Tom -v- the Apple Men

After a long hard day of sitting on a chair, pressing buttons and rubbing a palm shaped plastic box into a desk, I find myself in a devious quandary. A need – nay, should I say, a requirement, to purchase an Apple product by the next day as a gift – but with absolutely no desire to deal with the shit of the Blue Shirted Apple Men. My strict time frame, coupled with a well-honed inability for foresight and time management means I have exhausted all options involving the avoidance of human contact.

And so, with a grim determination worthy of a pre-chair lecturing Clint Eastwood, I set off. Within minutes I have sat down again on the tube, speeding like a globby droplet of God’s own ejaculate towards my destination.

Allow me to preface the next section of what I’m sure you’re finding is a quick-paced and invigorating tale by telling you the following. I do not enjoy shopping, and far less do I enjoy interaction with retail staff/sales representatives/whatever-tag-it-is the youths are being forced to use to dress up what limited paid experience they can cling to in this miasma of shit that is the job market/the turd of life. No, if I truly need to be questioned about whether I need help, I’d undoubtedly be better off seeking psychological advice due to my mind being too weak to allow me to dress myself.

With this in mind, I plan to purchase the item I need and leave as soon as possible. Arriving at the store (AMERICANISATION! GROAN!), I place headphone to ear and dive, focused and scowling, into the shop.

Immediately I find myself besieged. A man, a smiling, Blue Shirted fucking Man begins gesticulating wildly at me within milliseconds of my having erroneously entered his service territory. I ignore him, refocusing on the task at hand – but his desire to engage is far too powerful. By this point he has begun limb flapping at me with all the vigour of a flight traffic marshal attempting to guide a Boeing 727 through arctic tundra. I dare another step. Too far. The Blue Shirted Man is now within striking distance and before I can initiate evasive action the bastard has struck, lightly patting me on the shoulder.

‘Hello sir, can I help you?’

‘I just need to buy a case for the thing… I think they’re at the back of the shop, over there-‘ (I point, I am pointing to the back of the shop, over there) ‘I’m fine finding them myself, thank you.’

‘Oh yes, they’re just over there at the back of the shop – can I show you the way?’

May, it’s may I show you, you fu- ‘Really I’m fine, it can’t be more than 10 metres away.’

‘Ok, don’t worry – follow me!’

Great.

After the fucking Blue Shirted Man helpfully hands me the product – now less than half an inch away from my hand – which I’ve pointed out to him on the shelf in front of me, I flee to wait at the till to pay. Suddenly I find myself ambushed once more.

‘What are you looking for there sir?’

There? What? ‘Just to pay please.’

‘Heh heh – we can do that anywhere with these,’ he smirks, pulling from an unknown orifice some fund-sucking device, attached to what I can only assume is still being passed off as a phone and not something that could program nuclear warheads, giving me a wink that screams, mate – no one uses tills anymore.

I struggle desperately to control my rising bloodlust. Finally, it is done – I turn to leave.

‘Sir!’

Oh no.

‘Have a great day!’

It is 8 o’clock on a rain pissed February evening. Fucking Blue Shirted Dick.

Image by tiseb courtesy of Flickr