Tag Archives: Tesco

Parent-and-child parking spaces: the dos and don’ts of not being a dick

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Tesco has vowed to start fining people who make improper use of disabled, and parent-and-child parking bays (improper in the sense of categorical appropriateness, rather than improper in the sense of setting up tombola stalls in the vacant spaces). Whether or not Tesco has the authority to enforce such fines remains to be seen; however, what I find most interesting about this news story is the reaction to it from certain quarters of the great unwashed via the ever-malevolent medium of the comment threads underneath online articles, especially on Facebook.

To my mind, responsibility for the regulation of car-parking behaviour shouldn’t fall under the auspices of local government or corporate might. We should self-regulate; the impulse should come naturally to us. It certainly seems like a slam-dunk to me: don’t park in a disabled bay if you aren’t disabled; don’t park in a parent-and-child bay if you don’t have children in the car with you, or if the child you have with you is 43 years old. The clear focus of the issue here is basic respect and decency, not some imagined Stalinist nannyism against which we should all be rallying. Even still, in the vacant spaces beneath articles, via the empty spaces between some people’s ears, the bile-bomb has gone off with a bang. Ignorance drips from the fingers of a thousand angry eejits. Drip drip drip. Into our eyes, and into our brains, water-boarding us with a steady flood of selfishness and un-reason.

I’m going to keep my focus on the parent-and-child spaces, because even the worst of the world’s keyboard warriors – troll and non-troll alike – would clearly find it hard to sustain a charge of laziness against the disabled. What follows is a flavour of the comments I’ve witnessed on my journeys through cyberspace. I’m going to be paraphrasing here, but only ever-so-slightly:

“OMG, just because they have children suddenly they can’t walk??? Their r sum lazy good-for-nothing people out there!”

 

“I’m sick of people thinking they deserve special privelle…privvill… treetment just becoz there husband didn’t pull out in time. WALK you scrounging assholes.”

 

“WHY DO THEY NEED WIDER SPACES? IS IT BCOS THEY’RE FAT AS WELL AS LAZY? MAYBE IF YOU AND UR FAT KIDS WALKED FURTHER TO THE DOOR YOU ALL WOULDN’T BE SO FAT AND YOU WOULDN’T NEED WIDER SPACES YOU LAZY FATTIES??!”

 

“Now THIS is why I voted for BREXIT!!!”

You get the idea.

Just to clear some things up: parent-and-child spaces are wider to allow parents extra room to load and unload things like push-chairs and car seats. Where the parent has many children with them – but even if they’ve only got one – the extra space makes said children’s entry and exit from the car a lot less of a logistical nightmare, and a whole hell of a lot safer.

Yes, it’s true, parent-and-child spaces are often – but certainly not always – positioned near the front-door of a store. Where the bays are not located right at the front door, they are always connected to a path or walkway that will lead parents and their children along a safe route to the front door that doesn’t necessitate a mad, dangerous dash through a gauntlet of reversing cars and fast-moving traffic. Safety is the concern here: not proximity.

Now, isn’t that simple? I like simple. And this next bit is even more simple: if you park in a parent-and-child space when you’ve no right to be there, you aren’t some ballsy Robin-Hood-style folk hero sticking it to the man. You are indeed, and without exception, a cunt. And cunts don’t get their own special parking spaces.

Unless you count Waitrose.

How Tesco Takes Over the World

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t1Tesco won’t assume total control overnight. Other corporations and multi-nationals will pave the way. These companies will take over the nations of the earth in bloodless, though economically aggressive, coups, and then re-brand them in their own hellish images. The United Kingdom will become the United Kingdom of Benetton. And later Great British Home Stores.

Ireland will become Iceland. Iceland will become Farmfoods. I know they had first dibs on the name Iceland, but there’s only 40, 000 of them, and even the town of Irvine could take them in a fight. Besides, we owe them nothing. They tried to bugger our economy a few years ago… I forget the details, because it was all incredibly boring, but I’m pretty sure they did something to us, whatever it was. Gordon Brown got mad, like really furious, and I’m pretty sure he said, ‘Some cunt’s getting fisted for this!’ I’m paraphrasing slightly. But he is from Giffnock, so it’s a believable outburst.

And let’s not forget that Iceland’s pesky volcanoes could stop us from flying out to Benidorm AT ANY SECOND. For that alone they should be cast into a deep ocean trench for all eternity. TO NEVER AGAIN SEE THE LEANING TOWER OF BENIDORM? THE GREAT WALL OF BENIDORM? THE HANGING GARDENS OF BENIDORM? I don’t want to live in that fucking world.

Scotland will become Poundland, because it’s full of fat people with no money. England will become B&Q, because it’s full of planks and tools; and Wales will become the Original Wool Company, because I’ve just been possessed by the ghost of Jim Davidson – a nifty trick, considering he’s (unfortunately) still alive.

The pig will have its revenge.

The pig will have its revenge.

Eventually, Tesco will take over the United Kingdom of Benetton, and change its name to Tesco Island. This won’t happen until after the great Supermarket wars, of course. Morrisons and Sainsbury’s will fall first. In fact, Tesco TV will broadcast the messy public executions of Allan Hansen and Jamie Oliver. They’ll be suffocated to death by Tesco carrier bags. And it won’t be quick, either. Cause it’ll take the executioner about 20 minutes to separate the bags from each other, even after he’s rubbed his hands on his jacket and licked his fingers. Jamie Oliver’s dying face will then be used to advertise Turkey Twizzlers, with the catchy slogans: ‘Ding Dong the Snitch is Dead,’ ‘What Are You Waiting For? Get Scoffing, You Fat Little Cunts,’ and ‘Now With Added Jamie Oliver.’

Lidl's mighty soup range: full of spew-trition.

Lidl’s mighty soup range: full of spew-trition.

Asda falls next. And thenceforth, anyone caught playfully patting the change in their back pocket will be shot dead. In time it will become the underground symbol of resistance, and only the most heroic will dare to pat their ass pockets. Lidl will put up the best fight, drawing Tesco into a dirty guerilla war in eastern Europe. The mighty Tesco army will advance across the plains: six million mechanised shopping trolleys armed with ballistic coin dispensers. Brave Lidl workers will fire deadly cannons filled with tins of 12p soup from the former Yugoslavia. Any human prisoners caught by the Lidl rebels will be forced to eat the soup, which is even deadlier in its liquid form than ballistic. I say liquid… we all know that stuff comes out of the can looking like a gelatinous 3D representation of a can of juice, and smells like a meaty urine infection. You could knock someone unconscious with it AFTER you’ve removed it from the can. Whatever: one forkful of that syrupy shit, and death is certain.

t4There will be so many branches of Tescos that asking for directions will assume the complexity and pointlessness of a Dan Brown novel.

‘Ah, you’re looking for Tesco Elms, in Tescoton? Certainly, sir, head down Tesco Boulevard, take a right on Tesco Lane, left on Tesco Street, past the lights on Tesco Grove, through Tesco Avenue, on to Tesco Street VIII, hook a left, and you can’t miss it, it’s just after the seventh Tesco on the right. You know, you’ll pass the Tesco Megastore, the Tesco Hyperstore, the Tesco Superstore, the Tesco Metro, the Tesco Compact, the Tesco Micro, and the Tesco Teeny Weeny… it’s after that one. Across the road from the Tesco Titty Bar. Next to the Tesco funeral parlour.’

Because you’ll get a Tesco funeral; a Tesco Finest one if you’re rich. It’ll be great. You’ll be buried in a golden coffin, and they’ll serve chicken Balmoral and expensive French cheese at your wake. A bit skint? Never mind. Have a Tesco Value funeral. Your coffin’ll be a giant plastic, Tesco Value pedal bin. Versatile, because if you fancy an open casket funeral, your loved ones can simply stand on the pedal.

‘Oh, you’ve done a lovely job on his face. Why the whiskers though?’
‘Tesco Value, love. Mortuary guys are expensive. We could only get a child’s face-painter. He thought a jolly pink tiger best captured your dead husband’s essence.’

 

This picture's existence means some other cunt beat me to the Tesco Value funeral idea, but let's just pretend I made this picture myself, right? Good.

This picture’s existence means some other cunt beat me to the Tesco Value funeral idea, but let’s just pretend I made this picture myself, right? Good.

Your relatives will stand at the wake devouring tubes of 48p poloni slicing sausage, washed down with that lemonade that tastes like it’s been devised by a homeopath – a millionth of lemonade dribbled into a litre of fizzy water; that shit makes Soda Stream taste good.

Eventually there’ll be no more room for Tescos on the surface of the Earth, or even on the Moon. They’ll have to pump money into Innerspace technology. Shrink them down. Eventually open a Tesco inside a minor celebrity’s body:

‘This is the 10 o’clock news. PM David Cameron, Howard from the Halifax ads and ex-Eastender’s heart-throb Pat Butcher were just some of the special guests shrunk down to the size of a bacterium to attend the grand opening of the world’s first Tesco Intestinal store… up Keith Chegwin’s arse.’

Vote for the Dinner Party

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'More jelly and ice-cream, Sir Rich Cunt?'

So, a rich, elitist politician in a corrupt capitalist society offers rich CEOs and horrid right-wing sister-fuckers the chance to influence governmental policy for money? The only thing surprising about the recent Cam-for-Cash revelations is our surprise.

Here we have David Cameron, a man whose face tells the story of a weird genetic experiment to meld Buzz Lightyear with a posh monkey-nut, preaching about the Big Society at the same time as he does his utmost to dismantle it. Well, the peasant part of it, anyway.

Goodbye, NHS. It’s OK. Poor people don’t need hearts or kidneys, anyway. That’s a scientific fact. Cheerio, provisions for the old and skint. Want to keep warm, working-class OAPs? Why not make a fire and burn all of your old copies of ‘The Socialist Worker’? You’ll be feeling your fingers and toes again in no time. Auf weidersehen, rights of disabled people on benefits. I know one thing that will help your broken back and crippling depression: a little stint stocking shelves for free down at Tesco, your local, friendly greengrocer.

'Gonnae nonny nonny no dae that?'

Cameron’s been robbing from the poor to give to the rich (and extorting the rich to make the rich richer) from the start. This Cash-for-Goujons debacle is the least of the coalition’s misdeeds. You know a regime’s got a problem with image when its antics begin to make Tory-punching, problem-drinking, schoolgirl-shagging, nutcase’s-nutcase Eric Joyce look like a folk hero by comparison. And, worst of all, I’ve just imagined Eric Joyce decked out in green tights prancing around a forest.

What will we, the people, do? I know what they’d do in France: start burning sheep until Cameron stepped down. But not here. We are the sheep, and we’ve not the wit to realise that the whiff of lamby barbecue in the air drifts from our own scorched backs. We’ll forget this story, and the next one, and the one after that. That’s if we’re watching at all. Isn’t Eastenders on?

That's the smell of you being fucked.

We live in a country where vile politicians who trade in misery are re-elected time and again, while the people who play baddies in soaps get soup cans hurled at them in the street by angry old women years after their career has ended. ‘How could you cheat on oor wee Deirdre, ya animal!’

Politicians have the power to decide how we live and die, but we all find it… well, pretty bloody boring. Certainly not as exciting as the prospect of a nutty slut getting her jubblies out on the next series of Big Brother. But keep an eye on live updates from the Big Brother house in Westminster. Once those old men and women in suits are certain that the TV viewers have fallen into a tedium-sponsored coma, they’ll stop talking about agricultural quotas and caps on this, that and the other, and they’ll turn their attentions to the REAL order of business: building a Death Star.