Milk.

Alright, chip shop looters, it’s time for another blog.

Milk. It is the greatest drink ever. I drink milk for fun. I’ll down it like shots, out of a ramekin. Milk.

So it is with this pointless aside about milk that I begin this entry about Sainsbury’s.

I can’t be doing without milk. It’s like having blood. Or oxygen. Or Skyrim. Or sex….oh. Right.

Anyway. I’m so into milk that at school I kept all the milk for myself and warded off attackers to my milk mountain using old boxes as a fort, tossing house-bricks at any unfortunates trying to approach. School that year was not pleasant for anyone. (We never had milk during class – This is a ruse)

Milk is what provided the catalyst for my morning yawning and trip to Sainsbury’s. It’s too far to walk without it being a chore. Too close to not to. I bravely soldiered on, through the Tolkien wastes of the level crossing, the mysterious mountainous regions of past Canterbury leisure centre, and the incredible vista of that bit where the roundabout is.

Like Okenshield, I staunchly pressed on, through roads and stuff until finally, the laughing face of commercialism. Sainsbury’s! Possessively titled fun shack of food. I picked up a basket and wandered in, murmuring this…

“Oh good. The stench of rancid humans…..shouldn’t say that out loud really”

Nobody heard me. I wandered the aisles somewhat aimlessly, finding some necessary items. Some not so necessary. Processed peas? What madness took me? Several things happened. Firstly, while browsing for something or other I heard what sounded like a choking child next aisle.

I said this out loud, to nobody:

“Sounds like Bart Simpson being strangled next aisle. Not so funny in real life.”

Rounding the next corner, I was face-to face with a terrifying teenager, a fixed expression, blank, soulless eyes. It was like being faced with Damien out of the Omen. Try to imagine that moment. Go on. Me staring into the face of a scary kid. I dropped gaze and moved on. Terrifying events in the shopping aisle.

Moving on. Fruitless wandering ended up with some apples being tossed blithely into the basket and a pang of jealously as a child swung a trolley around with joy. I can’t do that, anymore. Pissing about with trolleys. It’s all gone now. Along with Feargal Sharkey and the Cold War. Modern Britain.

I check out. I started laughing uncontrollably as I imagined a range of Biggles books for modern times. Biggles learns to Cry. Biggles learns some home truths. Biggles and the Death Hat. I am punched back into sense by a fussy checkout, which keeps calling the fucking attendant because of weight problems. Saying “Cheers mate” six times now sticks in my craw like screen burn. I had to say it six times, because it took two goes for the machine to shut up the three times it happened. Rowdy computer fuck-pill.

So that’s that. I’m home now, having laid into the apples and the yogurt. Now why don’t you just fuck off, yeah?

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About neilstilwell

Abseiling into trouble, a sewer rat staring at the stars. Disgusting. You can assist my search for the one ring by buying a Kindle version of this diary from here. http://www.amazon.co.uk/frozen-fridge-Zoomeister-Diaries-ebook/dp/B00C426DD0/ref=sr_1_sc_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366481719&sr=8-1-spell&keywords=a+frozen+turd+in+a+hot+frudge It has some other stuff in it, and a dreadful cover.
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