Wit's End by Robert McNeil: If you could spare a moment, I'd like to share my simple, two-point plan

With happy thoughtlessness we return to the subject of poor service and its close relative, good service.

The former first. Come into my Tardis and I'll take you back to Dublin a few weeks ago. In Ireland, we'd got used to good service, particularly in the pubs, where bartenders asked how you were doing, and took time pouring perfect pints of Guinness.
But, alas, all countries have teenage girls, and it has long been this column's contention that these irritating enigmas should not be put in a position of service to the public. In general, they're in a huff with everyone, and their sense of insecurity is so great it lowers the morale of any citizen coming within 15 yards of them.

I came within several feet of one at the "food" kiosk of a cinema in central Dublin. We'd gone to see The Incredible Hulk, as I identify with strong, ethically good men disparaged by the human race. I approached the counter, and here reconstruct the resultant conversation using lipreading experts who examined the CCTV footage.

Intelligent Man: "A strawberry ice-cream, please."

Dim teenager: "We don't have any."

IM: "Oh well, vanilla then."

DT: "Don't have that either. Just chocolate."

IM: "Right, forget the ice-cream. Could I have an orange juice, please?"

DT: "We don't have orange juice."

IM: "Oh, what flavours of fruit drink do you have?"

DT: "None."

IM: "None? You're beginning to irritate me. Do you have any drinkable liquid?"

DT: "Coke. Pepsi. Water."

IM: "Bottle of sparkling, please."

DT: "We've only got still."

Yes, treat yourself at the flicks: to some still water. Citizens in Scotland will be familiar with the feeling when an "assistant" is not only rude in this manner but actually enjoys being unhelpful. You feel stunned. You don't want to create a scene, or get arrested for infringing the rights of a ned. But being treated with such contempt leaves a sour taste in the mouth.

I'd thought this kind of thing was on the turn. But that may be an erroneous impression caused by fewer Scottish, or indeed Irish, teenagers soiling our shops and eating emporia with their misanthropic angst.

In London, everyone we met was kind and helpful. Even in Aberdeen recently, I encountered remarkably friendly service, though it was exclusively from young English people, who often have a merry, tra-la-la way about them. This reached its peak at Pizza Express, a restaurant chain I love, even though I dislike pizza cordially. It was Friday night, and I was dining on my own, having arrived in the granite-style city to pick up the Burd off the Stormlands boat early next morning.

I dislike dining on my own. Generally, one is offered the worst table and, often, has to put up with relentless staring from jaded couples with nothing to say to each other. But, here, I was welcomed by smiles all round and invited to have a drink while the staff found me a table, which they promised in ten minutes but delivered in two.

After that, they couldn't have been more solicitous, even when I started singing raucously and throwing chairs around. My order – "Just bring me anything that doesn't have cheese or tomato in it" – was taken politely and efficiently, and my views on the ongoing credit crunch, the latest Mars probe, and so forth, were listened to with a respect too often lacking nowadays.

I'm told that, in foreign places – other than Austria – service is generally kind and friendly. Certainly, when I was forced to visit France a couple of years ago, we found the service very good. Perhaps, in Britain, it's the word "service" that causes problems. Celts are a proud people, with a well-deserved inferiority complex. They do not wish to "serve" others.

But in France, apparently, serving – being a waiter – is almost a profession, and a respected one at that. There, no-one looks down on a waiter. But there, too, they are better paid than here. Britain operates a low-wage economy. The Empire was built on this – and on the no-wage economy of slavery – and it's a habit we've never quite left behind.

You are looking to me for a solution to the service problem, and I will not disappoint you. Here is my two-point plan: one, imprison the rich and confiscate their assets; two, give these assets to waiters and kiosk attendants at cinemas. Following these sound Christian principles, it will not be long before you are served courteously by happy, well-paid citizens, who feel valued by their fellows at last.