At the weekend, I was annoyed by the Co-op. To be fair, there was nothing special about the weekend, because the Cunt-Op manages to annoy me most days of the week in one way or another. This weekend's nuisance factor included the pricing regime that encourages unnecessary (and forced) purchasing. Warburton's bread is deemed to have a value of £1.45 for a loaf, although its value diminishes by 31% should anyone decide to buy two loaves at once. There can be no fucking justification for selling any odd numbered loaf at £1.45 but charging just £1.00 if the buyers chooses to purchase in even numbers. I did not want to buy two fucking loaves, so bought NONE. This was the cheapest option altogether, detrimental to the Cunt-Op's profits and satisfying for myself.
I moved on to the milk, and was presented with the exact same scenario! I had no fucking reason to put eight pissing pints of milk in my fridge. Thus, the £1.45 for one carton or two for £2.00 because cunting nowt for nothing!
I found myself in need of some other items, and this necessitated a short car journey, and parking in a Morrisons car park. Not surprisingly, after doing my general shopping, I went into Morrisons to get a few things, including milk and bread. I looked in the bread aisle and discovered nothing by way of Warburton's. It was not on sale, so I didn't even have to chance to moan like a cunt about any pricing policy. On to the milk.
These fuckers have pushed things further than the Cunt-Op, by charging £1.39 for a four-pint plastic carton, but offering them at £1.00 each should I deign to buy THREE! Why the cuntin fuck would I want to stuff twelve pints of milk in my fridge? This was ridiculous. I had to settle for picking up one, on that basis that a stop off at ASDA on my way home would be more hassle than the saving on milk. For some reason ASDA ia able to sell the same four-pint cartons one-at-a-time, and for 89p.
I went through the checkout, served by a pensioner who was quite insistent regarding my take-up of a loyalty card. My indifference could not have been confused with anything other than "obvious fucking indifference to any shitty scheme going" and I complemented by disinterest with a shrug to go along with the "not really, thanks", the answer I gave when Mrs Miggins asked if I'd like a card. She persisted and I let her scan a small piece of card that was to serve as a temporary one, apparently. I let the details relayed to me about points and other shite waft in one ear and out of the other without adherence to a single brain cell.
I checked my receipt as I walked away, just to see what the fuss was about, and it seems that I spent £35, and that after some sort of comparison with a load of other stores, I could have saved sixty fucking pence by opting for the best combination. Since when did shopping require the fucking input of Robert Langdon. I was in cuntin Morrisons, not trawling round France trying to find the cunting Enigma Code !
617 Squadron
I found myself hemmed in. The area behind the checkouts was particularly wide, something that should have been advantageous in exiting the yellow and green nightmare. However, I had not bargained on there being three of 617 Squadron hogging the thoroughfare. That's right, the Dam Busters re-enactment troupe had sent its three most doddery members to piss about in front of me, in a formation that prevented any cunt getting past.
Full Blocking Formation
The Mohne, Sorpe and Eder were not in their sights, though. Instead, the trio of old women was intent on keeping a tight formation all the way to the far door, and then beyond, along the covered path, over the zebra crossing and into the car park. The three kept in contact at all stages, basically by never fucking shutting up. The three metal cages hogged the right of way such that nothing was ever going to come of a manoeuvre to get past them. I simply had to wait ages.
Back in the Hanger, at RAF Scampton
Not all made it back; one of the casualties ditched in a field
ID Tag of one of the unlucky ones
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