So it came to this: after months of inaction and sitting idly looking at my computer, not being arsed to write because if I put the computer at my desk then I am not connected to the internet (courtesy of the shitty router provided Orange) and so can’t search for funny pictures, films and witty writing (i.e. porn) while I am meant to be contributing to something I am paying for. So what broke the silence? Something that for reasons I can’t fathom, because it really makes so angry, I have not talked about before.

It’s Tesco and more precisely, Tesco Bishopsgate. Since it opened I have never any better than disappointed when I have visited, sometimes I have been apoplectic with rage at its ineptness. And I am not the only one; I have spoken to neighbours who have expressed the same level indignation at this shithouse excuse for a supermarket. They were all over 60 mind you.

This time it was new the packaging for the newly sized chorizo they sell, but there’s a fuckload of things wrong with it. From those stupid self-service machines that now require as many staff to make it work as could be working fucking tills. The fact that it only has two freezers and it stocks neither oven chips or ice cream in them (two things that my local Costcutter, that is bloody ace by the way, always has in its freezer) and that it never, in all the time it has been open, been able to sell me coriander after 5pm on weekday – why can’t you just buy more you fuckwits!

But mainly my hatred stems from the shop itself having a vendetta against me, no really. Don’t ask me how it knows, it just does, but it seems to be able find out what I want to cook for dinner and remove the key ingredient before I arrive. I have come to believe that it’s bit like the Overlook in The Shining, it has some supernatural power that utilises for evil to stop me making a broad bean and feta fritatta.

And if I am making stir-fry they’ll be out of the black-bean sauce , if it is burritos then they’ll be out of tortilla wraps or if it’s an omelette they’ll be out of eggs. What sort of supermarket runs out eggs for fuck’s sake? One time I needed cumin seeds and I worked out that that was the only spice in their range they didn’t stock. There wasn’t even gap where it should be and according to Wikipedia it’s the second most popular spice in the world after black pepper. So why don’t they have any?

What I should do, is what I keep telling myself to do and always end up doing is going to Waitrose. Saying that, I went to the one at John Lewis today (flagship fucking store I’ll have you know) needing cheap tomato sauce. And what was the only condiment they didn’t stock in their essential range? That’s right, tomato bloody sauce. See, they’re all in on it. Colluding to prevent me having what I want for my tea. Bastards.

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Oh my good God! Once could have been a mistake, then second was annoying, but the third time is going to make me completely stop going to a clothes shop to get a garment for a lady friend. You see, I asked for full details of a specific item to be written down, she didn’t want to initially, but I insisted because I am right. And now you have all you need, because you’ve prepared this like an SAS strike. This is so there will be no uncomfortable moments of being in a women’s department or shop, looking like an undie sniffer. Confidently, you walk up to the shop assistant with all the relevant details in your text, email or printed-out web page with a picture of the fucking thing on it. You ask her:

“Can I have the so-and-so in this size? Look there, I have even brought along the specific stock code to make sure that this is exactly what she wants.”

She looks at you, smiles and says:

“Yes of course, we have it in stock. But …”

What do you mean “But”? I did everything I could; I have the picture and everything!

“Which colour would you like it in?”

Oh fuck! And the assistant then presents you with every single colour of the spectrum, some of the hues only visible to women. You can’t tell the difference. And don’t even bother to try making the decision because you can visualise the disappointment in her face when you present her with it – as if to say how could you possibly think that this would be my colour, you don’t know me at all!

But all is not lost: thanks to the genius of modern technology you can call and find out what she wants. No fucking hope. It gets worse now. I call and ask her through gritted teeth.

“Hi, I’m here in the shop. What colour did you want that top in?”

“Ooh I don’t know, what have they got and what do you think?”

Fuck, fuck, fuckety, fucking motherfucker! On one occasion this conversation happened to me while I was on the other side of the Atlantic with about ten minutes to get to the airport. Tactfully, but in fact clumsily, you try and get a decision out of her.

“Hon, this really isn’t the time. Which one do you want?”

Well done son. Now you’ve fucked it.

“Look if it’s that much trouble, I’ll go and get it myself on Saturday.”

Arrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!

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I just needed to get that out, you know, like when you’re really desperate for  a wee. All the way home on the bus, I was thinking you self-righteous cow. I wouldn’t mind if I was a repeat offender, but this was the first (and now only) time that I forgotten to give that shitty token in. Bring back the card operated lockers  we used to have, the ones we liked remember, and none of this would have happened. Anyway I have one of those little pound replacement tokens that you use in supermarket trolleys now. That’ll show her.

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For a man short in stature and even shorter on temper it, always concerned me whether it was a good idea for his health to enter the service industry. My point is vindicated by this rant and his lack of patience with less the observant customers.  If you wish to witness him lose his rag first hand, get yourself along to the Town Mill Bakery. Then all you have to do is ask for marmalade with your toast  (expect some sort of grumbling response about there being no orange groves in Dorset) or the music to be turned down.  Ooh, a personal favourite of mine, ask for ketchup with anything. That really pisses him off.

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You know what’s like, you’ve bought this shiny new piece of kit, that does all the things you think it should, or have you been told that it does. And for the money you’ve paid you would it expect it to. When a problem arises you’re surprised, perturbed and once again, given the money you’ve paid, would expect a certain level of helpful after sales service. But no, you’re confronted with Simpsons’ Comic Book Guy levels of smart arsery about the lack of knowledge you displayed when first purchasing.

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