Well, I thought I might as well jump on the '50 Shades' bandwagon seeing as every other bugger has done it. And no, I haven't read the books because I have read all those blogs like 50 Shades of Suck and the excellently funny if extremely rude Bizzybiz blog whose authors go there so I don't have to.
Nope, my 50 Shades of Rage took place in Tesco (a large supermarket chain for the benefit of the non-Brit readers) yesterday. Unfortunately, that exercise in utter pointlessness known as the Olympic Cycle Race is coming round our way over the weekend so many roads will be shut. See what I said there? MANY roads will be shut. Not ALL of them, you morons.
But no - the great British public is behaving as though the Millennium Bug is about to strike once again and they are stripping all local food sources of their products as if their very existence depended on it. Consequently, what should have been a quick in-and-out to pick up a few ingredients for a BBQ turned into an hour and a half of moving round empty shelves at a snail's pace, dodging the various gits, chavs, dolts and goons who had the same idea.
So infuriated was I that I took to Twitter half way round to vent my spleen, suggesting that the job description for a post there should include the words "Needs to be an almighty prick to work here" as the staff variously got in the way, barged me out of their way and stood around discussing their holidays, viz:-
Chav1: Where you goin' fer yer 'olidays?
Chav2: Faliraki!
Chav1: Ace!
And that exchange tells you all you need to know about the staff. For the uninitiated, Faliraki is a shithole on the Greek island of Rhodes. Largely populated by the very worst kind of British Tourist, the streets run with blood and vomit once the bars and clubs reach chucking-out time and the customers reach chucking-up time.
And my tweets generated a rush of response from friends and colleagues, so obviously I am not alone!
How I experienced my 50 Shades of Rage -
Trolley Rage - if you leave yours blocking the aisle and wander off in search of more junk food, I WILL BASH IT OUT OF THE WAY AS HARD AS I CAN.
Pensioner Rage - if you have to meander round the store as if you have all the time in the universe (and I know you do, but I don't) then please tuck yourself to one side of the aisle, don't stop in the middle or I WILL BASH YOU OUT OF THE WAY AS HARD AS I CAN.
Toddler Rage - For the love of all that's holy, find someone to relieve you of your screaming brats before you come down to the supermarket. I was, well, entranced isn't quite the right word but horribly fascinated by the woman who had five children variously sitting in or hanging off the trolley, all of whom seem to have been named after footballers or footballers' offspring. Or Pop Stars or Pop Bands. Or something. So we had Rio, Destiny, Kai, Brooklyn (yes, really!) and Chelsea. And I'm not making this up, I had to follow the silly cow round for all of 5 minutes until she had screamed at all of them by name.
There were so many other instances - at one stage, I even got Baked Bean rage as Tesco is doing some stupid offer which means that if you buy your body weight in Baked Beans, you get a couple of pence off a litre of fuel, so the aisle was blocked by squawking, morbidly obese idiots grabbing multi packs of tins. The Unspeakable in pursuit of the Uneatable as Oscar Wilde once said.
Big Fat Hairy Deal. Frankly, I'd have paid extra to be allowed out via some express shopping lane - like the Olympic Lanes now populating London roads and holding up the traffic horribly.
Now there's a thought! Specially marked-out shopping lanes in supermarkets with no pensioners, toddlers or chavs allowed in them....must go and write a letter to the CEO of Tesco...
Nope, my 50 Shades of Rage took place in Tesco (a large supermarket chain for the benefit of the non-Brit readers) yesterday. Unfortunately, that exercise in utter pointlessness known as the Olympic Cycle Race is coming round our way over the weekend so many roads will be shut. See what I said there? MANY roads will be shut. Not ALL of them, you morons.
But no - the great British public is behaving as though the Millennium Bug is about to strike once again and they are stripping all local food sources of their products as if their very existence depended on it. Consequently, what should have been a quick in-and-out to pick up a few ingredients for a BBQ turned into an hour and a half of moving round empty shelves at a snail's pace, dodging the various gits, chavs, dolts and goons who had the same idea.
So infuriated was I that I took to Twitter half way round to vent my spleen, suggesting that the job description for a post there should include the words "Needs to be an almighty prick to work here" as the staff variously got in the way, barged me out of their way and stood around discussing their holidays, viz:-
Chav1: Where you goin' fer yer 'olidays?
Chav2: Faliraki!
Chav1: Ace!
And that exchange tells you all you need to know about the staff. For the uninitiated, Faliraki is a shithole on the Greek island of Rhodes. Largely populated by the very worst kind of British Tourist, the streets run with blood and vomit once the bars and clubs reach chucking-out time and the customers reach chucking-up time.
And my tweets generated a rush of response from friends and colleagues, so obviously I am not alone!
How I experienced my 50 Shades of Rage -
Trolley Rage - if you leave yours blocking the aisle and wander off in search of more junk food, I WILL BASH IT OUT OF THE WAY AS HARD AS I CAN.
Pensioner Rage - if you have to meander round the store as if you have all the time in the universe (and I know you do, but I don't) then please tuck yourself to one side of the aisle, don't stop in the middle or I WILL BASH YOU OUT OF THE WAY AS HARD AS I CAN.
Toddler Rage - For the love of all that's holy, find someone to relieve you of your screaming brats before you come down to the supermarket. I was, well, entranced isn't quite the right word but horribly fascinated by the woman who had five children variously sitting in or hanging off the trolley, all of whom seem to have been named after footballers or footballers' offspring. Or Pop Stars or Pop Bands. Or something. So we had Rio, Destiny, Kai, Brooklyn (yes, really!) and Chelsea. And I'm not making this up, I had to follow the silly cow round for all of 5 minutes until she had screamed at all of them by name.
There were so many other instances - at one stage, I even got Baked Bean rage as Tesco is doing some stupid offer which means that if you buy your body weight in Baked Beans, you get a couple of pence off a litre of fuel, so the aisle was blocked by squawking, morbidly obese idiots grabbing multi packs of tins. The Unspeakable in pursuit of the Uneatable as Oscar Wilde once said.
Big Fat Hairy Deal. Frankly, I'd have paid extra to be allowed out via some express shopping lane - like the Olympic Lanes now populating London roads and holding up the traffic horribly.
