Supermarket sweep turned into a war of the aisles that gave me a blue and black Friday ... that’s the colour of my many bruises
FOR days now, it has felt like a game of virtual Whac-A-Mole. No sooner have I deleted one batch of emails than another slew arrives. Not since the tsunami of General Data Protection Regulation-related correspondence earlier this year has my inbox so much resembled the digital equivalent of landfill.
I’m talking about the deluge of Black Friday sale flyers that have been dropping faster than the credibility of certain jungle-dwelling celebrities. I’d love to declare myself above all this hoo-ha, but I’m a sucker for a bargain.
The other afternoon I found myself oddly captivated by an instant camera that was shaped like a Minion. Before that it was bulk-buy toilet rolls, a bonsai tree kit, the entire works of Tolkien, swimming goggles, Himalayan salt lamps, lawnmowers, scented gel pens, doorbells and a headtorch. There was a slightly wrong turn into the cul-de-sac of activity trackers. To be honest, I had genuinely forgotten I already owned a Fitbit. It is no doubt gathering dust somewhere along with my Nike FuelBand and old school pedometer, an ever-growing museum charting failed fitness endeavours. While Black Friday was once confined to being largely an American tradition – where stores offer cut-price deals in a bid to rally Christmas shoppers the day after Thanksgiving – it has hit British shores with a vengeance in recent years.
The big upside to shopping online is not having to deal with fellow bargain hunters at close quarters. My sole experience of the Black Friday phenomenon in the flesh, as it were, was at a Florida mall circa the early 2000s.
The memories it conjures in my mind’s eye are like post-apocalyptic scenes from The Walking Dead. Or perhaps The Purge. Albeit far grislier and with more bloodshed.
As soon as the department store manager unlocked the doors, it was akin to witnessing the abandonment of the Titanic in reverse as shoppers surged inside. Within seconds, they were rampaging through the aisles, trollies piled high like contestants on Dale’s Supermarket Sweep.
Talk about ruthless. I witnessed an elderly man using his mobility scooter as a battering ram and almost taking out an entire display of plasma televisions. I half expected a plague of locusts to descend in search of Yankee Candles or the Four Horsemen to gallop past clutching Furbies.
I locked eyes with a member of staff who was pinned behind an inflatable Frosty The Snowman. We exchanged a look of utter terror. At one stage there was a whimper beside my feet. I jumped, thinking it was an injured dog. Instead, there was a man crawling past on all fours.
He had clearly been felled in the melee yet was steadfastly refusing to relinquish his prize – a stack of portable DVD players – and keeping low to the ground while attempting to scramble towards the tills.
My war wounds included a bruised foot sustained in the stampede (one of my toenails turned black and later fell off), a missing clump of hair (torn from my head while browsing iPods) and aching ribs (thanks to a sharp elbow from a not-sosweet old lady as I perused Nike trainers).
I left empty-handed. My dignity lay in tatters, trampled underfoot by the hordes. Never again.
A watery statement
THEY are a ubiquitous sight on buses and trains, office desks, gyms (or so I’m told – see activity tracker debacle above) and water coolers everywhere.
In case you missed the memo, reusable water bottles are the hot new status symbol. If you don’t own one you may as well throw your
hands up and admit to being a cold-blooded murderer of sea turtles, dolphins and other ocean-dwelling creatures.
The type of reusable bottle you tote is like a window into the soul. Pastels and florals suggest someone who spends a lot of time doing mood boards on Pinterest or has an Etsy shop. A sports cap is one for health bods, particularly cyclists (do you refer to it as a “bidon” per chance?).
Emblazoned with a company logo? That’s a bit trickier. Either a corporate animal or someone using whatever freebie is closest to hand; one day it could bear the name of a telecoms giant, the next a van hire firm.
Lots of wry slogan stickers stuck to the side? Someone desperately trying to stay relevant. Bearing images of cute pugs or avocados? Trying to pass themselves off – rather poorly
– as a millennial.
Bottle with a built-in filter? We get it, raw council juice is not your thing. A handy clip? Either outdoorsy or has a knack for losing things.
When I heard reusable water bottles were hip, I was delighted. Until I realised it was referring to drinking bottles, not hot water bottles, which I’m rather partial to. I live in hope.
Big pants rule
MY eyes had barely stopped rolling skywards after watching this year’s John Lewis Christmas advert/shameless plug for the Sir Elton John farewell tour when their gaze fell on the M&S “must-have fancy little knickers” window-dressing slogan.
Firstly, how very Mad Men era. Secondly, hell no. Thirdly, and most importantly, who actually wears “fancy little knickers” during the festive season? I’m looking for industrial-strength, elasticated jumbo-size pants that won’t buckle under the challenge of a multicourse dinner.
Dress it up in tinsel and twinkle lights all you like, no-one is coveting the gift of sexism and misogyny. Putting model David Gandy in an M&S suit to do the washing up is not the same thing.
Iceland has already won Christmas with its magnificent Rang-tan advert. Lidl is a worthy runner-up with its genius trolling of John Lewis (“Just because you don’t have £872 to spend on a piano, doesn’t mean you can’t be the next Elton”).
The rest of you may as well knock off early. Turn out the lights and pull down the shutters. Take Sir Elton John with you. And the fancy little knickers.