Dragon's Den = Social Suicide

A couple of anecdotes for you:

A few months ago, in Subway on Berwick Street.
Man in queue in front of me attempting to pay for a £1.99 sub with a credit card gestures to poster on the wall with his gold American Express.
'Oh look, the Reggae Reggae sauce sub!'

Bangladeshi cashier who clearly speaks as much English as his co-worker who is currently drenching my sub in Mayonnaise despite my request and hand gestures to the contrary
'.' (dull eyed stare)

'You know? Reggae Reggae sauce? The guy was on Dragon's Den!'

'.'
*background noise of me swearing under my breath at the prospect of a 3,000 calorie sub but being too polite to actually complain*

'Dragons Den! On BBC1! The guy sang a little song and they gave him money? Dragon's Den? Yes? Oh.'

He glances around: first to the still blank faced cashier who is now proferring a receipt, then to the equally blank faced condiment-mad co-worker. His eyes finally settle on the glowering girl holding a dripping bundle of greasy bread behind him, before he stalks out, head down.


A few weeks ago, a hairdressers in Crouch End.
An awkward fifteen year old girl whose job consists of pushing hair around the floor, making hair tea and answering the phone with a superfast esturary mutter is nonchalently swinging on the reception chair.

Jabbing at the mouse of the computer and staring intently at the monitor screen - 'thatallbe*outrageous sum of money* plez'

'Oh cool.'
I hand over my card.

*awkward silence punctuated only by more mouse jabs*

'Oh look, those are those hairbrushes they had on Dragons Den!'
I gesture to a pyramid of spikey brushes balancing procariously close to her flinching mouse arm.

'Huh?'
she looks up at me with half shut eyes and a half open gob displaying her half chewed gum.

'You know? It's like a magic brush that gets rid of tangles? They didn't invest but it looks like he has done quite well for himself.'

'AahdunnerrIdahntwatchit. Canyerputyerpennumberrinyeah?'

'What really? You don't watch Dragon's Den? Not ever'

'Nah.'

'You know what it is, right?'

'Yeh.'

'Oh.'
Another awkward pause until I take back my card and slink off into the day with my poofy blowdryed mushroom hair.

Is this just a terrible co-incidence? Why not try slotting 'that awful band called ham or spam or something' or 'that cap to stop you putting diesel into a unleaded car' into polite conversation with a service level stranger and find out!