Lord, how I loathe the fact I work for one of the biggest corporations in Britain – Tesco!  My fake smiles and laughter are the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure.  I’m positive the customers can see the contempt behind my eyes. Everyday the same mundane faces purchasing the same mundane products.  It’s actually given me a strong urge to take up self-harming as a hobby.  I often ponder exactly how many times a day I ask these cretins:  ‘Do you have a Clubcard?’, ‘Do you need any bags?’ or,  my personal favourite,’ Would you like a hand to pack?’ which has two different outcomes: my face glowing with glee when they have the good grace to pack their own items or a very demonic side of myself exploding out as I viciously ram said items into bags.  I mean, what did these people do before checkout operators had to pack bags?  Do it themselves, that’s what.

What have I done to deserve this as an existence as I look around at the queue forming beside my checkout.  I often feel Auschwitz would be more fun than this and, from the ravaged appearance of man of my delightful customers, they look as if they’ve just came  back from there!

Customers come in all shapes and sizes: fat ones, thin ones, smelly ones, disabled ones and blatantly rude ones.

The worst are the OAPs who, regarding by the smell, bathe in urine. The smell is so strong I can physically taste it in my mouth. Doesn’t help matters that it lingers for long periods of time (sweet Lord, thank you for Oust!) so much so I start to question the fact that was it possibly me who sat here and wet myself through the daily excitement?  OAPs – kill them at birth.  It would make the world a hell of a lot better place without these corpses sauntering about my till, invading my space.

Another major turn-off is that my Tesco is situated in Jakeball Central with various local Dundonian drug addicts  venturing in like phantoms with their ghostly aura hovering about them to buy their daily roll of tinfoil.  ‘What you cooking tonight,’ I contemplate asking, ’because it certainly isn’t poultry!’

In saying that, it’s not all bad.  It helps me to survive the day as a few colleagues share the same twisted and deranged humour as me which helps the thoughts of suicide decrease by the end of the day.

Ah F*** it. A job’s a job as my  mother so warmly tells me. Fair enough, I do deal with the lowest form of society and yeah, I give Simon Cowell a run for his money with the height of my waistband. But it’s better than signing on and living on my 45 bucks from my gracious government.  If I was on the brew no doubt it would be my face peering along the Tesco aisles purchasing my daily tinfoil fix.. Value, mind you. No brand names and for 42p, who is complaining!