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Is it me, or is there something horrifically flawed in Western society? Who knows? Who cares? I'll just complain about how shitty my job is. That's much easier. Yes, I am a tiny, brittle cog, rotating in the dark bowels of an enormous corporate machine. This machine is fed money and excretes products for the consuming public. Occasionally it makes a "ping" sound and bellows "EVERY LITTLE HELPS!" terrifying small children and retarded 20-year-olds. The machine is swelling to unimaginable new proportions, having become the largest supermarket chain in the UK - there, my secret shame has been exposed to public scorn. I work part-time at Tesco's supermarket. I'll try to explain in the following diatribe, punctuated with oh-so-irrelevant pictures, why it is a crap job.

My main gripe about the job is the patronising, euphemistic bureaucratic bull shit they "train" you in before you can become part of the "Team". Can you see what I'm driving at? "Team work" "Team cooperation" "Team skills" "Team player" "Team Leader" "Team sitation" "Team suicide attempts". They drill the concept in your head that Tesco is one big happy family, where everyone from every ethnic minority, lumbered with every disability, loves their job and loves their co-workers. Passionately. And everyone is respected and given stimulating, exciting "tasks" to fulfill. Anyone who has done a mundane part-time job in the public sector will instinctively know this is a tragic fantasy. What really depresses me is that the people at Head Office actually think we care about their politically correct concern for our professional wellbeing. Four times a year, we are sent exuberantly colourful forms, asking us what "progress" we have made, and how we wish to progress further. We are constantly reminded of the golden rule when dealing with customers: ECOH! Wow! It's an acronym, how "funky", and I bet it's really important! "Every Customer Offered Help". Phew, without that handy acronym to guide me, I could have told a customer to go fuck himself when he asked me where the popadums were! Thank you, faceless bureaucrats!

They even call the security guards "Customer Champions". How nauseatingly lame is that? "Hey I'm a cop"; "Hey, I'm a bouncer"; "Hey, I'm professional kick-boxer"; "Hey Mo-Fos, I'm a Customer Champion" GET OUT YOU FUCKING GIMP!

I spend most of my time shoving shopping trollies about, getting the CDs and DVDs for the empty boxes of films and music which customers buy, and for 90% of my shift, sitting behind a cash till at the checkout. This, in itself, is not so horrendous; most work involves monotonous repetition of mindless tasks. However, there is a factor, a factor so irritating that it has the power to push me over the edge of sanity. Customers. Some of them are alright, but there is a glut of living abortions who I have to serve, and it would be my deepest pleasure to strangle, garrotte, behead and generally massacre each of them one by one. I've categorised the worst offenders...

Fat People

Christ, they're everywhere, aren't they! All I need to see is the trolley, stuffed to its bulging sides with grease, lard and processed "treats", and I know that its an uncanny parallel to the sweating, hairy-palmed hippopotamus waddling along next to it. Naturally, there is a higher ratio of human balloons in supermarkets, because they need more food than anyone else, so they have to make more regular trips. If you're lucky, you may see a whole family of chubsters, gazing at the broad aisles of heart-clogging products, visibly foaming at the mouth. Even when they want to lose weight, they still come back to buy the same crap food, masquerading as "the slimmer choice" or "90% fat free". Nevertheless, they tend not to say much when I serve them, so I guess they could be more irritating. Why should they waste time chatting to people they don't know? There's food to be eaten!

Middle-aged, Self-Styled Comedians

These pricks always start the conversation as they approach me by widening their eyes so that they bulge out of their sockets like melons. With a stupid grin, they declare, "You look bored!" Well, no shit, Sherlock! After 8 hours of scanning through the shopping of grade-A wankers like you, its actually quite difficult to keep up that fixed smile you see on adverts for the store. I pretend to be slightly amused by the guy's idiocy, giving a barely audible "hah" in response. It is vitally important to never look directly into the eyes of these people - it will make them think you like them. "BEEP!" mimics the prick, presumably trying to make light of the fact that the checkout machine "beeps" as I scan an item through. HA-FUCKING-HA, Arsehole! You should be on TV!

Insane Old People

Heh, they're pretty funny actually. They always pay in cash, and their decrepit, chewed-up old hands shake around all over the place as if they're being electrocuted. They can never hear anything the first time you say it, so they stare into your eyes in melancholy bewilderment until you repeat it. I don't really mind these traits because they can't help being old, as I guess I will be one day *shudder*. It's the pompous few I disdain; the supercillious old spinsters who reel off their entire life story and then ask you questions to test if you've been listening. One old crone remarked, as she counted out her payment in one penny coins, "I know so much about this town; I could write a book about it." It took all my self-control at that moment to resist screaming "SO FUCKING WRITE YOUR BOOK AND STOP DICTATING IT TO ME, YOU OLD BITCH!"

In conclusion, part-time jobs are important as a source of money, and every teenager and student should have one. Just don't join a supermarket. Try as they might to make it a fun, team-building, invigorating experience, its crap.

Now, now, who's been accessing porn sites?