Wednesday, November 26, 2003

Supermarket Trolleys – WMD.

Today, I am off to the cash and carry to do a bit of shopping for the office. Pretty damn mundane – boring even. BUT I have been with this mega-shop for the past 10 years and have yet to find a trolley that went the way I pushed it. The wheels go in all directions and the more you push it one way, it goes the other, then off on some other tangent. Keeping the trolley on the straight and narrow is a truly ‘fly by wire experience’. The strain, as a punter tries to manoeuvre a fully laden trolley around the end of an aisle is just colossal.

Once, during a seasonal visit to the store, I watched as a little man struggled with a leviathan of a trolley, stuffed to the gunnels with drink, box after box of it. This thing had the turning circle of a super-tanker – and he was trying to get it docked into the check out.

There he is, pushing and pulling, heaving and shoving, back and forth, hither and thither. Everyone behind him is waiting, sort of patiently. By now, this guy is sweating briquettes as the pull/push operetta continues – one final, big effort is all that is required to effect the successful docking at the till. The man took up a position, braced himself all rigid like - and heaved…..

Phaaarrrrrrrrrppppphhhhh!! Stunned silence, then uncontrolled laughter from the waiting multitude. The Captain of the good ship booze cruise had just let go the loudest fart I had ever heard. Our little area positively trembled – just like one of those Japanese security cameras taking pictures of an earth quake.

He cracked on that nothing had happened. He blanked everyone, paid and left, eventually - in a ziggy-zaggy-trumpy sort of way.

No matter how carefully I select the trolley, I always get one with no sense of direction. And even if I manage to find a ‘smooth runner’ – the more I load it, the less manageable it becomes. A Basil Fawlty moment invariably follows – "Right, that’s-blood-dy-well-it.
I’m-go-ing-to-thrash-you-to-with-in-an-inch-of-your-wire-bound-life. Don’t-mess-me-a-round-you-wob-bly-heap-of-in-effi-ci-ent-rub-bish".

There - man, does that feel good.

Of course …….. all this pales into macro insignificance when compared to ‘The Dark Place.’ For no place on Earth can compete with the hell hole that is ‘The Dark Place’. Where all trolleys positively go out of their way to take revenge on shopping Saxons. Where no items bought within the shop ever fits on a trolley. Where all trolleys are extra-specially constructed to ‘shin’ the pusher and to whip out ankle bones from fellow shoppers.

Where is ‘The Dark Place’ then? You know, don't you? Skin beginning to crawl is it? Hot sweats creeping over your body..... Yeah, you know all right. You'll find these all over the Country and always near a motorway.

Answer, (well my local branch of) 'The Dark Place' is 666 Beelzebub Avenue, Warrington. Yes, that's right, it’s the Vikings revenge, founded by Eric the total bastard – IKEA.

COMING SOON - my 5 visits to IKEA to try and get a tap cutter and my threat to take the entire night shift hostage if I didn't get my tap cutter.

ALSO – How I narrowly avoid murdering a Scandinavian Manager when he says to me "Allo, ve at IKEA hope you haf had a ferry, ferry gud shoppink trip"

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

Christmas is coming ……

Alfreda thoughtfully bought some seasonal goodies home on Friday. You know, it’s the sort of stuff, (big tins of biccies, dates and cakes etc) that you buy "To put away for the big day." One of which was a bumper big bag of roasted peanuts.

Anyway, due to the extremely tense nature of the Rugby Final, I needed something to nibble. The Christmas caboodle got raided, I settled back with the big bag of roasted peanuts.

But wait, what’s this? A massive missive on the side of the bag …… ‘WARNING- This product contains nuts’……..

Replica shirts for Greek Gods …….

After Jonno’s boys did the bizz on Saturday, I’ve felt inspired to go and get an England replica rugby shirt. I’m sure my love handles, beer gut and gravity enhanced man tits will be well hidden under the skin tight dermo-technological marvel that is the current outfit of the new World Champs.

Chiselled?. Well yeah (in a Michelin Man sort of way).

Latin – I love it (amo, amas, amat)…….

Tidying up in the garage the other day, I came across a very old Billy Connolly audio tape. For nostalgia’s sake I shoved it on. His accent then was so Glaswegian thick, you can hardly understand what he’s saying.

The tape was full of the very best non p.c. bile. Best sketch of the lot was ‘The Last Supper’ set in a modern day wine bar in Glasgow. Billy used to do this sketch regularly until the God police forced him to call time on it. What a laugh it is. Full of great lines such as "One of yooz guys is going to shop me te’ the Roman pol-lice. JUDAS! Have ye’ nicked ma drink? – Christ, Judas, I’m watching you, ye’re getting’ right up ma tits"

And "Go on Big Yin, dae one o’ those yonder miracles"
"Yeah, we're gettin' short o' wine over here Big Yin, can ye miracle us some more wine up?"
"Paaa! Miracles….. What miracles, he cann’e do any miracles – it’s all tricks"….
"Thomas, are yae doubting me again?"
"I’m just sayin….."
"Well don’t – In fact, Thomas you can just shut yer face!"…
And lo - verily, his face, it was shut

Anyway Billy – playing Jesus, tells the story whilst having his ‘last supper’ in the wine bar, how he was going to get betrayed, judged and crucified. Cut to the scene where Jesus is on the Cross and sees a Roman soldier approaching him.

Billy shouts to the soldier "Mercy, mercy"

The soldier replies "Mercium? My arsium"