Well ASDA Stores Limited to quote your full title, leaving aside for a moment your retina damaging uniform & overall colour scheme which, together with the blinding white lights could easily convince a visually impaired old widow to mistakenly believe she’s reached heaven’s gates in a Soviet Aircraft hanger guarded by socially impaired wobbly-looking limes (particularly when stood shopping next to the limes). You farmer-murdering, price-fixing, petrol-contaminating, wedding dress-devaluing illuminous Nazis!
Looking for differences and individual idiosyncrasies at your 500+ stores is rather like attempting to visualise the range of facial expressions portrayed by Jean Claude Van Damme‘s denim-clad characters. If only Benny & Bjorn from Abba had been called Stefan & Dieter then they would’ve got there first making Asda Eurovision winners & visiting Abba in a Volvo a chore that joined Ikea on miserable Swedish-themed Sundays.
Your ubiquitous stores appear closer to retail states enforcing their own municipal independence fronted by authoritarian military watchmen in the form of petrol booth personnel & trolley soldiers. The latter whilst under heavy bombardment from repeated strategic attacks leaving their wonky-wheeled ammo crate containers scattered willy nilly about the endless concrete eyeline of no man’s land. In swallowing up whole postcodes rather like an eternal lifesize acquisitional board game of RISK before Tesco nuke Prussia, Assocaited Dairies (the one you know as ASDA) will not surrender the land of it’s Leeds Head Office in the battle to gain Britain’s largest hyper-mega-supermarket franchise (they’ve already won the Worldwide War aka W.W. Why Pay More?).
Having said all that, your range of humus dips ain’t bad.
Here is my ‘local’ (relative to other warzones) Asda’s origins;
The narrator drops two absolute pearls of 60s sexism almost side by side;
“While men are buying what they want, the other sex can replenish their wardrobe knowing that there’s a husband within call to pay the bill”
The George clothing range has always been the reserve of glamourous luxury after all…erm hang on. This is swiftly followed by;
“There seems to be no reason why a woman wouldn’t spend a whole morning here, before going to the pictures in the afternoon”
Ah yes, she deserves to relax after a punishing schedule changing her hair-dryer settings before slaving over the nail file. The freedom for WAGS today was indeed a fight harder fought than the queue outside the boutique on Saturday mid-mornings.
Next post i promise to write about something i actually enjoy…