Fear & Loathing in Budgens

Posted by Mitch on 31st October 2011

Yesterday morning I went to the local mini-supermarket for a little impromptu shopping. You know, the normal stuff you need on a Sunday, like tomatoes, cheese, eggs, milk, a newspaper, salami, a melon and no chocolate.

I mention the ‘no chocolate’ thing, as getting to the checkout without putting any in my basket was something of an achievement.

I’ve been putting on a bit of weight the past couple of years. Given that I a) don’t eat that much and b) don’t eat very much junk food, I attribute much of this weight gain to the massive amounts of chocolate I eat – and so felt I ought to cut it out for 6 months or so, starting yesterday.

So there I am, standing in the queue at the checkout when I get hit by the B.O.

The guy in front of me stinks. He stinks like 3 cement mixers who haven’t showered for a month. I’m intrigued as to what sort of human can smell this bad so I take a closer look.

He’s standing in front of me in the checkout queue and is built a bit like Danny De Vito, only taller. About 3 inches taller. He’s wearing a green track-suit top and a pair of blue Farrah trousers that look like he’s been doing the gardening in them. His hair is thinning and has the comb-over look and his scalp is flaking badly. But his hair is a beautiful colour. It has a rich, deep purple sort of look. So deep a purple, that it almost looks brown.

But the full extent of Farrah Man’s horror still lay ahead of me.

Normally, I don’t take too much notice of what other people buy in supermarkets. Not since that time in France when I looked behind me to see some bloke putting his shopping behind my stuff on the conveyor belt and I sneeringly mumbled to myself “Oh, so you like that shit do you” when I saw he was buying UHT milk. Turned out he was American, not French, and therefore practically fluent in English.

This time I couldn’t help myself. The entire content of Farrah Man’s shopping basket was full of small plastic bags that had a bright yellow sticker on them, indicating that each item was reduced massively to something like 12 pence each. This scenario was further complicated by his wallet bulging with enough cash to choke a donkey.

Something didn’t add up.

However, it was only when the little Indian lady at the till started checking his stuff through that the real problem started.

One of his ‘for-sale’ items was marked as being reduced to 15 pence rather than the 12 pence all of the other reduced items were marked at (which were pre-packed vegetables with yesterdays use by date).

He questioned this, rudely.

He demanded to know what was responsible for this travesty of consumer fairness and ranted at the little Indian lady at the till. Then he demanded to see the manager.

My quick calculation of what was laid out on the conveyor belt told me that Farrah Man’s entire transaction came to just over two whole English pounds.

Now, normally I’m a pretty up-front sort of bloke. I normally say what I think and tend to couch this bluntness with humour rather than diplomacy – and I accept this isn’t always the best course of action. I blame the Irish side of my family.

But there are other times, especially when I’m a bit tired and/or jaded, that a more clinical form of intolerance manifests itself in me. It is actually more intimidating because this ‘other me’ sounds a lot calmer but has a meaner look.

This ‘other me’ I call Eric.

Normally I can keep Eric in check, but today, for some reason, I felt him forcing his way to the front of my consciousness.

Then Farrah Man blurts out to the check-out lady “I’m so angry I could kill someone”.

That was when Eric escaped.

“Kill me”.

Farrar Man turns and looks at me. So does the little Indian lady.

“If you’re really going to kill someone, please, kill me”.

The words were mine. The voice was mine. But I’m still blaming Eric.

“Seriously, if I have to listen to another word of your pathetic, penny-pinching bullshit or have to smell your body odour for much more than another 20 seconds, I want to die”.

Maybe he was just afraid of me or maybe he thought I was a nutter. Either way, he paid the disputed extra 3 pence for his pre-chopped carrots, packed his plastic bag quickly and skipped out of the shop.

The little Indian lady gave me a half-smile that partly said “thank you” and partly said “I’m scared of you too”.

NB …Apologies if you thought this blog was going to be some kind of oblique parable about recruitment. It isn’t.