Earlier this week it was seen that Tesco were (apparently mistakenly) advertising for permanent slaves. Oops. In fact I believe the slavery contracts are supposed to be temp only. So, whatever, does anyone fancy going and working night shifts at Tesco for free? You know, learning really valuable skills that will look great on your CV? No? Well, I hope for you you’re not unemployed because you may actually not have the choice.
Anyway, there was justifiable outrage. There are calls to boycott Tesco. It’s a good reason to boycott them. Another good reason. If I lived in the UK I wouldn’t set foot in the place. For me it is the most despicable of the supermarkets, ruthlessly bullying farmers and small business owners in its quest for profit.
Other businesses are falling over each other to tell the world how they will not use Workfare. Tesco are mightily embarassed. They are working 24/7 furiously deleting critical posts on their Facebook page.
Tesco are not the only bullies outed by this furore. The world is finally opening its eyes to the government’s schemes to starve people back into work, to thieve back the benefits from those who need them most. The Department for Work and Pensions, led by Ian Duncan Smith are still churning out abhorrent policies which seem to be a deliberate attack on the most vulnerable.
What can you do? Not much actually. Write to your MPs, tell them how appalled you are at the government sponsored slavery and other initiatives aimed at stealing from the poor. Lend your support to the Boycott Workfare campaign. Boycott companies who are benefiting from the disgusting schemes.
And remember the Tories will not do anything to help you and me. It is all about helping the rich people. They may have squealed a little about the bonuses of the bankers a few weeks ago. But honestly? A few people’s bonuses aren’t going to change anything. Bonuses, despite what the press said, don’t create the recession. They may be pretty huge sums of money to you and me, but they are in fact peanuts in the whole scheme of things. Rich people are getting richer under the Tories. Which is fine. Nothing against rich people at all. It’s just when the government steals from the poor to enrich its friends that I feel very very very nauseous.
According to a university study, women who wear skirts in the office are perceived as more confident and higher earning than their trouser wearing counterparts. Almost 100 women were made directors of top companies in 2011. Lord Davies’ report told the Government to tell businesses that 25% of their directors have to be women by 2015.
I’m depressed by all this. Also by the ridiculous radio and TV ads for Lemsip and Boots which infer that men are weak creatures who are unable to struggle on given the merest hint of a sniffle (and in the case of Lemsip, are unable to look after their own children if their partner falls ill, meaning she has to struggle bravely on). I cannot do justice to a description of how incandescently cross hearing this dross at 6.40am this morning made me. There was rage. And I don’t even have children. Or a cold.
It’s like all these ‘Women in Industry’ awards. They also make me see varying shades of red. Oh, well done, you’re a laydee. Now, haven’t you got lovely shiny hair and an ability to be nice to clients? Just scribble your name there, petal, and we’ll pop you up for an award. I am making a sweeping generalization here but they make my teeth itch. If there was a ‘Men in Industry’ awards there would be an outcry.
I want to go out and conduct my own survey which reveals men should wear skirts to be taken seriously in the office. Throw in a painful pair of heels and we’ll soon see who’s left standing at the end of a long day.
He buys 8 Carlsberg, 10 Lambert and Butler and some sweets.
“That’s £10.23 please sir.”
He hands me a twenty. I run the counterfeit pen over it, because if I bank a fake it turns up again in my pay packet come Saturday. I key in “2000-ENTER”, the till opens, and I take out a fiver, four pound coins, a fifty pee, a twenty pee, a five pee and then…
“Here, I’ll give you 50 just to make it easier,” he says, handing me 50p.
Easier for WHO, you bastard?
“How much is a case of Carlsberg?” he asks. I count to ten in my head, then reply, “£10.99,” and gesture towards a stack of six cases of Carlsberg, on which hangs a sign bearing the gnomic and impenetrable riddle, “CARLSBERG – FULL CASE £10.99”. He tuts.
“It used to be £9.99.”
Yes, it did. It also USED to be 25p for a litre of petrol. It USED to be £25,000 for a 3-bedroom semi with front and rear gardens. I USED to be able to do it seven times a night. You USED to have a wife, until she got sick of being married to a skinflint alcoholic and left, leaving you with nobody to annoy except the poor bastards who work in the nearest off licence. BUT NOT ANY MORE. So unless you’re going to fire up your Tardis and fly us both back to the glory £9.99 a case days, it’s TEN NINETY FRIGGING NINE.
He buys a case anyway. But he’ll be back next week. And he’ll ask again, and I’ll tell him again, and he’ll tell me how much it used to be again, and it’ll be the same every week until one day I twat him round the head with the non-inflation proof lager and do a wee on his comatose form right there in the shop, the bastard.
To be continued…