I for one dont believe the importation of Black Friday is a benefit to us in Britain. Ive just been to Waitrose and couldnt get my car anywhere near the door for the sheer amount of bargain hunters already parked there. I had to park near the overflow carpark, you know near Lidl. So by the time I walked such a distance - instead of being met with a celebratory medal - I was confronted by a gypsy peddling socialist pulp. No, thank, you. In the shop, what is normally a fluid movement of decisive, polite shoppers, was this morning a wreathing mass of heathens at a Moroccan street market. It wasnt just the shoppers with the attitude. The staff, normally welcoming with a Good morning, how are we?, could barely raise a smile. I didnt even make it to the cauliflowers before a sweaty, heavy set woman with collection of feral children bashed into my new knee with an overflowing trolley. Luckily it was only overflowing with monster munch so there was no crippling weight to it. In lieu of an apology she simply bellowed to the heavens Watch it! as if it was her deitys fault and not her own. I softly told her that knees dont come cheap with BUPA but my voice was drowned out by the wails of a small boy who had so much dirt around his chops it looked like the entrance to a building site. The directions I gave her to ASDA also fell on deaf ears. A coffee would put me in the right spirits, youd think. As you can imagine the queue was as long as those of a Sunderland dole office in the 70s. I joined the end of it anyway, making a point to check my watch every sixty seconds as a passive protest, only getting attention from the cartoon butcher, Mr. Porky on a multipack of pork scratchings, laughing at us from the crisp alternative shelves. Sometime in the next century I was served a regular coffee by a smirking assistant that obviously found the whole thing amusing. Whats tickling you? I asked. Everyones come in for Black Friday, she said but weve got no deals on. You have to go to John Lewis for that. Dear God, John Lewis, I expected better. Finding somewhere to sit was no walk in the park, although in retrospect I would have rathered a walk in a park. Gorky Park. The entire cafe area was populated by folk waiting for a southern evangelist to come along and miraculously give the use of their legs back to them. Clear off, lotus eaters. When the coffee was cold enough to tip over a childs head without causing tears (I didnt do that by the way) I found a table in the corner. With a newspaper too. My luck was changing. No it wasnt it was the Guardian. Blurghhh. On the next table over younger chap was on his phone with his elbows on the table, clamping down a Daily Mail. Excuse me, young chap. Can I have that paper if youre not reading it? Yeah, no tits in it though. Then he shouted across the room to his high-vis wearing chum. Oi, Craig, show this bloke the page 3. Craig came over and opened up the Sun in front of me. I must say what a splendid set of top bollocks. The day wasnt a write-off after all.
Posted on: Fri, 28 Nov 2014 10:26:05 +0000
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