Shamed into taking appropriate measures after reading the two consecutive pieces today on Global Warming and self-service checkouts, I decided upon the following course of action.
1. Walked to my local Tesco instead of the usual trip down there in my gas guzzling Sherman Tank. Decided to take my wireless-network laptop for company; logged into Gridskipper, that online bastion of ‘hip snark’ as I walked. Clearly Bexhill’s Tesco was not perceived by the ‘hip young gunslingers’ at Gridskipper, as a place you’d find ‘erotic coffee’ unlike Seattle or where you could spot, Blackie Lawless of WASP fame buying his organic cod pieces down the fish isle, but at least I was powering the laptop with a converted bike dynamo and using the neighbourhood wireless broadband as I walked. And besides if you believe everything that those insecure smug pug ugly backpack Bloggers write you may as well change your name to Sputum Duyvil and ‘get into’ Hootie and the Blowfish. CO2 emissions = 3.21 tons
2. Shot a homeless person with Organic bullets on the way. That blanket can now be donated to a Textile start-up scheme in Ho Chi Minh City. CO2 emissions = 0.01 tons.
3. Arrived at Tesco three and a half hours later and headed straight to the corn and bunion section of the shop. Bought ‘Organic Yak Gut Foot Balm’ made from recycled Yak Guts. Feet now look like an extra in Saw 2 but at least I’ve offset a natural catastrophe in Tibet. Truly inspired I bought the Dali Llama’s new book, ‘Buddhism 2 Electric Boogaloo.’ Proudly displayed my recycled plastic bag credentials on the trolley’s hook like a true eco-warrior. ‘Yeah! Check me out Mr Business Man, in your ill-fitting exploitative ‘Made in China’ Burton suit and your snail killing Optrex bottle! I mean it man, I’m gonna destroy passers by, erm by shaming them into a new green future! That means you, you smelly little old looking witch lady, rooting through those reduced kumquats and Mangos. Don’t you realise that each time you buy a ‘Reduced Yellow Label’ Balalaika Cabbage for 10p a butterfly colony in Papa New Guinea perishes? You selfish bint. Natural balance is only restored if Papa the Guinea Pig is given Viagra and allowed to shag to his heart’s content with a load of ‘Ho’ Guinea Pigs in the safety of an Eastbourne butterfly sanctuary. So get with the programme, and stop looking at me like I’m some sort of conquest which you last had on VD day you mental minger.’ CO2 emissions = 0.03 tons.
4. Threw a shed load of Cheapo CDs into the trolley. Wicked! Lilly Allen, The Killers, Mika, The Best of Bread and The Neil Diamond Collection all for a fiver. David Bellamy hands out awards to caravan parks that protect habitats as well as CDs that offset the decline of red squirrels, badgers and deers. Bet he’s not got The Best of Lenny Henry (oxymoron) on vinyl though. The do-goody bearded lispy twat. CO2 emissions = 0.54 tons.
5. Whilst perusing the Aislabeck Jams I phone Billy Smart’s Circus for a lift home. Four wheels bad but four legs best. They’ll take a rain check on the elephant they say. Fall to my knees and cry, ‘What Can we do?? What can we really do to help??’ Suddenly remember I’ve left the iron on. Bollocks!! The static charge of cold commotion, I take out a ‘wrap’ of Beechams Powder, chop it up with my Tesco loyalty card and snort it to high heaven. Mmm! Still stressed but at least that sniffle’s gone. CO2 emissions = 1 ton
6. After a swift phone call to Polga, (our ‘not so’ exploited) Slovakian Au-Pair (she gets 30 quid a week and free use of broadband between the hours of 4 and 5am) I realise that I’ve averted an environmental catastrophe so treat myself to a Bernard Matthews Turkey. Yummy. CO2 emissions = 000.6 tons
7. Complete the rest of my shopping – Wine, The Daily Mirror (purely for their green ‘goss’), Wine, Lizard Point Margarine, wine, Polperro bleach, wine, Gozo Spam and a Skelwith Ford Caravan Park map – and make my way to the DIY check out. CO2 emissions = 25 tons
8. ‘Place first item on the belt’, says the removed mechanical voice after I’ve scanned it for the umpteenth time. I place my bag of organic Lake District Apples onto the belt and get ready to scan the next item.
‘Place item on the belt’ says the cold clinical disinterested voice. ‘I’ve just done that I think.’ I attempt to scan Lily Allen’s latest opus.
‘Place item on belt’, the voice continues. I wander down to the bag of apples and bring them back to the beginning. A minion has clocked my moves. He approaches. ‘Did you scan the apples sir?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Ok, sir, I think it’s just got stuck.’
‘What has?’
‘The apples.’
‘There I’ve cancelled it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome sir.’
I notice some chav like dole-scrum hanging around at the end of my checkout. Surely they’re not going to nick anything? They’re probably employed by Tesco to pack bags. What a philanthropic service. Full respect to Tesco.
I watch the man in the bobbled Berghaus fleece run away with my bottle of Gerard Bertrand.
I scan the next item. And the next. We’re cooking on gas. The bag of Orkney Organic carrots provides a problem though. I roll the barcode on the plastic bag around the scanner like a 19th centaury dandy waving a hanky. The minion returns.
‘You’ve got something stuck on the belt again sir. There I’ve cleared it for you.’
‘Thanks for nothing.’ I mutter under my breath. I attempt to scan the hemp hammock from Hempton Manor. Nothing. No Peep. Nothing.
‘Did you scan your apples sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well according to this you’ve only scanned two bags of apples and you’ve got four at the end of the counter.
Brilliant! I’ve attempted to wait for the ‘beep’ at the end of each scan and now this employee who looks like an even stupider version of Rod Hull than Rod Hull ever was, bearing in mind that the original Rod Hull fell off his roof trying to sort out his TV reception whilst watching a Man U(re) game, that’s pretty fucking stupid.
‘Here, I’ll scan them for you,’ says the man, looking at me as though I’ve just stolen the crown jewels from his Grandmother’s house. I’m perturbed. Clearly this man now thinks I’m attempting to nick two bags of apples and he’s just sussed me and his role in the Bill is now assured.
He ‘Peeps’ the apples x2.
‘Thanks.’ I mumble.
Suddenly I feel ashamed. Like I’ve just stolen several Bob The Builder Rag Dolls from a Manali Orphanage.
I mutter something to the minion about ‘attempting to scan’ and take out my card and slide it into the slot. I stab in my numbers and wait for authorisation. The receipt whirrs out.
‘Wait a FUCKING MINUTE!!!’
‘SIX BAGS OF APPLES!?!?’
‘SIX BAGS OF MOTHERFUCKING APPLES!!!!’
‘I’VE BEEN CHARGED FOR SIX BAGS OF MOTHERFUCKING APPLES WHEN CLEARLY I’VE ONLY GOT FOUR!!!’
Deep breaths. Deep Breaths. I’ve just been ‘sneered’ at by the bastard son of Rod Hull who thinks I’m nicking two bags of bloody apples, when clearly I was right all along and it’s him who has made a mistake.
No apology from the woman as she refunds my extra apple bag payment.
Carbon emissions = F-ck off
9. Walk out the shop feeling self-righteous and the innocent victim of a terrible miscarriage of justice. Begin to empathise with The Guilford 4, The Birmingham 6 and The Bexhill 1.
10. Three wine bottles fall out the bottom of the cheap shitty recycled bags I’ve brought down to the shop. They splinter onto the tarmac splashing my Goa hemp flares with burgundy liquid.
11. Go for a McDonalds.
No comments:
Post a Comment