Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!
Fucking numpties at the Asda in Southbank. About eight tills closed, and I was left with four working (all with queues) or the self service area with ten machines, or, as a loitering lunatic offered, "Would you like to use one of our hybrid checkouts?" This was one of numerous fucking twats who did nothing to help customers pay and exit the store, but instead acted like a div and held a useless sign saying "Space Here" - a sign which she should have been pointing at her fucking head. Her mate was smiling and achieving nothing more than staying alive by breathing. Fuck knows why that is worth £6.02 per hour.
I waited in line, with just one customer ahead of me in the lane that was a self-service conveyor belt. I did so while noting that twat-with-the-sign and her mate watched, and breathed (sadly). Elsewhere, a fucker loitered in the cordoned-off self service area, ready to assist a couple of customers whose purchases were small enough that they could pissing bother with these machines. I know this was her mission because "Pleased To Help" was emblazoned on the back of her fleece. Another person similarly attired was loitering near my own lane. I turned and saw further along, behind me, two more pointless individuals who were not serving anyone in the checkout area. So, 5 useless cunts. If they had sat behind five of the fucking unemployed checkouts, then there would have been NO fucking people waiting with more than one person ahead of them anywhere, and in most cases, no queue at all!
Just exactly WHEN did it become necessary to direct customers on where there's a cuntin' space? For years we ave managed quite well as shoppers to decide upon which queue to join and having a cunt with a sign does nothing at all to help. Has the clientele at Asda become so fucking thick that customers need herding towards checkouts, while the number of manned checkouts is reduced by the CIC? What a screwed up world.
So, I joined the 'hybrid' checkout lane, and waited impatiently while the one shopper in front of me fucked about with her goods, the till, the credit card and did just about everything bar have a wank. Then it was my chance to try and leave the fucking zoo. Junior was scanning, and I was packing.
The machine was a complete cunt of a fuck-up, deciding not to recognise some items, stall at various random stages, and refuse to allow further scanning when it felt like it. This necessitated intervention from one of the useless bystanders who were hoping to be useful here and there. The woman with the fleece came over on four fucking occasions, to scan her little barcode that said "all is okay". This was necessary when I bought some alcohol (no great surprise) but also necessary when I wanted to obtain Sweet Potatoes (or as we discovered during the attempted scan, Potatoes Sweet). At other time the machine simply froze, meaning intervention was necessary. As all this was going on, my blood pressure rose, and my propensity to use the 'c' word was enhanced massively. The stupid amount of time it took us to scan just £40 worth of shopping, £13 being a crate of lager, was criminal. The cuntin' experience was awful, and I resented every minute of it. If we hadn't had to cater for nine people on the night, I'd have abandoned the shopping on the conveyor belt with complete glee and a sprinkling of swearing!
I will not be revisiting this establishment - period!
[CIC = Cunts In Charge]
...
No comments:
Post a Comment