bignoseduglyguy

Big Shop Of Horrors

I have just returned from a DVD rental foray at our local supermarket and I am now more convinced than ever that supermarket entrances are specifically designed to be the human equivalent of fish traps. I am sure these are designed by sadistic sociopathic architects who just scraped a 2nd at uni, shouldn't be allowed to do anything but window details for 'executive-style' Barratt Homes and yet still believe they will be the next Le Corbusier or Richard Rogers.

First of all, the trolley park is about 20 feet from the main doors, which means that folks returning trolleys collide with folks taking trolleys creating a tense, edgy Disney On Ice like vortex from which it is hard to break free. Once this has been negotiated, you head through the only working set of automated sliding doors. This is made a little more difficult by the fact that the second set of sliding doors on the inner side of the lobby are offset to the left, meaning that everyone heads for the left hand side outer door on the way in and the right hand side door on the way out. Breaching these outer defences means that the shopper is suddenly propelled into the no-man's land of the lobby.

The lobby is an area fraught with hazards for those intent on getting to the actual shop part of the building. The first obstacle will be olfactory assault of the urine and citrus fresh disinfectant emanating from the toilets, where the 'Last Cleaned By A Colleague' sheet on the back of the doors read '01/02/2002'. Reeling from this, you spin into the beige-coated gaggle of old people with their shallow 'no stoop' trolleys. These Saga louts receive secret increased winter fuel allowances in return for discussing banal and trivial matters just inside the front doors. Such conversations include Millie Ellington's colostomy bag (it sloshes audibly when half full), Eric Leadbetter's fling with the 57 year old divorcee (you know, the one with the sixth finger who works in the betting shop) and the latest on the new caller at the bingo hall ('Er at the launderette says she used to be a tax inspector called Andrew).

Lying just beyond these harridans and harpies will be the inevitable charity collectors, armed with collecting tins and crappy stickers. If you're lucky, you will be confronted by Elizabeth, a brusk grey-haired woman wearing a 'Forest Green' National Trust fleece, maroon M&S stretch cords and a pair of Clarks EzeFlex slip-ons. Proudly wearing her approved collector identity card like a badge of honour, she'll look you up and down, assessing your annual salary (not including overtime or bonus) and lining you up for the kill whilst rattling her tin. If you're having a bad day, your deft dummy move to outflank her will take you slap bang into the wheelchair of her obese, disabled and militant colleague called Simon. Simon will happily work the sympathy/guilt angles on shoppers all day long before making a last triumphant tour of the disabled parking bays where he'll plaster any car displaying the requisite Blue Badge but an incorrectly set cardboard clock with stickers declaring "You've got my space! Do you want my disability too?".

Should you spot Simon and make a second swerve to outflank him, you'll undoubtedly give yourself a 'dead leg' mid thigh on the strategically placed table piled high with last month's copy of the in-store magazine. This organ, written and edited by journalists who couldn't get a job on a red top, will always contain the following items: an interview with Richard Briers, a recipe for salmon and creme fraiche linguine and a women's health article entitled '10 Ways To Combat Thrush With Yoghurt'. Deafened by the pensioners, gagging from the smell and financially bereft from donating, your gaze falls upon the basket stack just inside the inner doors and the calm, serene vegetable section beyond. As you push forward in a last desperate attempt to enter then store, your vision is blocked by something. You move left and it moves with you, you move right and it mirrors and so, out-manoeuvred, you raise your eyes to meet those of the retail sector's equivalent of an Butlins Redcoat - the store's Greeter.

Resplendent in a vibrantly coloured nylon blazer plastered with badly enamelled badges, the wearer has been chosen for this crucial role because of their 'customer focus' and as a reward for their 'valued years of service'. Unbearably chirpy and with the kind of wink that Neil Hannon sang about in 'National Express', they bombard the battle weary shopper with inane banter and double entendres, breaking off every now and then to utilise their staff of office, the radio microphone. They never seem happier than when they are empowered to extol the virtues of nearly-passed-their-sell-by-date hot cross buns or over-ordered-and-laughably-cheap garden furniture via a sound system that was clearly designed for platform announcements at King's Cross. Mumbling something to the effect of 'Yes, isn't it?' as the greeter says 'Nice weather' (why are you even telling me? I've just been outside but you've been inside for hours), you grab the last basket and stagger into the comparative calm of the store. It is at that exact moment, as you stand trying to catch your breath whilst watching something dripping through the mesh of the basket onto your suede boots, that you remember. You left the DVD on the passenger seat of the car.

Talking of DVDs, I returned Animal Factory and rented 25th Hour. Animal Factory wasn't quite what I thought it would be. Maybe I had greater expectations of Steve Buscemi as a director but I didn't feel that it quite worked, despite a fine cast and an interesting premise. I'll have to grab a copy of Trees Lounge because that seems to be held as a far better representation of his work as a director. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to watching '25th Hour' this afternoon whilst SWMBO takes the sprogs to watch Scooby Doo 2 with another family. Having never come across the film before, I was intrigued by the plotline on the case, namely a man ties up loose ends in the hours before beginning a 7 year prison sentence. Upon handing it over the counter, the rental assistant checked the case and nodded sagely - well, as sagely as one does if one is late teens/early twenties - and said 'Good film...slow but good'. I have enjoyed a number of Ed Norton's performance before so hopefully this one will not disappoint. I'll end with the not very interesting fact that Ed Norton was born in Columbia, Maryland, where an acquaintance of mine lives.

Posted by bignoseduglyguy at March 28, 2004 07:56 PM | TrackBack