Today was a sunny and warm one, for a change. I had a couple of things to buy, and so went into town. Unfortunately a fair few people had a similar idea. I parked with reasonable ease, considering the mobilisation of so many people. Notice that I said 'people', rather than 'men, women and children' - a phrase that annoys the fuck out of me on a regular basis, as newscasters and reporters love to extend the length of their drivel through use of the phrase.
My first stop was to try and get a card, not a Mother's Day card, but one for a new born baby girl. A word of advice to the UK population - don't go near a card shop on the day before Mother's Day. Sadly, timing led me to venture to the Card Factory on the day before Mother's Day, and I was obviously fucked.
The entrance to the shop provided an opening of approximately five feet. However, the management had clearly decided this was not challenging enough for Saturday shoppers, and had oped to position a 'half price' bargain stand in the doorway. This two-foot square metal container thus reduced the usable space to the width of the hallway in a small terraced house, three cuntin feet! Not surprisingly, getting into the shop was as challenging as getting out. The place was heaving and a fucking disaster.
Finding the 'new baby' cards on the large racks was no mean feat, as I navigated the clogged aisles and needed some mean feet of my own to dodge meandering twats, moping kids, malingering other-halves, and a pushchair. I have no doubt there were thousands of cards on sale, but those conforming to a celebration of the birth of a girl numbered SIX!
I aborted the mission. Despite having located the cards available, I had no choice but to leave, because they were all shit. I manoeuvred and reached the narrow doorway and was tempted to push the metal motherfucker out into the pedestrianised area outside, to give the opening a permanent two-way functionality instead of an alternating one-way system.
A newly opened shop drew my attention, and I entered via the entrance, obviously. there were cards on sale, and the card racks were easily reached. The cards available were few, and shit. There was an exceedingly long display of DVDs along one wall, and I started to work my way along it. About half way through this exercise, with my eyes scanning the film titles, my nose detected a vile odour and my brain was assaulted by messages telling me to flee. My eyes locked firmly on the film in front of me, and I struggled to place the small. When I say 'place', I of course mean 'work out what it was', because I already knew it's location - near enough to my fucking nose to cause permanent damage and trauma. My peripheral vision locked on to a woman, and then my main vision clocked the offending creature. This woman was walking refuse. The film in front of me was called (and I kid you not) Rancid Aluminium. I bought it for a quid because I'd received (unwillingly) a sign.
In the next aisle I picked up a multi-pack of superglue, and made my way to the checkouts. One of the three assistants was available, so I presented my items.
"Oh, I'm sorry. You'll have to go to another checkout. I can't serve you." With that, she left her post and went to tidy the batteries. I checked my goods in case I'd accidentally included a hand grenade, maybe some fireworks, a samurai sword or Absinthe. Finding nothing of the sort, I waited a few seconds for the first till operator to become free.
"Why couldn't she serve me?" I enquired, nodding over towards the first now unoccupied till.
"She's not old enough," said the assistant who looked younger than the first one. In fact, the first one looked about nineteen years old, as well as nineteen stone.
"Strange world" was all I could think to say. I bought some superglue. WTF? Do people still sniff the stuff? Is that the issue? Would she have served me a pack of marker pens?
I left and went to B&M in search of batteries, because Goodwins only had watch batteries (that apparently needed tidying by a nineteen-stone juvenile). I ambled around the aisles behind dawdling donkeys and found out that Duracell C batteries were £2 for two. I needed six. I thought I'd see if a multi-pack elsewhere might be cheaper.
In Home Bargains, I bought some batteries, and then noticed a small fridge freezer in the window of Brightstore. £7 per week, announced the sign. Having previously seen a £1000 television that would end up costing someone £2500, I was curious to check out the true cost. The item was £477 to buy, but the 'deal' meant an actual charge at over £1000. It was apparently 69.7% APR. Fucking criminal.
I fancied some chips. With many establishments selling this fayre, I hardly expected any problem in achieving my goal. However, I had not reckoned on just how many chip-eating people were in town. Hundreds of the cunts! If I'd joined a queue, I might have got my supper - the wait was likely to be that long.
I looked at another seller and the same situation prevailed. The amusement arcades were brimming with people, all having a workout after indulging in chip-eating exploits. Not much amusement there. I has starving. In my desperation I could have succumbed - but I did not; I did not reach for the glue and sniff.
...
