Thoughts and scribblings of an overactive mind.

Why I hate the food shop

Once a week there’s a torture that truly belongs in one of the circles of hell. It feels like it fits quite nicely at the very top, where all those indecisive people are running around this way and that being chased by swarms of bees. Luckily there aren’t any bees in my local Sainsburys, but there are a lot of indecisive people running amok.

I used to love it, I think because it’s a sign of independence – you know, if you are an adult then you have to go and do “the big shop” once a week. Yeah, I used to really quite enjoy it. Now, I hate it. I DETEST it. I hate it more than I thought it were possible to hate a weekly task. Just thinking about it makes me shiver.

It’s just annoying isn’t it? No matter where you go – Sainsburys, Tesco, Morrisons, Asda (lucky if you go there though, they are the cheapest I think,) – it’s always the same. People, bloody people. Bloody stupid, ignorant people who take no issue with leaving their poxing trolley right in the middle of the aisle and then wandering off – perhaps chatting with Mrs. Bloody Stupid about what baked beans would be best to buy that week. Or do we even need baked beans, hmm I don’t know, have we got any at home? Well, in any case, let’s just stand right up close to the shelves so that other people who actually wrote a list can’t access their desired products. AND have you noticed – these peoples trollys are usually empty all the time? It’s as if they actually do just come to the supermarket to just leave their trollys in the aisles and piss people off. Well they do a great job.

And then there’s people with kids. Usually the most annoying are either chavs that have reproduced too much and have brought the entire clan out for a shop (you can tell these by the fact that they ALWAYS have a big box of beer cans in the trolley – without fail) or middle class “yummy mummys” (I hate that expression with the same power that I hate the food shop) who are out buying organic this and overpriced that with dear little penelope and fortesque, each adorably dressed in tiny posh persons country clobber. As you walk past them you usally hear the mum having to whisper a telling off as by being too rich and middle class she’s raised a couple of spoilt brats (wonder how that happened?) And people with kids seem to think that the middle of the aisle is the perfect place to park up and fuss over said children – either telling them off or if they’ve bumped into a friend then they both stand there and goggle at the child, amazed at how clever they are to have actually given birth to something. Yes, congratulations, you’ve mastered reproduction along with oh let’s see – yes – EVERY OTHER LIVING THING ON THE PLANET.

Then there’s the issue if you bump into someone you know. Now sometimes this is okay, but sometimes it can be the worst thing ever – depends on the person. If it’s someone that you “like” i.e. through some misfortune you know this twit and you have to pretend to get along, then you suddenly become very protective of your trolley. They inevitably have to say something stupid like “You doing your weekly coupley shop?” – which I was asked one day whilst I was with Andrew. What’s more annoying is that they used a cutesy voice you use to talk to babies or dogs. Yes, we are a couple, so yes, we have to do a food shop. Are you sure you’re not a politician? You seem to be very adept at being a patronising git and stating the bloody obvious whilst you’re at it! Or they look in your trolley and say “Ooh, you’ve got some bargains there! Gnocchi, oooh, very posh – what are you going to do with that?” Okay, first of all, Gnocchi isn’t posh, and it certainly isn’t very posh. Just because you belong to the pie and mash brigade and you haven’t been bothered to ever have it – it doesn’t mean that I’m posh, it means that you’re probably a lazy cook. Second of all, mind your bloody business and sod off, it’s got bugger all to do with you what I’m going to do with it. If I was half the man I ought to be then I would force them down your throat, dry and uncooked and then watch merrily whilst you choke to death.

Okay, I’m done. Rant over.


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