Continuing my efforts to keep the even more ailing economy afloat I sallied forth once more to the heart of London’s capitalist experience that is Westfield in order to wine, dine and spend spend spend. On the agenda today is meeting my Mother for dinner, seeing if Sports Direct has any of last seasons Chelsea away kits and buying a TV.
First up was the dinner portion of the outrage of an evening. GBK, Gourmet Burger Kitchen or as I will now refer to it Gormlessly Banal Kafe. The only reason I was lured into the place was the prospect of two for one vouchers that had been nestling in my wallet for some time that were about to expire. The place was predictable empty, not everyone is as committed to reviving the fortunes of the capitalist elite as myself you see. Apparently we can sit where we want, that’s nice.
“Have you been to a Gormlessly Banal Kafe?”
“Well just order over there at the counter, table number 15”
Err what, I just told you I have been here, why are you thus wasting my time re-telling me the frankly easy instructions. I don’t even know why they have this stupid policy, it would be quicker to just take my order than explain every time the stupid system to me regardless whether I want you to or not.
Anyway I ordered some burger action, some accompanying portions of their somewhat overpriced “fries” – they are not fries of course, they are chips but being pretentious New Zealand types they saw fit to lie to me – and a bottle of finest Budvar. A bottle that cost me five bloody quid. It’s not even a pint, it’s not even a swanky restaurant, it’s a fucking burger bar for homesick kiwi’s desperate for a fix of vile beetroot burgers. Why oh why was I duped into this purchase I will never know. Anyway done now. I sit down to drink my slightly too warm overpriced beer and await the arrival of the food.
Eventually a brace of plates turn up, each with a burger nestled in the centre, they are hurled onto the table and we’re informed the “fries” are just coming. I suspect the waitress was foreign, there were several clues, the thick accent, pretending to look like she cared rather than being outright rude, the utter lack of knowledge to the meaning of what “just coming” means. 10 chipless minutes later after several complaints two little bowls arrive with our “fries”. 10 minutes in which I’d consumed a good portion of my burger, somewhat rendering this fresh injection of food pointless as I ordered them together for a good reason, I wanted to eat them together.
Then and only then, once my mouth was full of blazing hot chip did another waiter type see fit to come over and ask
“is everything ok?”
“No it’s fricking not, your beer’s grossly overpriced and warm and the chips were not only late but almost lethally overheated”
Is what I would have said has I not been writhing in agony with a mouthful of hot starch burning it’s way through my mouth.
Shortly after we left in disgust.
I bid adieu to my mum and made my way to Sports Direct – a store, if you don’t know it, that as far as I can tell have a permanent sale of slightly crappy sports wear crammed into a space about 56% too small for the shelves. The result is it’s almost impossible to make your way through the place as a) You constantly ram into the jutting out rails, and b) when your not doing that your trying to get the plebe who’s blocking the aisle to get out of the way for 2 second whilst you pass.
Having negotiated my way to the “replica” sports wear section (as an aside the reason I want last seasons Chelsea away kit is, not as a gift to annoy Brad ‘The Whicket’ Downing (Man of the year 2007), but because it’s about the brightest item of clothing I’ve ever seen and ideal for preventing bus death crush action whilst cycling home, they are also grotesque and thus no one bought them causing the price to plummet when the much less vile new seasons version came out) I find the item in question and discover that alas there is no price tag. Now I bought some of these tops 6 months ago, in another branch of this horrifying chain for £12:50 so I am guessing they will be the same right?
I saunter across to one of the pimply oiks that pass for “sales assistants” as she checks out her hair in a nearby mirror and ask: “Excuse me, can you tell me how much this is?”
She snatches the garment from me, and proceeds to look inside for a price label. I can only assume she thinks I’ve never bought clothes before and thus might be unaware that some shops put the price inside…. Shockingly she fails to find it on a little label.
In fact she fails to find the price at all and tells me it’ll probably be £25 cause that’s the price of other things near it in the section. That’s a strange pricing policy I think, I regale her with the fact that they were £12.50 6 months ago before the new version came out but this seems to fall on deaf ears. To check properly, it seems, would interfere with her preening time so she was less than keen to do so. I decline to part with that much cash and can’t be bothered to waste more time so try to leave in disgust, this is hampered by a plebe blocking the aisle. I am outraged.
I make way to TV shop, buy a TV, they ask me for my address, for the warranty you see. I know this is a lie, they just want to send me crap but I am outraged out, I can’t muster an argument, I hand over my address in defeat. For shame…