Would sir like a liberal dose of corporate etiquette with that?

WOULD EVERYBODY please leave me alone? The world was a much more relaxing place when people in service and retail industries treated you with dignified, uninterested reserve. Just find a shoe in my size. Just drive me to the airport. Just administer my colonoscopy. It’s absolutely none of your business where I’m going on my holidays. Do you hear me making inquiries about your home life? No, you don’t. Well, shut up and do your bleeding job.

I didn’t often agree with Enoch Powell, but the arch-patriot seemed very sound on today’s subject. A much-retold anecdote follows Powell as he makes a visit to the House of Commons barber. “How would you like your hair cut?” the hairdresser ventured. “In silence,” Enoch replied. Quite right too.

These reflections have been triggered by changes in policy at the Starbucks coffee chain. After taking your order – noting one of a hundred unnecessary variations – the staff are now required to ask for your forename. They write the word on the paper cup and, when the beverage is prepared, bellow it out like a rural mother calling her child in for dinner.

This nonsense has been going on for ages in American branches. When visiting the US, one would regard the practice as a hilarious manifestation of the sociological gulf between them and us. It would be wrong to say Americans view every stranger as a friend they haven’t yet met. If the Starbucks policy is any guide, they view every stranger as a friend they’ve known well for at least 30 years. We’ve been bowling together. Your sister is dating my cousin. So Biff Server and I are already on first name terms?

Well, if that’s the case then I am allowed to tell you that your taste in music stinks. Every time I visit for coffee you’re playing awful Jack Johnson, ghastly Paolo Nutini or some other lo-cal acoustic warbler. Come on, buddy. Shape up.

Maybe the practice is just a scheme to help customers get their drinks efficiently. Starbucks, like many American retailers, is as unshakable in its application of etiquette as were aristocrats attending the House of Bourbon. Lord save any poor fool who expects to be handed his coffee at the cash register. Go to the end of the counter, you dangerous Maoist. Wait to hear your name called out by your new best pal.

It seems, however, that, even if you are the only person in the store, the poor Starbucks official is still obliged to ask impertinent questions.

A glance at the firm’s website confirms managers really are trying to generate a relationship between barista and consumer.

“Have you noticed how everything seems a little impersonal nowadays?” a nameless spokesperson asks.

No. No, I haven’t. I’ve noticed precisely the opposite. I’ve been phoned by strangers from Sri Lankan call centres who, without a formal introduction, feel able to refer to me by my first name. I can’t get into a taxi without being asked what I do for a living.

“From now on, we won’t refer to you as a ‘latte’ or a ‘mocha’,” the corporate gibberish continues. “But instead as your folks intended: by your name.” The temptation to snap at the unfortunate employee must be stubbornly resisted. Underpaid service staff – gifted ludicrous pseudo-professional titles such as “barista” – are increasingly required to follow up easily understood requests with attempts to flog you more stuff. Do you know what? If I had wanted a pastry I would have asked for one.

Pity the poor pharmacist who is now legally obligated to treat you like a crack addict if you attempt to buy one of the stronger varieties of painkiller. On a recent trip to a pharmacy, sent out to buy relief for menstrual cramps, I had the following conversation.

“Are they for you?” “No they’re not for me. I’m not the person who has menstrual cramps.” “Well, I can’t serve you then.” “I was lying earlier. They are for me. I have a headache.” At least the unfortunate chemist is not required to invite you over to his house for an evening of Jenga and sausage rolls.

The Starbucks initiative is breathtaking in its disingenuousness. It also underestimates the cynicism of customers in the UK and Ireland. I will reluctantly admit that not everybody is as pathologically joyless as your current correspondent. Unlike me, some people really do enjoy exchanging banal pleasantries with their plumber, waiter, taxi driver or (there’s no snobbery here, I stress) dermatologist. But few Irish punters are dumb enough to be persuaded that, just by asking your name, the bloke serving the latte has earned the right to call himself your friend.

How would I like my coffee? In a state of blissful, undisturbed anonymity, thank you very much. Have a nice day.