Come hither merry folk and wave a hairy bollock in the face of seasonal festivities

Driving home at 1.00am last night and I’m half-a-mile away before I remember; milk!

The local supermarket is usually open 24 hours Monday to Friday but, because it’s Christmas week, I drive around the front; if it’s open I’ll do all the last minute bits and pieces in peace and quiet. So I do, I drive around the front.

There are ten checkouts open and busy. Ten.

And yep, it’s* still* Sunday night/Monday morning at 1.00am.

I do usually shop quite late at night, not only because it’s kids/mothers/crowd free but because it suits my life style, and besides, I’ve grown attached to the three-legged fox who frequents the car park in the small hours. We’re not friends but we know each other; if nothing else, he recognises me by the type of ham I leave him. I like the guy, he’s a survivor, he’s intelligent and he’s polite.

But damn! The car park is lit like the other side of the mountain in Close Encounters, and the entire place is awash in mothers and eldest daughters with shopping lists longer that Plastic Jacko’s rap sheet waving bulging packs of Brussels sprouts at each other and saying “Is this enough ?””Better get another, just in case”

Fuck off already with the Brussels sprouts!

And then the reason why daughter is in tow truly becomes apparent. I stand at the entrance fixated as they work like a wolf pack, swooping down every aisle, homing in on targets with periscopic precision, with two dirty great trolleys!!

There was silly me thinking this mum/daughter combo thing was some kind of Chrimbo girlie rite of passage/learned behaviour malarkey but nay, nay and thrice nay Rudolph, and it’s all rammed home when I glance sideways at the checkouts.

I haven’t seen goods piled that high since Chesty Morgan tried on a wonder bra.

It’s enough and I leave. Still no sign of the fox, either.

This is insane, people. Go home, ladies. You don’t need to do this. It’s two days only; that’s two big meals, a few snackeroo’s and a sprinkling of dad’s favourite booze; feeding the army on D-day it ain’t.

The sooner this nonsense is over and blokes and three-legged foxes can get back to pottering about the night in peace and quiet the better.

Be gone, you alien family people!
London call-me-Scrooge Calling

‘Milk’ in Great Britain? What other fables are you going to recite for us, oh great storyteller?
As another late-night shopper, I too am rather perturbed at the gall of the Daywalkers who are now intruding on my normally placid grocery shopping. Let them shop when the burning Daystar is out! Leave me the night, damnit. Ah well, thank Ukemochi for that case of MRE’s I picked up a few weeks back!

and so this is christmas…

They use milk in their tea, Brutus.

Soupuss, grumpyface.

You thought it was your special ham that Reynard liked?

Nettles and gristle we 'ad, and liked it.

…and what have you done?

'ere, you had gristle? We only had Gristle Helper, and damned lucky to get it, we wuz…

My people live beneath a slate grey Star but we have heard of this Daystar in other lands. It is spoken of of the idjut box by pert daughters of Daywalkers. Send it to us so that we might share your joy.

Anyone esle used to make fun of ‘Reineke Fuchs’ ?

Lucky Reynard Fuchs, we used to say. English humour donchaknow . . .

What’s your game, London_Calling?
False advertising, that’s what it is - I’ll get the Tradings Standards on to you - promising a girl hairy bollocks and then when I get in here, what do I see?
Neither hide nor hair of a bolllock at all.

It isn’t good enough, you know - you’ll have to get your act together in the New Year.

Curly Chick, I thought you already knew he has no bollock hair.

Now that’s not true, jjimm. I declined the invitation. Others, however, may be a tad embarrassed . . .

Jesus Fuck A Shit Souffle! I knew you guys were perv over there, but Gawdamighty! We have to amend our immigration policies, but toot damn sweet!

Hey! The guy’s got a long thin face and, crucially, a beard, who else do I do an impression of . . . Pavarotti ?

However, some could do, say, The Scream without any bother at all
<paging Aro, bald testicles impression required behind the checkouts>

Why don’t you try shopping really early in the morning.

I start work at 5 but when I need more than half a carton of OJ and a rotting tomato in the fridge I set off at around 4.15.

Whhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiizzzzzzzzz around the aisles casting foodstuffs and booze into my trolley with gay abandon [forget frozen stuff though] zzzzzooooooommmmmmm to checkout, nobody there, hand over dosh and out, 20 minutes tops unless I stop to feed the rabid wolves and feral cats with choice cuts of ham/corned beef/steak/sprouts etc.

Just a suggestion my Southern friend.

What are these “supermarkets” you speak of? Sainsbury’s and Ocado (Waitrose + undoubtedly ludicrous corporate naming fees) both deliver to my front door, during a one-hour period of my choice, free of charge.

Of course, if I have midnight munchies it’s a little trickier.

Jjimm - you shared our secret shame! Now they’ll all be coming over here, looking for a shorn bollock.

Shaun Bollock, doesn’t he play cricket for South Africa ?

Well at least your dislike of Brussels sprouts! does not Clash with Bush1’s :slight_smile:

If you tell me what a hirsute bollock is, I’ll look around the garage to see if I have one to wave.

Given your location, Rysdad, that might not be the smartest move you could make …