I should have known better, and taken notice of the omen - the refusal of the trolley to let go of the pack when I stuck a pound coin in the fucker. Thus, the extra long line of trolleys remain extra long, as I retrieved my coin and released a trolley from the shorter line alongside.
Morrisons is a dire place, and I was reminded of this during my visit. The cider boxes were £12 and I was disappointed because in Asda they are £10, and this was after the increase from a recent offer price of £8. Six bottles for £12 is of no interest to any sane person. Then I saw the tags on the various shelves stating "4 Bottles for £6", and I decided that I'd struggle with four loose bottles rather than pay excessively for a box to contain the things. Anyway, I digress.
The chickens were smaller than they used to be - just 1.3kg each. Still, the "3 for £10" offer means this still represents good value and I can boil the carcasses for Larry (my dog). The inanimate objects were placed in the trolley along with a few other items, bringing the total to around £40. It was at this stage that the true annoyance of Morrisons started to eat away at my tolerance levels.
Nineteen checkouts, but only SIX of the cunts were in use! Consequently there was a small queue at each; three were at the far end, and three at the other, where I found myself pondering. The stakes were insignificant in comparison to those during the First World War, but I suspect the gazing over no man's land was akin to my surveillance for a few seconds of the checkouts at Morrisons. In desperation, and fooled into doing so by the completely empty self-scanning area, I pushed the trolley to one of the eight self-service terminals.
On previous visits, I'd always succumbed to the superiority of a machine which treated me like a thick cunt and pissed me about. I'd resolved to avoid them in future, yet here I was, staring at the light grey machine that was daring me to use it. I decided that the chickens ought to go first, to test the water, so to speak. I scanned one, and it registered okay, so I placed it in the carrier bag to the left. This was sufficient for the machine to avoid any sort of malfunction, and it was able to allow further progress. Another beep and repositioning of 1.3kg led to the bag holding two of the dead birds. This was going so well that I fell into the trap of thinking I might have made the right call in avoiding queuing at a (wo)manned ordinary checkout. HOWEVER . . . I was wrong.
The Third Chicken (not related to The Third Man - Graham Greene) was made of stronger stuff, and its 1.3kg caused, upon entry into the bag already occupied by two mates, a machine malfunction. The machine went into spasm, and started issuing instructions - "assistance required" was enough to send me past the acceptable level of tolerance, and I decided I was officially frustrated. Behind me, another completely useless fucking bird was dithering, and talking to a mate who was similarly attired in a green uniform. Instead of assistance, and some cunting attention, she was gabbling and of no help at all. I decided to pick up the carrier bag holding the three chickens, and plonk it in my trolley. I wheeled it out of the self-serve area and I joined the queue at the very first checkout, and occupied the same place I'd have been in without the pointless detour to the self-service zone. As I stood in line, the dithering cunt suddenly had a stroke.
I jest, of course, because she did not have a stroke, but was nevertheless fucking disorientated, and panicking; before her was a machine that was having a fucking chicken fit, and the red light on a pole above the thing was flashing red. The non-assistant looked around, and tried to work out what was happening. She rabbited (or chickened) to her fellow non-assistant, trying to establish whether anyone had absconded without paying for stuff. I felt a pair of eyes looking in my direction, then another, and then some mumbling. Meanwhile I watched my goods arriving at the head of the conveyor belt as the shopper in front of me was told the bill.
After the customer in front of me had paid by credit card and as vacating the packing area, I noticed that the non-assistant in self-serve-city had stick a cunt of a big notice on the machine I'd used. It read "Machine Not In Service - Sorry For Any Inconvenience". The light was still flashing red. I was pleased.
As I left the store, the dead machine was no doubt waiting for an engineer's visit. How the fuck three scans of a chicken can send the fucker into IT orbit without the non-assistant being able to 're-set' it I have no idea. Maybe the Morrisons end-of-day review will show three missing chickens; who knows. If the non-assistant had been bothered to fucking assist, I'd have left the store sooner, the machine would be working, and she'd have earned her minimum wage. As it was, a useless non-assistant was chatting and being of no assistance in an area that was unwanted by most shoppers.
I will try to avoid Morrisons for a while, unless buying chickens. That would give us (the chickens and me) a chance to fuck up a till.
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