucking scowl.

I most certainly never ever want to hear the words “I’m sorry, this … is… Northcote” dribble out of your mouth like Gerard Butler in “The Anaemic 300”.

You sell coffee, which is full of caffeine. You have sugar in a rustic jar on the table. I’ve put that stuff in my coffee and I’m almost certain it contains asbestos, which Coca Cola doesn’t have. Coca Cola is completely gluten and paraben free too, so I’m not sure what your damage is, apart from maybe you’re trying to impress someone you met who learned their politics from Green Left Weekly and you think knows tantric sex magick.

People called Astrid always say that. It’s always a lie.

So why won’t you sell Coca Cola to me? Because you’re making a point that nobody cares about, and ruining my day into the bargain.

Enough with the ruse. Astrid isn’t going for it, and I hate you.

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