So the
supermarkets took a bit of a pasting in the press recently, they’ve only got
themselves to blame though. Passing off old, haggard Romanian horses as beef is
just not cricket, not even polo. I’m not here though to pull a load of horse
gags for that would be far too easy, done by every sad comedian and even a few
that are clearly not. Horseplay, horsing around, there’s more material there
then Prince Harry. The local butchers are milking it as people are put off
buying meat at the supermarket. The thing is though, it’s not the state of the
meat that is the problem; it’s the deception, the lie. Makes you wonder what
other product’s ingredients are being lied about. I mean take fish fingers, you
can’t pull the wool over my eyes; fish don’t even have fingers.
Baked Alaska
found to have no traces of any American state; Jaffa Cakes are more like
biscuits than cake and gateau with no trace of forest let alone a Black one. I
bought some cheese strings to discover no string was actually used. It’s a
disgrace that is what it is; Pot Noodles should have a little bit of pot in
surely?
Thing is I
like supermarkets, from a psychological perspective, any psychologist (of which
I’m not, thanks to spell-check I only just managed to spell it proper like)
could get a wealth of research here at the supermarket.
I love watching
the mums that take their kids to the supermarket for the sole purpose of losing
their temper with them. Beating up a child anywhere else is strictly frowned
upon today but when in the supermarket you know the bored kid has gone AWOL and
accept that they probably deserved it. I mean it’s not like shopping is the
ultimate activity to define the word “boring” for the under 10s. It’s not like
a team of overpaid designers and marketing experts have carefully crafted the
display and labelling of these products to catch ones eye and draw them into
desiring them. For your kid to perpetually scream that they want that is a good
signal to the customer that the design team have done a good job. I feel a
designer and marketing expert should be present in every aisle, ready to assist
a young mum whose kid falls into a temper tantrum when they get told no.
Content in a job well done they should return the favour. The thing is I’m just
trying to work my way through, to get past them as they hog the entire width of
the aisle, kicking and screaming snotty nosed brat, it’s not his fault he’s
spoiled, and his chaved up mum, ready to drag its sorry arse across the floor
while shouting abuse at it. Come on designers, relieve me of this burden, and
just make them sweet wrappers uninteresting.
The thing I
like is the new self-service till; they are a magnet for annoyance. If the
psychologist wants some material for madness here is the best place for them to
stand. You stand in the queue keeping one eye on the single basket aisle, to
see if it’s going quicker, you suspect that it is but consider it’s too late to
make it over there now, you may as well wait. It would be quicker if people
knew how to use them, they’ve been around for long enough for every man and his
dog to give it a try. I done it a couple of times before I mastered it but if
you really cannot manage it why keep trying, just go to the manned till you
stupid cow. So the frustrated woman behind me sighs, tells her 5 year old that
“these things are not any faster,” but the girl is too young to know any
different or to care. Maybe the woman is addressing me I wonder, I don’t want
to make eye contact. If I was with my family we would, a short conversation may
well even pursue but as a bloke on my own who has no interest in her sexually
whatsoever you never make eye contact in a supermarket. This is because of
those stupid women’s magazines that spread a lie that your soul-mate can be
found in the aisle of a supermarket, what a load of dribble, they are down the
pub everyone knows that.
Perhaps she
was just sighing to herself which made me laugh, I’m surrounded by them. The
laughable woman who cannot get the hang of the system, insisting on muttering
at the machine, “I have put the item in the fucking bagging area!” as if the
machine is going to say, “oh yes, I do apologise madam.” The supervisor who is
whisking around like Torvil and Dean flashing her card over the barcode scanner
and zipping over to next flashing light. She’s said “there you go, ok?” so many
millions of times today she just says it to herself now, just in case anyone
was listening. I stand behind the young lad, he’s a whizz at these things,
nipping his can of caffeine based energy drink over that barcode like a true
pro. He’s off faster than 100 old people, the first person today who did not
need assistance. He’s listening to something on his gadget headphones and
causally singing away to himself. Then there is businessman type bloke standing
by the magazine rack waiting for someone, busy chatting to himself, or least,
upon a second look he’s talking to a Bluetooth headphone set, which, in my
opinion is no better than the drunk outside the sliding glass door, muttering
to his bottle of wine.
Oh yes, lots
of people talking, but not making conversation, only to machines and gadgets.
No one makes a discussion, why, where is the need? The cash machine doesn’t
argue back or think you are weird for trying to start up a conversation with a
total stranger, may as well just chat with that. “Yes, Mr Psychologist, you
should check out this place, what a bunch of nutters,” I say to myself. Then I
realise, I’m talking to myself too! Supermarkets, if you can’t beat them join
them.
