Tuesday, 23 September 2008


the shops

Don’t come again
Everyone’s been to the shops, hold on, everyone’s been to the shops that isn’t currently the unfortunate offspring of Michael Jackson’s fish pond. Blanket, he sees no evil, yet feels some evil, that boy is an unwilling consumer of organics.

Seven Eleven twenty four seven
Shops are like, totally everywhere! Mountains, caves, deserts, dreams, myths. On rivers, seas, ice, even underwater. Our seemingly desperate need to buy a cornetto at the North Pole with some crazed marketeer's epiphany to facilitate that perversion. Creating these often bizarrely out of placed erections in baron desolate wilderness is a needs must for us good old homos. People need purse chains.

Your Local
“Helloooow” is the daily message ousted by our local shop owner in that accented east of western of tongues. We don’t know his name, this is important. It takes a certain level of casual discourse or drunken confessional to acquire their name. 95% of the time you will forget it. You then have to be overly friendly and happy to see them so they feel no need to test your name knowledge.

They meet ten’s, hundreds, or thousands of people everyday. Your strategy is to be the next X factor not the price hike victim. This can be achieved in the use of multiple questions, although that doesn’t normally happen.
“How are you?”
“Oh fine.”
“How’s things?”
“O.k. like.”
“How you doing?”
“Same same."
“How’s tricks?”
“Incessantly repetitive if you’re asking, as you do ask daily with no concern to the answer; while you continue to purchase my out of date beer and chocolate to soon leave me with leftover stock when you clog up while watching match of the day replays.”
“Oh good, 8 pack today, champions league final”

Ask about the refrigerator's body capacity, how they get the tiles to sag on the ceiling like that, what’s they’re favourite mythical god or why oh Judas why they have such an abundance of the Daily Mail and Daily Star.

Shops are laid out for maximum showcase and minimal space in the back. For the consumer that in turn causes the early onset of neck and back injures while finding relatively nothing of what you came in for. Having to often ask the shopkeeper where salt is in a shop you frequent daily that’s only six foot by six foot is belittling for all.

The internet is bum-cum fad-full hogwash. It’s gonna go tits up anyway next week when some hacker buys too many Dominoes pizzas and crashes the whole intercourse; leaving the web wired world expressing their first collective voice, that being one of “huh?”

Everyone’ll be left to just buy their books, at a bookshop. Reaquiant that painfully happy feeling of sifting through CD’s again at, you guessed it, a record shop; while expressing your inner most feelings and comments, to real people. Spare time will be spent doing crosswords or tutting and newsagents will be installing sturdy new racks to cope with the reinvigorated porn mag industry. And this will be good.

Cos you never get memories of buying something on Amazon. You’re clicking; no one cares if you’re there, no one knows if you’re there except an automated pie chart and data tally. Its beyond sterile its pissing ghost like. 3 million people at the same shop at the same time n you’re getting paranoid it’s so silent.

S,S, S, Supermarkets
These aren’t shops, their not even markets, and I have never heard anyone say “Oh that Tescos is super.” These were what countries of the world embraced for their ease and variety and years and years later realised they just shot the local shop in the foot and are still continuing to do so. Giving money to a man who uses it directly to feed his family (sounds a bit like those Ethiopia adverts) or giving it to a company that uses it for whatever the fuck they want. They’re not gonna tell you, cos well, some of it isn’t pretty and some other is downright illegal and a chunk is for some celebrities new stretch scooter.

Oh man, I’m so friggin high street right now
The high street was a term for the better, the new, and the improved area of a town. The new and more accurate term for this area is clone town. The identikit nature of shopping centres with a veritable reliance of these core shops as a status of success in more low browed estimations and a amnesiac approach to the few diverse outlets suffering from a beggars pot of marketing budget and a thoroughfare equalled to the Chernobyl railway station.

In case it passed you by this is a list of shops with no discernable justification for existence:

Gap - Just close, know one likes you

Argos - In the 80’s shopping out a magazine seemed a bit cool, here’s my code, oh sorry that item is not in stock. That’s ok you’re redundant.

The Disney shop - Did anyone even desire this thing?

Woolworths – Everyone loved growing up with it’s pick a mix n that but really, what’s the point?

The body shop – Run by those famed animal lovers L’Oreal. Ethics zilch, products pah, bye bye.

Superdrug – No super drugs, no need.

Debenhams – Fashion don’t get much worse than Debenhams. Everything is done better somewhere else. Also included with this: Select, West One, Republic and Hurley’s (although scallies DO need to be clothed).

My name’s Dumbo. I’m a Shopaholic
Shopaholics are lame people that are so desperate to be part of our addictive generation they plum for shopaholic. Going to the shops if you analysed it consists of: burning up energy, methodical sorting, stressful crowd negotiation, using up time, becoming more poor, resulting in more often than not dissatisfaction or lack of purchase. This whole buzz thing is not regular, can be enjoyable but rarely lasts that long. Plus, and this is very important plus. I can understand picking out something truly amazing, unique, and perfectly fitted. But those ‘shopoholics’ at Primark supposedly hunting for a bargain in a trout farm of bargains, to try to keep that buzz going are worse than crack whores. Wait, wait. Crack whores are pure of station, intent, need, desire and cost. Shopoholics at Primark are common, not that unique, unfulfilled and actively perpetuating slave workhouses.

Round 2 Shopoholic VS the ultimate enemy, Hippy. These creatures make their own hessian clothes, care very little about their public image. Hate washing, love growing their own everything. Fight!

Where’s hippy gone? There’s a flushed, bulging, made up mother of three getting menopausal for a size 18 green and pink new wave pair of bell bottoms left tugging against herself.

I always wondered as a child why adults’ keeps worrying about this thing called money. Children just swap things of equal worth and achieve a relatively deck free society. As an adult I still wonder this. Ancient tribes exchanged goods for goods, skills for craftsmanship, quantities for other more desired quantities. We operated on this basis until roughly 5000BC. Since then that controlling mechanism has exasperated our various societies until maybe now.

How about next time you go into a shop bring something you have found, made or offer your skills for say a mars bar, start low; if this works, expand. Pretty soon if all goes to plan H&M will be selling clothes, for badges. Morrisons bruised apple section will escalate to the whole shop and Vodafone will have walls covered in crochet and experimental nude portraiture. Mash potato sculptures will vie for room with crisp packet triangles. And everyone will be carrying large quantities of drag flapped paper aeroplanes. Sucess

The trueity to shops is making your whole life one long good one.

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