Pri-Cunt

Welcome shoppers, to Primark Oxford Street in glorious Cunt London for all your cheap couture needs.

Yes, welcome to shopping hell.

If there is a hell, it'll resemble either Primark Oxford Street or IKEA in Croydon. Two massive stores, which despite their size are still too small for the volume of human dregs who stumble punchdrunk through their open doors; wandering aimlessly like cattle seeking cud to chew.

Of course, I include myself amongst their ranks!

I should have known better - I really should - that POS (as it shall now be known) was going to be like Hell on earth. But, no! I convinced myself, in my infinite wisdom, that a trip to London's shopping Mecca at 6pm would be like a trip to the countryside; a genteel stroll through pastures green as I rubbed shoulders only with nature.

How wrong I was.

I bumped shoulders with the doziest fuckers London has to offer, including a fat fucking pork bone who was practically dancing up the fucking street, eyes closed, weaving like a boxer who's taken one punch too many, whilst listening to his fucking iPod.

As this arse bumped into me, he looked round - now that he'd managed to open his eyes - and bellowed: "Watch where you're fuckin' going, you twat!"

I eyeballed him before retorting: "That's a laugh. Try opening your eyes once in while, dickhead!"

"I'll fuckin' twat you, you cheeky cunt."

I laughed at him. "That's the funniest thing I've heard all year. Now go and jiggle your tits for me, fat girl."

Understandably he started to go for me, but was prevented by a gaggle of shoppers who walked through our little melee, all of whom were completely oblivious to the conversation that had just occurred.

As I walked away (quickly) I heard him bellow something unpleasant in my direction and I realised that one day my fast mouth will probably get me killed.

By the time I got to POS I was sweating like an eskimo in the Sahara, the stuff was practically oozing from my eyes (no, wait, those were just tears of frustration).

The scene that greeted me was one of chaos. Shoppers scraped shoulders, picked things up, threw them down, fought over items of clothing, wandered aimlessly as if seeking the Holy Grail of tat, stood in queues of unspeakable boredom.

And that was just the women's section.

Once I made it upstairs I realised the men's section was just as bad. Alpha males barged into Betas, men and women rifled through racks of clothing with crazy-eyed abandon throwing stuff over their shoulders as they sought out the perfect fit. Couples argued amongst themselves loudly enough to share their displeasure with the people closest to them, regardless of whether they wanted to hear it or not. Amongst these scenes of chaos I managed to find several items of summer clothing I considered acceptable and stood in a queue - a queue that didn't seem to be decreasing.

I was confused. I leaned across to the bored man next to me and asked: "Is this the queue for the checkout?"

The man laughed: "Funny, mate. Like me you're in the queue for the changing rooms. And like me you're probably praying this stuff fits."

He wasn't wrong. For twenty minutes I stood there until finally I got into the changing room.

I peeled off my soaking wet shirt and tried on item after item with a growing sense of dismay.

Nothing fit. The items were either too baggy or too small. Six items I tried, and all were unwearable.

I put my shirt back on handed the items back to the assistant who said: "Nothing fits?" with some degree of disgust.

I shook my head and, realising it meant more finding, and much, much more queueing, walked away shaking my head.

I wandered out of the shop with an empty sense of numbness and vowed never to come back - until next time.

As there's always a next time - regardless of our best intentions.