Shopping War Stories

There are few things in life I hate more than shopping centres.  The people, the lights, the noise, the hustle, the bustle.  The little Hitlers dressed up and power-hungry, the barbies dressing down pretending they want to help.  The clubcards, the goldcards, the premium cards, the loyalty cards, the membership cards.  There isn’t anything I like about shopping.  The only thing worse than shopping is shopping before Christmas.

The tinsel, the fairylights, the fucking incessant relentless noise of the same bastard Christmas carols being played over tinny p.a’s whilst strangers offer to wrap your rap cd’s and people with small heads ask you to save the children despite the fact the only thing on your mind is saving yourself.

The worst element of the shopping experience for a man is clothes shopping.  Headless dummies silently sneer at you as you search for something resembling normality yet end up buying jeans which make you look like a malnourished junkie or a homeless vagrant.  You have to choose between shirts which make you look like a tablecloth or your nan’s curtains.  T-shirts either come down to your knees or cut the blood supply off from your shoulders.  When you finally get to the front of the queue the anorexic fashion slave folds your clothes in silence as she desperately waits for the credit card machine to spit out your receipt, as she can’t look at you because you are so last year.

Maybe I am last year, maybe I am last Christmas I honestly couldn’t give a flying fuck.  The fact is anytime I enter a shopping centre I see hundreds of thousands of reasons why I hate the human race.  And they all look the same.

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