On the breadline at Subway

(There’ll be no names or locations mentioned in this post – apart from the name Subway, of course.)

My nephew works at Subway.

In fact, he doesn’t just work there, he manages two shops. He manages 30 people across the two stores. And he’s only 21. (Just finished Uni.)

They don’t even pay him the Metro/bus/taxi fair from one store to the other.

He gets £6.50 per hour.

That’s right, £6.50.

How the fuck is he going to pay off £128,000, 000 in student loans on that pittance?

Scandalous.

I pay my cleaner more than that.

I pay my babysitter more than that.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why wouldn’t he pay more for someone to look after the fruit of his loincloth than someone who makes a foot-long meatball marinara?

Hmmm, foot-long marinara.

 

Well, I’ll tell you. He’s looking after 30 younglings, not just two. (And I bet they go to bed when he tells them.) And he has to make sure they all do their jobs properly and he meets his company targets. He has to make sure the punters are happy, the food is good, well, sort of, and the profits are met. (And his bouffant doesn’t peep out of his hairnet.)

And for that, he gets £6.50 per hour. Outstanding motivation, Subway.

Now, if you’d met my nephew, you’d say he was worth at least £6.75 per hour, minimum. (£6.80 Maximum.)

I mean, c’mon, Subway. Isn’t that a £30k PA job?

I, for one, shan’t be visiting Subway in the near future. To be honest, that’s not much of a threat, as I didn’t visit them in the past either. But a bit of szablya rattlin’ is good for the soul.

Bucket o’ chicken, anyone?