"That girl who broke my heart all those years ago was cold, but not as cold as this." I thought this as I worked through a huge stack of boxes in the walk-in freezer. I had been asked to help out because I am a "strapping lad", and as soon as I walked into the freezer everybody disappeared. This is the leitmotif of retail: everybody is looking for a way they can waste time until they can go home, especially the managers. Before they all left me, I was presented with a jacket, a pair of ski pants and some fluffy boots, all of which stank like death and sweat. I attempted the freezer without any of them first. I realised my mistake after about three minutes: my hands were blue and I began shivering violently. My dignity took a battering as I donned the stinky ski-pants and ripe-smelling jacket and a pair of festering gloves. I left the boots of course, they weren't the over-the-shoe kind and I was glad to risk frostbite to avoid the mysterious quagmire each contained.
The freezer department at Christmas is an odd place. You would assume that it would be dead, everybody after fresh ingredients, or food items that would warm on a winter's day. But no, they want ice cream, sorbet, frozen cheesecake and most bizarrely frozen turkey.
"Have you got frozen turkey?" a woman asked me.
"We've run out," I said.
"What am I going to do now?" she said raising her voice and showing her teeth.
"Why don't you buy a turkey from the fridge and freeze it?" I suggested, but this did not quell the rage. She began to yell that if she wanted an unfrozen turkey she wouldn't be in the freezer department.
"The turkey's are the same," I said. "Some go to the freezer, some go to the fridge. They were slaughtered on the same day." I emphasised the word "slaughtered", hoping to fuel her insanity further, but she shouted:
"Forget it, I'll have to come back." And then she added, "Thanks for your help." She stalked off, hunting for her next opportunity for outrage.
The freezer was a bad job, but I wasn't on it for long. I was moved to what is known (by me) as "The Crippler". I am not a small man. I am tall, 6ft 7 inches tall. And The Crippler is a punishing onslaught. Most other people call it The Express Till, but that is too gentle a name. You are required to stand behind the till, serving people with no more than ten items, but everything is so low. The bags are a shin level, the till drawer is at crotch level and the screen is at naval level. I stand, hunched over, clutching my lower back and wincing with pain. After an hour, my legs become numb, my head aches and my pelvis starts twitching. Not in a good way. The worst thing is that people bring trollies full of food, clothes and miscellaneous items to The Crippler, and when you politely tell them it's baskets only, they look at you and say: "No, I'm not going to queue." So to avoid an argument you serve them, making the queue of sandwich-buying businessmen angry and aggressive. There is no winning in the retail trade, especially at Christmas. People are stressed and looking for the slightest excuse to wield their anger. The lowly sales assistant happens to be in harms way, all the time. I swear that most of these people have sales assistant-shaped dummies in a cupboard at home that they take out to knock around when life's frustration gets the better of them and they can't make it to an out-of-town retail development...
Friday, December 21, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
The Tyranny of Retail
People are obsessed over how busy the department store is. They ask questions, a fevered panic in their eyes as they mop their brows:
"Is it busy?"
"Not really."
"Has it been busy?"
"Not really."
"Is it going to be busy?"
"Probably."
Everyone is scared they may have to queue, or that they may have to stand in close proximity to fellow human beings for more than a minute. The customers that are present approach the tills with trollies so laden that it takes a good ten minutes to unload them onto the conveyor belt. They watch the screen with hungry eyes, noting each price, quick to shout if they think that someone (i.e. me) is taking advantage/ripping them off/sacrificing their first-born. But the worst thing is the fact that everybody is so pissed off:
"God," they all say. "I can't believe we have to do this for Christmas." Yes, we all simply have to. Otherwise we are not human, but mere vermin spreading Humbug and Filth wherever we go. Their bad moods continue so they are so consumed by themselves that the outside world does not exist. They talk but don't listen. I can say absolutely anything and nobody bats an eyelid. Recent examples include:
1. When a customer mentions Waitrose and then jokes, "Whoops I can't mention that name in here, can I?", the only civilised reply can be, "Don't worry, one corporate monster is the same as another." But no reaction can be registered.
2. It was rather hot, and I began taking off my sweatshirt (polyester, makes hair stand on end). As the customer stood gawping, looking annoyed at the delay I said, "Feel free to put a dollar bill in my g-string." Not even a blink. The customer just moved down to the end to consume plastic bags as if they were just another meal.
3. A customer accuses me (rightfully) of looking bored. The reply: "This place is the enemy of merry living." Again the blank face of down-to-business Visa card waving.
But despite all of this I am disgusted with myself. I had a performance review, and somehow I managed to score 100%. I have been at least ten minutes late everyday (believing it to be my sacred duty), I haven't been shaving too regularly and last week I forgot to wash my uniform which consists of one pair of trousers (polyester, make nuts feel like an electricity pylon), two t-shirts (polyester, clingy like an eighties football strip), one fleece/sweatshirt (polyester, unisex so there is lots of baggy, electrified material around my pigeon chest). Considering I am in every day, then this really isn't enough to remain fresh. But 100% in a retail performance review should be viewed as one of the lowest crimes against humanity. I have been questioning myself: Have I submitted to the machine? When did this happen? What if this is my gift, my vocation? Good God, all answers are bleak, and I felt it was the only decent thing to hand in my notice. I am, once again, heading for unemployment, but anything is better than this...
"Is it busy?"
"Not really."
"Has it been busy?"
"Not really."
"Is it going to be busy?"
"Probably."
Everyone is scared they may have to queue, or that they may have to stand in close proximity to fellow human beings for more than a minute. The customers that are present approach the tills with trollies so laden that it takes a good ten minutes to unload them onto the conveyor belt. They watch the screen with hungry eyes, noting each price, quick to shout if they think that someone (i.e. me) is taking advantage/ripping them off/sacrificing their first-born. But the worst thing is the fact that everybody is so pissed off:
"God," they all say. "I can't believe we have to do this for Christmas." Yes, we all simply have to. Otherwise we are not human, but mere vermin spreading Humbug and Filth wherever we go. Their bad moods continue so they are so consumed by themselves that the outside world does not exist. They talk but don't listen. I can say absolutely anything and nobody bats an eyelid. Recent examples include:
1. When a customer mentions Waitrose and then jokes, "Whoops I can't mention that name in here, can I?", the only civilised reply can be, "Don't worry, one corporate monster is the same as another." But no reaction can be registered.
2. It was rather hot, and I began taking off my sweatshirt (polyester, makes hair stand on end). As the customer stood gawping, looking annoyed at the delay I said, "Feel free to put a dollar bill in my g-string." Not even a blink. The customer just moved down to the end to consume plastic bags as if they were just another meal.
3. A customer accuses me (rightfully) of looking bored. The reply: "This place is the enemy of merry living." Again the blank face of down-to-business Visa card waving.
But despite all of this I am disgusted with myself. I had a performance review, and somehow I managed to score 100%. I have been at least ten minutes late everyday (believing it to be my sacred duty), I haven't been shaving too regularly and last week I forgot to wash my uniform which consists of one pair of trousers (polyester, make nuts feel like an electricity pylon), two t-shirts (polyester, clingy like an eighties football strip), one fleece/sweatshirt (polyester, unisex so there is lots of baggy, electrified material around my pigeon chest). Considering I am in every day, then this really isn't enough to remain fresh. But 100% in a retail performance review should be viewed as one of the lowest crimes against humanity. I have been questioning myself: Have I submitted to the machine? When did this happen? What if this is my gift, my vocation? Good God, all answers are bleak, and I felt it was the only decent thing to hand in my notice. I am, once again, heading for unemployment, but anything is better than this...
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The "Christ" of "Christmas"
"Now then, now then," he said, white curly wig and track suit aggressively up-front. "Welcome to the staff Christmas Panto."
I got told by my manager that I was allowed an hour for lunch, and I signed off my till thinking wonderful thoughts about the leisurely lunch I was about to consume. We normally only get either fifteen minutes or half-an-hour, so this was sheer luxury. There was a catch however...
The staff canteen was packed, every seat taken, tinsel and glitter everywhere with weird crepe paper things hanging from walls, chairs and tables. Tradition says that, a few weeks before Christmas, the staff a given the gift of a hour-long Christmas lunch. There was a sorry fruit salad in front of me as I sat down, the starter to a surprisingly good feed. Digestion, on the other hand, was not easy.
Firstly, there was the alcohol. Each table had a bottle of red and a bottle of white, and cans of beer for anyone who wanted them. This was, it should be noted, the very core of the working day at an out-of-town shopping centre, meaning the people before me currently quaffing like Roman gentry would have to work the rest of their day and drive home. I stuck to the water, distrustful of the alcohol - were the managers testing us, storing up a severe reprimanding for anyone to approach a till under the influence?
Secondly, it was the Christmas Pantomime - rehearsed and put on by the management team as an excuse for avoiding work. It was hosted by a man doing a lamentable Jimmy Saville impression. This man, it should be mentioned, was the same manager who told a cleaner it "was not like his job was hard." The lame joke was instantly more sinister when you realised Jimmy Saville was a brutal commandant. His turn was followed by an ABBA tribute, where four managers, decked out like cheap Christmas trees, in silver and gold, mimed to the record "Dancing Queen". People applauded limply.
Next up it was three women managers dressed as Freddie Mercury, miming to "Bohemian Rhapsody". These costumes made the women (slightly overweight and busty) look like Spanish truckers, with dodgy black wigs and stick-on moustaches. They were more clearly drunk than any of the other acts, and half-staggered, half-danced their way around a tiny stage.
Last it was The Kids From Fame, where the lead vocals were not mimed, but sung by a melodramatic bovine woman. It was all eyes clenched shut and fist aloft, and then at the climax of the song the store manager attempted some break-dancing. Once it was all over he stood up, out of breath and clammy, and wished "You and Yours a Merry Christmas" which would have sounded more sincere if he hadn't moved the mic away from his mouth and begun to leave the stage around the "Christ" of "Christmas".
We were then presented with crackers, turkey and trimming. And had less time to scoff it all down than we usually do, so the afternoon was full of indigestion and fatigue. Once down on the shopfloor the world returned to that echoing, piped in Christmas music and the miserable faces of Christmas shoppers, where your only master is the never ending conveyor belt of food and you feel like a robot with not enough RAM to rebel.
The worst thing was, that the management tried to be seen as team members and in cahoots with all the staff. The reality, this charade gave them more time not doing their job, and another opportunity to patronise an belittle. God forbid you don't hand-clap during "Merry Christmas Everybody" by Slade, then you will be singled out by a manager and forcefully told to get into the fun of it.
An interesting postscript: I went to the toilet today, and heard someone shouting into their mobile phone while in the cubicle. The shouts were punctuated by the rustling of toilet paper and then the flush. It was the cleaner-baiting, Jimmy Saville manager. And he didn't wash his hands...
I got told by my manager that I was allowed an hour for lunch, and I signed off my till thinking wonderful thoughts about the leisurely lunch I was about to consume. We normally only get either fifteen minutes or half-an-hour, so this was sheer luxury. There was a catch however...
The staff canteen was packed, every seat taken, tinsel and glitter everywhere with weird crepe paper things hanging from walls, chairs and tables. Tradition says that, a few weeks before Christmas, the staff a given the gift of a hour-long Christmas lunch. There was a sorry fruit salad in front of me as I sat down, the starter to a surprisingly good feed. Digestion, on the other hand, was not easy.
Firstly, there was the alcohol. Each table had a bottle of red and a bottle of white, and cans of beer for anyone who wanted them. This was, it should be noted, the very core of the working day at an out-of-town shopping centre, meaning the people before me currently quaffing like Roman gentry would have to work the rest of their day and drive home. I stuck to the water, distrustful of the alcohol - were the managers testing us, storing up a severe reprimanding for anyone to approach a till under the influence?
Secondly, it was the Christmas Pantomime - rehearsed and put on by the management team as an excuse for avoiding work. It was hosted by a man doing a lamentable Jimmy Saville impression. This man, it should be mentioned, was the same manager who told a cleaner it "was not like his job was hard." The lame joke was instantly more sinister when you realised Jimmy Saville was a brutal commandant. His turn was followed by an ABBA tribute, where four managers, decked out like cheap Christmas trees, in silver and gold, mimed to the record "Dancing Queen". People applauded limply.
Next up it was three women managers dressed as Freddie Mercury, miming to "Bohemian Rhapsody". These costumes made the women (slightly overweight and busty) look like Spanish truckers, with dodgy black wigs and stick-on moustaches. They were more clearly drunk than any of the other acts, and half-staggered, half-danced their way around a tiny stage.
Last it was The Kids From Fame, where the lead vocals were not mimed, but sung by a melodramatic bovine woman. It was all eyes clenched shut and fist aloft, and then at the climax of the song the store manager attempted some break-dancing. Once it was all over he stood up, out of breath and clammy, and wished "You and Yours a Merry Christmas" which would have sounded more sincere if he hadn't moved the mic away from his mouth and begun to leave the stage around the "Christ" of "Christmas".
We were then presented with crackers, turkey and trimming. And had less time to scoff it all down than we usually do, so the afternoon was full of indigestion and fatigue. Once down on the shopfloor the world returned to that echoing, piped in Christmas music and the miserable faces of Christmas shoppers, where your only master is the never ending conveyor belt of food and you feel like a robot with not enough RAM to rebel.
The worst thing was, that the management tried to be seen as team members and in cahoots with all the staff. The reality, this charade gave them more time not doing their job, and another opportunity to patronise an belittle. God forbid you don't hand-clap during "Merry Christmas Everybody" by Slade, then you will be singled out by a manager and forcefully told to get into the fun of it.
An interesting postscript: I went to the toilet today, and heard someone shouting into their mobile phone while in the cubicle. The shouts were punctuated by the rustling of toilet paper and then the flush. It was the cleaner-baiting, Jimmy Saville manager. And he didn't wash his hands...
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