Spitting Bullets

A strange thing keeps happening to me in my local supermarket when attempting to purchase paracetamol. At first glance, you may think that this is not the basis for an interesting story, but please, read on.

After carefully selecting several items of shopping a few days ago from the supermarket shelves, and after performing an infinity amount of u-turns, near-misses and ‘accidental’ shunts up the arses (with the corner of my trolley) for those irritating people who debate whether to ‘go skinless’ when choosing their ’sausages’ for hours on end and consequently block my path, I made my way towards the nearest checkout (or till, as once they were known).

All was going well. Of course, I made the usual mistake of standing heavy, tall objects alone without any support whatsoever, so that they then fell onto and crushed the salad each time the belt stuttered forwards, and I also felt the usual guilt that came from the large number of plastic bags I was using to pack my goods into.

Then, the moment that I knew would occur, occurred.

“I’m sorry, but I can only sell you one packet of these.” ‘These’ were two packets of paracetamol, containing 16 tablets each - a total of 32 (thanks - Ed).

“Oh?”, I said, in fained disbelief, already knowing the reason why.

“Yes, it’s company policy.”

“Why is that?”, I said, as I always do, expecting the usual reply that goes something along the lines of, “Because it is I’m afraid. I’m very sorry.”

On this occasion however, something much more interesting was said:

“Because it’s the law.”

“The law?” I replied, tenaciously.

“Yes, it’s the law.”

How remarkable, I thought, that this particular supermarket cashier knew the law on the sale of medicines to the general public. I stopped myself, just in time, from asking where she had obtained her knowledge of pharmaceutical law, and replied:

“Oh, alright then. Can I pop back in and buy another packet?”

Remarkably, she said:

“Oh yes, that would be fine.”

Now then…I’m going to make several assumptions here.

Firstly, the supermarket must believe that I cannot read, otherwise, I would know that the packet has a ‘dosage’ specified on it - in which case, why don’t they print all of their special offers in Braille?

Secondly, they must believe that I am incapable of preventing myself from committing suicide, despite the fact that I am an adult (although, I am severely depressed).

Thirdly, the supermarket doesn’t recognise my right as an adult to kill myself.

Fourthly, if I wanted to kill myself, my priorities wouldn’t include a trip to the supermarket to purchase a weeks shopping, consisting, amongst other things, of three loaves of bread, six pints of full fat milk, a block of Double Gloucester cheese and a jar of fucking capers, now, would it?

Fifthly, the supermarket’s ‘concern’ for my well-being seems just a little bit disingenuous once one realises that if I had placed a conveyor belt divider between my shopping and another person’s single packet of paracetamol (that other person being me), I could, in effect, be classed as a separate customer, and buy the bloody thing anyway.

And finally, if I seriously wanted to kill myself, I’d have bought several packets of supermarket skinless sausages (interesting how there’s no limit on how many of these things one can buy), smeared them all over my body, taken a train ride to Battersea during a full moon, and shouted “come get me Fido!”

Copyright © Spitting Bullets 2008

‘Blond Bold Boris the Buffoon’ has won the Mayoral Electoral Contest of London Upon Thames, a small but heavily polluted village not too far south of Stevenage.

The UK breathed a sigh of relief when ‘Blond Bold Boris the Buffoon’ promised to ensure that all ‘London Upon Thamesers’ remain where they are for the foreseeable future by implementing a ‘No Talking’ strategy on the tube and encouraging crime through the introduction of a criminal justice measure called the Routemaster.

London Upon Thamesers will now be discouraged from buying up large parts of the UK where, for the past 12 years, they have been imparting Southern talk, especially across the South West, Midlands and the North. They’ve also been responsible for inflating house prices so that the local scrubbers there have had to pay more taxes, mostly to fund extra dustbin collections to remove the bottles from excessive champagne drinking, especially around the former Prime Minister’s constituency of Sedgefield, the home of ‘Champagne Socialism’.(Is this really true? - Ed).

Instead, because ‘Thamesers’ can look forward to a vast improvement to their village life, there may no longer be the need for them to continue invading the rest of the UK. Some ‘Thamesers’ have already hinted that they intend to remain in London and continue drinking their own recycled piss rather than pissing on the rest of us. They’ve also promised to be much ruder to each other, and much more often. The draw of a consistently violent, polluted and obnoxious atmosphere surrounded by the homeless (urgh! - Ed), is irresistible to ‘Thamesers’, and Boris, they believe, is the man who can make their village even greater!

‘Red Ken’, a former black cab driver (racist - Ed), said it was a great week for ‘Thamesers, innit, awright guv!’. That wasn’t all he said.

The rest of the UK said, and not for the first time, that they didn’t give a shit.

Copyright © Spitting Bullets 2008