Shin Splints and Skin Grafts: The Story Of Trolley Malone

HELL: A place regarded in various religions as a spiritual realm of evil and suffering, often traditionally depicted as a place of perpetual fire beneath the earth where the wicked are punished after death.

Well at least that's the official dictionary definition. If, like me, you are one of the six billion-ish carbon based sentient forms that inhabit this big watery rock we call home, then you will be all too familiar with the rigmarole and commotion surrounding the compulsory practice of grocery purchasing. Allow me to outline my definition of the word hell.

HELL: An enclosed area of several thousand square feet where within the exchange of legal currency for food items and related sundries takes place. Often depicted as a place of perpetual assholes and gossipy auld women. A safe haven for shifty looking alcoholics and petty criminals. A place where the good people are punished while they are still alive.

Catchy slogans such as 'Every little helps', 'Always better value', 'Real food, real people' , 'Save money, Live better', 'Where quality is cheaper' etc, can be very contradictory and misleading to the untrained non-veterans out there. My personal favorite is 'Spend a little, live a lot', which is a blatant lie, as in most cases the complete opposite happens.

Statistically, you are ten times more likely to be killed in a huge chain supermarket than anywhere else on earth. Deaths arising from burnings, scaldings, being locked in a freezer, being killed by rudeness or being trampled on have increased steadily over the last decade. We even saw a case last year where a County Galway man lost his life following a blow to the head by a fellow shopper with a box containing a cordless drill and bench grinder set. As there was limited availability on these items, frenzy ensued when the two men rushed to buy as many as possible before they sold out, despite having camped outside the shop together the night before and becoming friends. In a statement the convicted man's wife said: "He had to have that drill and grinder set at all costs. He didn't even need the fucking thing, but that didn't matter. Now it sits in our garage with that compressor and 6 socket sets that he picked up last month and didn’t need either".

But unsurprisingly, the highest percentage by far of all retail related fatalities recorded were caused by dying of old age while queing at one of the 37 checkouts.

There are 2 main strategies one can employ when pondering a trip to hell, if you absolutely have to:
1. Go once a week, buy everything you need for a whole week all at once as quick as you can, then get out as quick as you can.
2. Go every day, buy exactly what you need for the day, no more or no less, as quick as you can, then get out as quick as you can.

Option number one is not for the faint-hearted as it requires remarkable stamina and exceptionally comfortable shoes. I always go for option number two. I did attempt option one on a single occasion in the past, but needed comprehensive psychotherapy and counselling afterwards. I still have the nightmares but they are less frequent.

I am aware that there are certain people who actually enjoy shopping. They see it as an outlet for stress and an opportunity for social interaction. A chance to catch up on the latest juicy rumours and character assassinations. You people are sick, sick bastards and need help. Better still, you need to be brought out the back and shot.

On Wednesday morning last, in a cruel twist of fate I discovered that I had to select option number one on that particular day, as we had guests coming to stay for the weekend. A “big shop” was required. Fuck it anyway. I did consider not feeding them at all but thought better of it, as I believe there are certain E.U laws in place that prohibit you from allowing your relatives to starve to death.

I believe in forward planning and leaving nothing to chance, and I always have a plan B. To make sure there is always an alternative. To never attempt to purchase something that might not exist, and to always stick with the old reliables. I don’t believe in buying pretentious fancy shit that you cannot pronounce. This would ensure I didn’t have to spend an extra second more there than I had too. This is difficult however, as today’s consumers are faced with a barrage of newfangled alternatives. Things you would never have thought edible are now a reality, thanks in part to the addition of massive amounts of sugar, fat and colouring. It doesn’t matter if it once had a tail and gills and was butchered by a fella with no legs and one eye in Somalia 7 months ago. It’s now vac-packed and in your shopping basket stamped “FRESH”. Having conceded that buying some of these items was unavoidable, I sat down to compile my shopping list:

- Kellogg’s Breakfast Shavings
- 14 litres of milk
- Rotisserie Goat 
- Tin of Campbell's Condensed Cream of Gelatine soup
- A pallet of rashers 
- 20,000 sausages
- Oven-ready thrush wrapped in a blackbird wrapped in a swan wrapped in an albatross
- Boned, rolled and stuffed something-or-other 
- Brennan's today's bread yesterday
- Various cheese products
- Pack of Bbq Flavoured E numbers 
- 27 bags of Non- Irish Potatoes
- Large pack of Alka-Seltzer 
- 43 cans of Harp
- A 25 pack of paint brushes, safety boots, a step ladder and a trolley jack.. Very important

As noon approaches, I pull into the 7 acre car park. Luckily despite being busy, there are still a few spaces left, but nowhere near the actual store itself. There are a number of designated spaces for disabled drivers only, and a few for families with young children close to the front door. But they have been occupied today, like every other day, not by people who genuinely need them, but by the same useless, bone- idle, lay-about, no good low- life spongers, who’ve never done a day’s work in their pathetic, miserable lives and are too fucking lazy to walk to the door....

Ooops...Did I say that out loud?

GOOD!!!! Bastards. I’ll get ye one day.

As my violent rage subsides I enter the Hyper-market. Immediately my senses are overloaded, and not in a good way. There are sample stands everywhere. Why did I pick world-wide sample stand day to go shopping. Shame on me. Vendors ply their wares like a pride of lions circling:

“Here, eat this, spray this on yourself, apply this, drink this, insert this inside you. Can you get hint of rosemary? Your wrinkles are disappearing! Do you feel confident and fresh downstairs?”

Time to expedite. I attempt to grab a trolley but I am bet to it by some auld buck carrying a live calf on his back. Eventually I manage to secure another, and make my way down what seems like an endless aisle. Once again my senses are in overdrive and I am being dazzled by huge bright neon signs and arrows, reminding me that you have an obligation to buy a yard of custard creams because the shop is selling them at less than cost price in an attempt to obliterate the competition. They don’t care about family run businesses or small to medium traders. We are just numbers to them. Subjects in their overall domination of earth.

I manage to secure most of the items I came in for, but need assistance in finding the last one, chilli flavoured toilet tissue, so I ask an employee for help. Instead of a smile and a happy hello, I am greeted with no eye contact, a grunt and a point.

It is at this point I was glad I had worn my homemade shin protectors, fashioned from an old orange crate. At first I didn’t see her coming. It wasn’t until her trolley ploughs into my legs and sends me into a 360 degree spin that I realised what had happened. Before I knew what hit me I was down flat out surrounded by a hairbrush and nail clipper stand I had pulled along with me. The auld woman had disappeared into the fruit and veg section, and proceeded to start sampling all the grapes.

That’s it. I’m outta here. I’ve had enough.

The checkouts were in sight. I pull myself up off the floor, shake off all the shit that had fell on top of me and make a dash for it. But it’s too late. A young couple and 4 children just get there before me. The parents are dressed in what look like hospital gowns made out of grass with willow shoes to match. Neither of them look like they’ve had a wash since they were 6 years old, and the body odour and matted dreadlocks confirms this. The children are dressed in floral patterned 1970’s cushion covers from the charity shop. They are particularly hyperactive and engage in pulling all the confectionery displays all over the floor, screaming and shouting, and banging saucepans together which can be bought for only €12.99 with 500 tokens. Meanwhile, the parents are laughing heartedly and reveling in this. To the credit of the cashier at the checkout, she politely asks the parents to try and keep a bit of control on the children as they were beginning to cause a bit of a racket. She realises that everything is far too P.C nowadays, and you can’t give someone else’s child a kick in the hole anymore like the good old days. The hippie mother then launches into an attack on our poor cashier, calling her every name under the sun, making light of her obesity problem (I sympathise) saying that her children are merely expressing themselves, and are free to roam and do whatever the fuck they like. I think about taking the matter into my own hands and giving the father a kick up the arse, but thankfully the manager has arrived and has tried to diffuse the situation. Finally the situation calms down, and the family leave with their purchases, walk out to their 1989 Hi-Ace van parked in the disabled spot and drive away leaving behind them a screen of oily blue smoke and bits of engine.

Weary, tired and frazzled, I carry out the payment procedure for my items as quick as possible. Then I also leave, get in my car, take 6 paracetamol and start to weep.

I was glad the ordeal had ended. But part of me knew this hadn’t been the worst trip to the shop ever, but that Christmas wasn’t far away, and that would be an entire different story, for another day.

Pints & hugs,

Dave xxx