The Seven Trolleys

In the fiery mount of, well, Mount Doom(estic), Lord Cesko* forged (in secret, mind, very important you remember it was in secret) a master trolley. One trolley to rule them all. Making seven trolleys altogether. That’s right; Cesko has seven different types of trolley. I mean… *clueless look*

Cesko has thrown open it’s doors here. A week ago. Well, yes, but anyway. I meant to write a little something before it opened. Something to express the fear, the palpable sweating fear emanating from SupaPrice*, until now the uncontested rulers of all shopping in this town. SupaPrice (chain of supermarkets in Ireland in case foreigners are scratching their heads) is a bit like national service here; everyone at one stage or another has worked in one of them. For there were two. But then the smaller one became a Centra and then there was one. SupaPrice takes you at 16, works you to the bone and if you’re still there when you’ve finished school, you get up off your knees, put on a shirt and tie and “manage” something. Being unmanageable shits themselves, these orc-like twunts (you know I don‘t say that word) do nothing but bleat at you in silage-filled Meath drawl to “do it again, shape up nooooow” and try it on with just about every young wan in the place. These young wans, impressionable as they are and in awe of Christopher/Declan/James’s power, then obligingly offer themselves on a plate to the greasy git. And often, it’s quite literally on a plate since many of these “unions” take place in the embers of Christmas parties when delph provides a ideal source of balance/grip during the inevitable…eh…events.

Right, so that’s their legacy to the town. A teenage manager giving out to kids he went to school with while helping one girl in particular to face packets of instant rice. Sounds like something in Coronation Street. Anyway, Cesko are this huge British chain of stores and they’ve started here and suddenly the once-undefeatable SupaPrice, unashamedly arrogant and agricultural, is feeling like that planet the Death Star was tested on. Cesko manoeuvred into place in a far more central and ideal location. “We’re Irish” they proclaimed. Well then quite frankly, I’m ashamed. Superquinn are Irish too, but Irish in a kind of U2 way. They’re world-standard. SupaPrice is unbelievably pathetic. If they don’t have something, the official procedure is to shrug your shoulders at the customer and assume a condescending tone. Cesko have a customer service desk that listen to suggestions. Actually, simply having a customer service desk, attended by someone who’s there all the time, is more impressive on it’s own.

That said, Cesko is a bit anonymous. It’s a huge warehouse, packed to the roof with crap. 19 checkouts, manned by identical-looking middle-aged women. Still, this just shows how crap things have been here. Cesko is only the start of this development; a plan to turn this town into a place to live in rather than simply sleep in. Before last Monday, I couldn’t buy a CD in my own town, yet I could bet in one of the three bookies and drink in one of the six pubs. It’s really that pathetic.

Be warned, good reader, a sloppy entry is next.

J

* names of supermarkets have been changed to avoid obvious libel opportunities