THE SLAVES, THE LACK OF MONEY AND THE ROMAN GOD OF ARGOS
I was nearly run over by a train last week. Not on a crossing or on a platform edge but in a shopping centre. It was my fault, I was caught off guard. It’s one of the least likely places I’d expect to be run over by a train to be honest – it being a shopping centre. However, if Roald Dahl’s Guide to Railway Safety did teach me one important lesson it’s if you do end up being run over by a train then it’s probably your own fault. Even the young lady driver of the train which seemed to be transporting very young children and their happy fathers to their deaths didn’t even slow down or stop, having blatantly seen me scrambling to get out of the way. In fact I’m almost certain that she actually sped up and was reliant on the ‘person plough’ on the front of the vehicle to cast me aside like the crazy piece of shit that I am. How dare I negotiate a corner like that without carefully checking there was no oncoming railway traffic? And in a shopping centre of all places - I should have known better.
I was out shopping for electrical goods. Not for me, heaven forbid. I wouldn’t have risked life and limb by walking through a shopping centre for something I actually wanted. I’d be a lazy old whore and click away at a computer until some poor old slave-boy brought it to my door for me and left a little coded message telling me he didn’t really make the effort to bring it to my door and had instead left it in the depot, where he works, on an industrial estate which isn’t in an actual place that exists but actually in some fields that have recently sprouted warehouses.
No, I was buying a present. It wasn’t a Christmas present, heaven forbid. I can’t do bulk shopping for food never mind material possessions – so I don’t think you’d catch me doing this for others at Christmas. I’d get a little slave-boy to print me some special money that can only be exchanged in one outlet for the same value as the normal money you can get which can be spent in any manner of the possessor’s choosing.
No, it was a birthday present wasn’t it?! Yes, it was a birthday present for someone who wasn’t thoughtful enough to make sure they weren’t born in the same month as, and between the two pay slips that fall either side, of Christmas. The main culprit of this kind of shenanigans, if you remember correctly, was Jesus, and we all know what happened to him. He deserved it. I also left it far too late to get any slave-boys to bring this to me – I needed this particular birthday present there and then.
I was walking through the shopping centre risking my life by the possibility of being embarrassed by a staring child, eaten by a pregnant women, ridiculed by chavs, rushed by baby elephant entertainers, preached to by people selling perfume and Sky TV contracts or being run over by trains. I wasn’t going to the first electrical store I saw… no… I was headed for a special shop where people like I, who don’t like to be talked at about the things we are/are not purchasing, can fill in a little form and then get a little slave-boy to go and pick our selected item from a shelf for us, then hand it over a big counter without a single word, just a ‘now fuck off’-style vacant facial expression.
I arrived relatively unscathed if not slightly dazed and confused. It dawned upon me that I had not been at this special and magical shop for many many years and it was all computerised now. However, this worked in my favour as I didn’t even need to speak to anyone to hand over my hard-earned cash. I just popped my bank details into the computer and it organised a little slave-boy to sort that out for me. This is what I did, then took a seat and waited for my allotted slave-boy to appear with the goods. I sat and tweeted on my iPhone for a few minutes until my number appeared on the screen suspended high above. When I looked up a little slave-boy was standing at the counter holding my present-shaped box. He looked ever so happy and proud. I approached him smiling but as I reached out to take my item from him he did not simply hand it to me. He spoke. He fucking spoke!!! He asked me if I had purchased insurance. I said “no.” He asked if I’d like to consider purchasing insurance. I started to sweat and shiver slightly. He asked if I had an iPhone. I was still holding my iPhone in my hand – I did try to explain that I had merely stolen this particular iPhone whilst waiting in the queue. Whether he believed me or not doesn’t matter as he then started a list of recommendations beginning with the phrase “well… if you did have an iPhone you know you could…”.
I began to panic. I took out my emergency gallon of petrol, dowsed the shop and all the shiny electrical and plastical goods and promptly burnt the place to the ground.
I know in my last blog I preached about buying stuff from shops a bit more, but really… if you feel that you need to buy an iPad – just buy it from the fucking internet.
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