In April 2011 I found it necessary to post something after a visit to Middlebrough Zoo. Middlesbrough of course does not have a zoo . . . well, officially. Such was my amazement at the visit to Asda, I was driven to record the experience. With somewhat lesser enthusiasm and obligation, I now find that I am writing once more after a brief visit to Asda. Not that I have avoided this establishment for posts in the interim; no, the Asda experience is one that recurs and thus haunts any sane human.
Today's excursion was intended to be perfunctory in nature, as a means to invest the minimum effort and attention whilst securing essential goods. I knew it would be less than successful at the entrance. The car I was following decided that the painted-on mini roundabout needed a wide girth - so much cuntin so that I feared it was circumnavigating the country! It swung back into line, just as Apollo 13 managed to gain momentum from a swing around the moon, and I followed it into the car park. The cunt suddenly stopped on the bend, and then decided to indicate right. In this way, I was informed that the twat was entering the parking lane that was suppose to be unavailable as an option. The No Entry sign fell on blind eyes, just as my "fucking cunt!" fell on deaf ears.
Parking was easy, once I fended off the temptation of running down a woman intent on keeping to the centre of the aisle for cars. TMWSC Junior and I entered the zoo, and prepared to gather sustenance. We were met with the sight of three members of staff considering what should be done with three 65-inch Polaroid televisions. I of course knew the answer to this instantly, but decided not to avail them of my considered opinion. Instead, Junior and I edged past into the first aisle.
The TUC biscuits that were stacked a few days ago were now 50p instead of £1, signalling that Asda's presumption on the needs of the general public in respect of TUC biscuits was somewhat revised, and more in keeping with reasonable pricing. Whilst we 'trolleyed' past, I made a mental not to check on the TUC cheese sandwich variety in due course.
I went nowhere near the left-hand side of the store, which includes among many non-food items, the toiletries aisles. This was the location of my recent frustration at the Asda pricing policy, which in unofficial terms, is:
Confuse the fuckers as much as possible; chop and change pricing, as well as packet sizes, and always try to get away with robbery under the guide of rolling back prices.
The last time I was in the end aisle was to marvel at the 200ml Nivea cream being sold at £6. This is the exact same item available in other shops at £1.99. Anyway, enough of the non-food section, or I will find myself bemoaning the fact that Asda chooses not to sell Macleans toothpaste.
Junior and I were in the market for mince - pork mince to be specific. None was for sale, other than a variety that contained 20% fat, and of course that is only of real interest to desperate shoppers. The vegetable section presented itself, and sprouts were nowhere to be seen. Clearly the nation has just swallowed every cuntin sprout that an EU worker has picked over the last few weeks. Carrots were the only alternative to go with swede and leeks. It was at the end of the aisle that I felt homi-cuntin-cidal.
Junior and I were forced to take a long route to get round the bend. It was akin to the trajectory taken by the twat at the roundabout, on the way in. Four fat fuckers were chatting; their bulk and the two shopping trolleys were providing a real obstacle to progress. I tried to counter the centrifugal force by leaning towards the bulk of the last arse, and shaved it (metaphorically). I heard another fucker moan that "people just barge past rather than saying excuse me". These chitter-chatter-cunts were so out of order that if I'd have had the nerve, I'd have rammed them into the car park. However, I would have needed to be Hulk Hogan to have stood a chance of achieving that, and so I moved on from sumo city to the chickens.
After catching to chickens (I had the advantage because they were dead, trussed and bagged) the yoghurts beckoned, and Junior made his selection. Obviously I could not get any Activia yoghurts, on principle. At £2.40 for four little pots, I felt the need to abstain. These are of course the pots that are available on some weeks at £1, before reverting to £2.40 for no reason at all. Occasionally there is some sort of settling effect on the world stock markets, and the spot price for yoghurt allows a £2 sale price. However, in most cases, it's either £1 or £2.40. Fucking Asda!
I should point out, just for balance and in the interests of those who are not hooked solely on strawberry yoghurt, that the Cardbury's Pot of Joy 4-pack can vary in a similar way. At £2, I ignored them today, but two weeks ago I was able to indulge at £1, and select the 'pots of mild satisfaction'.
There was a kerfuffle at the end of one aisle when I wanted to leave it and turn the corner. an idiot has gone past but was now reversing, and another person was loitering without any idea of 'intent' as a concept, let alone as a reality. Basically, people were in the way, and unable to decide what to do. The Asda re-stocking trolley added more annoyance to the equation. Junior and I negotiated the situation with aplomb. At this point I became aware of a tribe of shoppers who spent more time on their mobiles than attending to the task of selecting food. Junior and I managed to choose aisles that were not at the same time inhabited by these numpties. The choice of black bin bags was strange;overpriced decent ones or shitty cheap ones. There was no middle ground at all.
After getting lager, it was time to find a checkout that would allow speedy exit from the establishment. This proved be be tricky. I first opted for a checkout that seemed likely to involve a minimal wait. One customer was just finishing packing and was almost ready to pay, and between me and him were the pair of women with a kid, the ones gabbing on phones I'd seen earlier. Unfortunately I had not counted on their ability to fuck about. Their shopping was split into multiple 'portions' and so spread on the checkout belt. I persevered though, because how long could they possibly delay me?
It seemed the answer was 'longer than I'd thought'. The killer moment came when I thought it was my turn to start putting food on to the conveyor belt, but then I saw another basket of food in the top of the stack of empties, ready to be loaded up. The fat fucker no doubt slipped it out of her snatch while I wasn't looking, because it materialised from nowhere . . . . well, from her twat, obviously. Junior and I moved to another line, and proceeded to put our purchased on to the belt.
Leaving the car park I was pleased to be out of the place. The fifteen minute escapade was more frustrating than necessary. To cap it off, I was forced to swerve on the way home after the car in front braked and swerved. It was avoiding a cunt who I saw had stopped rapidly and pulled up on to the kerb, all because he was on the phone. It would have been safer for all if he had actually driven while on the phone, rather than take ludicrous action after accepting a call.
What an unrewarding visit.
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