Shopping

I am a regular visitor to my local Lidl. I enjoy the buzz that the store brings, the folk you meet, the occasional drunk going there for some cheap spirit from Bavaria or meths to us, the variety of specials they provide etc. One slight thing bothers me though. When I get to the counter the person at the checkout whizzes my stuff through the scanner at break-neck speed. I am left rummaging in my pockets for the re-useable bags I brought with me and tossing my shopping into the trolley trying not to throw the spam tins on top of the Toss-Man-Fix-Kit-The Red Baron Aeroplane I so much look forward to constructing later. Flustered I try and keep up, however after managing to get less than 5 things in the trolley the cashier calls out, £11.16 please!


Bugger, right stop that and frantically find some money. Right it’s not in my jeans pockets, shirt pocket, where could it be? Where the fuck is it!? Shit it’s gone down the hole in my coat pocket, into the lining, and round the back.

My face is twisted twice as much as my body as I try and reach in to the depths of my inner coat to find the holy £10 and change required. After several moments of extreme panic and sweating like a nodding dog I emerge with a handful of rubbish: old lottery ticket playboard, bit of paper with a phone number on it, sweet wrappers(still sticky), bits of fluff(stuck to the sweet wrappers and now my hand) and at last a crumpled up £10 note with a pound coin and other coins wrapped up inside it just like Fagan would. I hand over the money to the peeved cashier and she counts it. It’s £11.16! Youv’e given me £11.12 your 4 pence short. Bollocks now what do I do? Look for the other coins again or hand something back. Dilemma time, well perhaps I could forsake the post-it notes, but no these are useful, it should be the beer, no not the beer, I need it after all this trauma. No if anything it should be the sardines, settled then.

Now then. They don’t like the fuss involved with returning stuff. So far then, as well as being rushed through the check-out like I was a leper, and demanded payment whilst the man behind me was pushing his trolley into the back of my knees, because he was on his stupid fucking handsfree headset talking to some bloke called Gavin about selling pies. I was trying my utmost to remain upright whilst performing a Houdini style manoeuvre to get the money and then after being only 4p short I had to sacrifice a meal for 2, then being frowned at because the cashier had to ring for the supervisor to offer the return!

I arrived home flustered after walking the 20 yards to my door with a hundred weight of cheap goods (it’s amazing how far £11.16 goes in Lidl), sort it out, open a beer and set about the Toss-Man-Fix-Kit-The Red Baron Aeroplane, only the instructions are all in German, Polish, Russian and French but no English. I knew I should have bought the Spitfire instead.

Plastic Bags Are Crap.

Now then when you go shopping what do you take with you? Yep normally you wear your clothes and shoes, and you probably bring money or some method of payment, unless you just want to look at the goods. However why don’t you take bags to put the shopping in?

Because you like using lots of new plastic bags. Well you must do because you keep using/buying them. Maybe you think sometimes, gosh I should stop using plastic bags. All that plastic, it just won’t do. But then what do you do when you go shopping again? YOU FORGET TO TAKE BAGS.

When you go swimming you remember to take your swimwear and towel and often a plastic bag to put your wet things in afterwards. Then why do you forget to take bags when you go shopping?

Now the government, in my opinion, should ban all plastic bags. Then they could not complain about it. After all the public don’t make the bags or demand them, they have just come to expect them. Well my parents didn’t. They managed before the plastic bag came along. They had shopping bags or a trolley bag? And they used to go on the bus with it. Now most people go shopping to large supermarkets in their cars.

It really is so easy to keep bags in the car. Why don’t you remember next time?

Why does the baby like to crap on me?

Not actually on my skin or clothes but he likes to pooh whilst sitting with me. As does the toddler. Except he can use a potty now. But he waits until his Mum goes out or just isn’t at hand. Then he craps. And I am obliged to wipe his bum and deal with the do-do. Please understand I don’t mind doing it but why do they favour me? Maybe their Mum has an inclination when they are about to do a number 2 then she scarpers.

Talking of all that pooh. Why did they call the bear Winnie-the-Pooh? Is it because bears are renowned for having shit stuck to their fur? Why not Winnie-the-Turd, Winnie-the-Shit or even Winnie-the-Piss, Pooh and Puke.

Baby puke is actually very resilient stuff. It sticks to clothes like glue. As I wonder around the local store (Lidl) I ignore the looks directed to my right shoulder. Do you think he has a parrot? Maybe, but it’s a big parrot to cause all that mess! Dirty man, do you think he washes?

Hence for me stocking up on washing powder is a must. And talking of which…

Washing Powder

What the hell is that stuff? Compressed elements of chemical crap posing as soap? Soap is simple stuff. It cleans. Washing powder is from outer space sent by little green men. Does it clean? Not as good as I would like.

That brings me along to the 40º versus 60º temperature choice. If I put the clothes in at 40º they might not get rid of the puke stains or jam that I purposefully smeared on for this on-line test. If I put them in at 60º, they are bound to shrink.

Why didn’t they do a 50º setting? That would put my mind at rest.
Talking of puke. Why does my baby wait until I just got changed? Is he on the pay roll of the washing powder companies?

They’re pies Jim, but not as we know them.

I was walking around my local supermarket/convenience outlet Lidl last week. I was busy checking out the feasts available--should I go for sardines or the pilchards--when I happened upon a smartly dressed businessman standing right in the middle of an isle and talking quite loudly, to nobody. Then he turned around and I noticed this huge piece of crap on his head. What the heck?

Handsfree comes to Lidl. But this was no ordinary handsfree, this was the mother of all handsfree headsets. And this guy was no ordinary suit this was a businessman of magnitude. Yes Gavin follow up on the broker, deduct the annual Translovian butter deficit and calculate the remainder by pi.
Pi?

The only PIES I know are in the Lidl fridge, maybe this guy had his wires crossed, he was after all fingering the Cumberland sausage savoury pie with added turnips. Happen he was a bit mixed up?

I don’t believe a man of this magnitude would venture into Lidl for a pie only. Something more, perhaps something different? Exactly he was a regular at the outlet, he’d come for the specials! He’d come to browse this week’s offering which consisted of multipurpose compost, barbecue recipe books and the splendid 5000-piece jigsaw of some Latvian castle. If he was lucky enough to have made it the week before he could have gone away with a set of fishing tackle, a thong and a ratchet set. The week before that, a horse blanket (just in case he had a horse or a big dog) a glowing globe and a lot of nougat.

Life for all would be whole lot duller without the weekly Lidl specials. They should surely soon get the old royal seal of approval. After all, they are German aren’t they?

Here's the update on the work front.

Not much work passing my way. Please don't send me any crap about loans, scam-based accident claims or details of the nearest Samaritans. I AM OK. I just want to work in a creative capacity. Hence I am blogging. If only to myself then so be it.

Perhaps by telling you, or me, about things that waft across my senses then I will lighten my load of some bothering bits of sticky sweets left in an old coat that was only used for gardening, by someone from the allotment that has now unfortunately been bulldozed and covered in concrete for a new Tesco. Hoorah Tesco on making more money and importing more fruit and veg from abroad.

After all we don't know how to grow ourselves do we? Or we can't be bothered more like. I wanted to do gardening. I wanted to grow my own fruit and veg. To be able to come in the house with a box full of spuds, carrots and conference pears, it would be such a joy. But alas I drive to Tesco and put it in the trolley. Product of South Africa or Peru. Anywhere but my back garden.

I should try for the sake of my children at least.

Ok so you say, at least the people in those countries have livelihoods that help to redress the inequality of west capitalist greed versus third world plight.

Actually we are all fucked if the planes, trains and articulated lorries continue to bring in cheap products to satisfy our lifestyle. All the oil and emissions that pour out at the expense of the planet just because we can't be arsed to grow our own. Don't have time? BOLLOCKS. You have time to shop, time to watch football, to buy and sell on ebay and to read this, but not time to get in the garden or allotment and GROW YOUR OWN!!!

And nor do I. And I am ashamed.

The second-string commentator

Tony wotsizname, always gets the crap games. You know the BBC football commentator who misses the England world cup game to cover the Azerbaijan versus moldovia clash. Poor bastard.Jobs worth. I reckon he must be so pissed off to miss the top games, FA cup final, no way hoesay he’s at the Scunthorpe nag’s head v willies wankers.

Yes Tony’s at the crap match dogging the old moaners and pies that cause bowel problems in later life. He’s been faced (literally) by numerous soggy chip wrappers in his life. Blown around whilst huddled with his sheepskin in the cowshed stands of lower league footie. Yet throughout he remains a pro. Always on time always remembering the player’s names and raising the excitement in his voice a wee tad to match the goalmouth drama.

Do his bosses ever consider him for the top game? Maybe if the other four or five commentators were blown up at a commentator’s ball, maybe then he’d get the job? Not a chance mate. They’d hire a camel to commentate on the game. Chewing his cud, looking cool in Bose headphones, spitting.

Hello and here's a smack in the face

Waking up at 8.30am Sunday morning, lolling about the bed like a dislocated dog with 3 legs, I engaged the world by receiving a clout on the chops by my active 3-year-old Zak. Obviously he didn't mean to cause such an outburst from his father's gob.

That is probably something one comes to appreciate with having kids. I often get an unexpected poke in the back with some plastic apparatus posing as a toy. These 'toys' probably use more batteries than a hoar's vibrator. What ever happened to the good old pull string toy or wind up toy? Needless to say all this talk of saving energy hasn't reached the manufactures of toys or their buddies the battery makers. Or even the governments that tell us all to save energy but don't restrict the people who make batteries?

Anyway enough high horse for today. Back to the topic at hand.Besides the odd poke in the back or wallop on the legs, nothing can come as more of a devastating blow to ones manhood, than a devastating blow to ones manhood. Frequently Zak doesn't want to get out of the car seat when we arrive home. He prefers to stay there and protest. He enjoys the car so why should he leave? Indeed. But when necessity dictates that it is in his best interest to be taken into the house he struggles and thrashes out anywhere. This is when one can get a well-aimed and guided boot in the nuts. Full on.

Doubled up in agony I am holding a writhing brat whilst trying to fumble for my keys which have nearly always fell down the hole in my pocket into the dark inners of the coat lining. The kicking continues whilst I acknowledge the neighbours, trying to grin a smile of sorts. Eventually the door is opened and Zak takes off into the house like a tornado whilst I lie on the floor and wait for the pain to subside, thinking of all things bright and beautiful.