I had the unfortunate task today of calling into Sports Direct to buy some trainers. My brief (to myself) was cheap white footwear that fitted okay. I scan of the display lead me to some white trainers branded as Lonsdale and they were only £23 - job done, I though. The assistant was actually in the mood to assist (not a common occurrence by any means) and after I explained I might be a size 10 or an 11, he returned with a ten-and-a-half. I quick try, and I discovered that the world is shrinking, and that I'd need a size 11. "I think that's the biggest I've got," came the words from the assistant, as if there were ever any doubt that my size would be unavailable!
He offered a size 11 in a similar style, rather more blue than white, but I conceded, and tried the right one on. "That'll do," from me was the end of it, or so I'd envisaged. But no - Sports Direct's Employee of the Fucking Month was out to attempt an up-sell.
Not once, not twice, but three fucking times the cunt decided to try and get me to part with an extra five pounds for some gel insoles that would cushion my feet. Apparently I'd notice the difference, and should opt to purchase them. I declined. I declined a(fucking)gain and like St Pissing Peter, denied him a third cunting time!
"I'll take them over to the checkout for you," said the defeated irritant. I made my way to the checkout. At this salubrious venue in the far corner of the cavern, I was met with the face of a hard-nosed woman who was to allow me to leave the store with the trainers; not before another 'up-sell- attempt.
I feigned mild interest in the shenanigans that she undertook, tapping codes and pissing about. "Size 11, yes?" she enquired. The correct answer would of course have been:
"Yes, these are the cunts that the assistant fetched for me, and that I have just had on my fucking feet, having asked for a size 11. They are the same cunting trainers that he then placed on the counter in front of your two eyes, to rouse you from your cunting coma, and do some work! How the fucking hell would they be anything else but the size 11 trainers that I want?"
I did not say this, as I was in a pleasant mood. Instead, I said "Yes,"
The shock of the up-sell wasa new one on me; apparently there's a mission to get rid of overpriced carrier bags! This woman was most certainly determined, and had the look to go with it. Even without speaking, she suggested by her very appearance that she was a zero-tolerance sort of female. She looked the sort who had her cunt flaps tattooed (with 'left' and 'right' rather than 'love' and 'hate') and her clit pierced in three places by rivets. I declined the offer of a £1 stronger bag to carry the lightweight trainers home, and she put the box in a normal carrier bag. I left the store, thankfully.
Asda
Elsewhere in the retail world, Asda had no Mint Penguins, no ordinary KP Nuts, no Brillo Pads or any sort of cheap equivalent, and no new potatoes at all! Fucking disgraceful. No sign of an up-sell, but more of a fucking down-sell.
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