There's a supervior position that has just become vacant at Primark, and it's naturally the talk of the town. Of course the real entertainment is observing whether or not some of the candidates are even going to successfully apply for the position, let alone obtain it. 'What's a covering letter?' Asks one perplexed adolescent, who appears to have had pot of value hair gel throw up all over him. What's a covering letter? How did they get this job in the first place? How do these people even dress themselves or find their way to work in the morning? Observing the undone top shirt button and the white socks and black shoes, the answer is all too apparent. Not very well. Another one queries, 'what do I put under 'hopes and ambitions?' Again George, dressing yourself? Finding your way to work? Finding a new hair product? Purchasing new socks? Is that enough, are we done here? There are only two applicants, and one of you is probably going to fall in to a skip on the way home anyway, which I would imagine might make the application process all but redundant. So don't put yourself out, just follow the trail of bread crumbs you scattered on the pavement to find your way home ok?
aaa
I'm not sure how this particular strain of stupidity began, or who thought it was a productive or useful response to a question, but a large proportion of the Primark clientel have taken to responding to questions such as, 'would you like to keep your hanger?' With, 'can do'. Forgive me, I thought I asked you a simple yes or no question, apparently what I asked for, was for you to inaudibly regurgutiate the simple options I gave you back to me. Can do, is not an answer, it's not a solution, you're an idiot. How have you survived the evolution process? The dinosaurs died out, yet somehow, inexplicably, you're surviving! Thankful no doubt, that rather than go out and hunt for food yourself, Tesco Metro is now responsible for bringing food back to your tribe. Otherwise you really would be staring extinction in the face.
I'm not sure how this particular strain of stupidity began, or who thought it was a productive or useful response to a question, but a large proportion of the Primark clientel have taken to responding to questions such as, 'would you like to keep your hanger?' With, 'can do'. Forgive me, I thought I asked you a simple yes or no question, apparently what I asked for, was for you to inaudibly regurgutiate the simple options I gave you back to me. Can do, is not an answer, it's not a solution, you're an idiot. How have you survived the evolution process? The dinosaurs died out, yet somehow, inexplicably, you're surviving! Thankful no doubt, that rather than go out and hunt for food yourself, Tesco Metro is now responsible for bringing food back to your tribe. Otherwise you really would be staring extinction in the face.
aaz
A large proportion of the Primark garments, I have concluded, must surely be bets by members of the design team. Assessments to discover exactly how stupid and how void of dress sense their customers actually are, and whether they will in fact buy absolutely anything. Today a woman waddles towards me, carrying something that I could only compare to a mutilated zebra. 'I can't believe this is £7!' She bellows enthusiastically. Neither can I love. Perhaps she had just been grossly misinformed about what was going to go on during her Safari holiday, I'm sure becomming one with the animals is allowed but not encouraged by most holiday companies, although looking at her it's probably the best thing that could happen. A life roaming the planes, bellowing sporadically, sounds like an altogether better fit. Sadly whilst her zebra print tarpaulin says 'safari', her tattoo says 'electronically tagged, passport revoked', so perhaps she won't be going anywhere after all.
A large proportion of the Primark garments, I have concluded, must surely be bets by members of the design team. Assessments to discover exactly how stupid and how void of dress sense their customers actually are, and whether they will in fact buy absolutely anything. Today a woman waddles towards me, carrying something that I could only compare to a mutilated zebra. 'I can't believe this is £7!' She bellows enthusiastically. Neither can I love. Perhaps she had just been grossly misinformed about what was going to go on during her Safari holiday, I'm sure becomming one with the animals is allowed but not encouraged by most holiday companies, although looking at her it's probably the best thing that could happen. A life roaming the planes, bellowing sporadically, sounds like an altogether better fit. Sadly whilst her zebra print tarpaulin says 'safari', her tattoo says 'electronically tagged, passport revoked', so perhaps she won't be going anywhere after all.
zzz
It was about two hours in to my shift when George made his attempt to reach out the hand of friendship. 'I got four girls numbers last night!' He proclaimed proudly. 'Let me guess George, two of them were joined together, one was a pirate, and the other a cousin?' I queried, only half in jest. 'Do you want to add me to MSN?' He proceeded, unfazed by my question. George, wow, I mean thanks, but you know, no. Not really. I mean, if it wasn't for the promise of £5.25 an hour, I've got to tell you, even this probably wouldn't be happening. Really, honestly, once we walk out those doors at 6.30, you're dead to me George. You hear that? Dead. But thanks though! George mutters something that I heard as 'you've got great fingers, I've got podgy farmers fingers,' before skulking off in to the stock room. Once again I'm led to wonder if I'm going to be hacked to pieces and stored in a freezer in some remote Norfolk village. A feeling that is proving to be a weekly occurance.
It was about two hours in to my shift when George made his attempt to reach out the hand of friendship. 'I got four girls numbers last night!' He proclaimed proudly. 'Let me guess George, two of them were joined together, one was a pirate, and the other a cousin?' I queried, only half in jest. 'Do you want to add me to MSN?' He proceeded, unfazed by my question. George, wow, I mean thanks, but you know, no. Not really. I mean, if it wasn't for the promise of £5.25 an hour, I've got to tell you, even this probably wouldn't be happening. Really, honestly, once we walk out those doors at 6.30, you're dead to me George. You hear that? Dead. But thanks though! George mutters something that I heard as 'you've got great fingers, I've got podgy farmers fingers,' before skulking off in to the stock room. Once again I'm led to wonder if I'm going to be hacked to pieces and stored in a freezer in some remote Norfolk village. A feeling that is proving to be a weekly occurance.
aaa
Finally the utterly ridiculous clocking machine is broken. How? The rather simple excersize of putting a hand in the machine isn't a test that anyone should be failing. What exactly have people been putting in there? Actually, forget it, I'd rather not know what they interpreted 'hand' as. But if the only alternative is for the mass ranks of complete imbeciles to make their mark with a cack handed cross on a sheet of paper, then what choice remains exactly? So as 6.30 drew close, the working day was proclaimed over and a scene reminiscent of the opening credits to Grange Hill broke out as children kitted out in shirts and ties bundled up the stairs, and I went home to drink myself in to my happy place.
Finally the utterly ridiculous clocking machine is broken. How? The rather simple excersize of putting a hand in the machine isn't a test that anyone should be failing. What exactly have people been putting in there? Actually, forget it, I'd rather not know what they interpreted 'hand' as. But if the only alternative is for the mass ranks of complete imbeciles to make their mark with a cack handed cross on a sheet of paper, then what choice remains exactly? So as 6.30 drew close, the working day was proclaimed over and a scene reminiscent of the opening credits to Grange Hill broke out as children kitted out in shirts and ties bundled up the stairs, and I went home to drink myself in to my happy place.
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