Checkout Captain – a poem

Sometimes I need a checkout. I can’t be bothered to use the self-serve because I know I’ll have picked up the only loaf with a malfunctioning barcode or the deduction on the nearly-out-of-date Greek yoghurt will fail to deduct, or I’ll have to wait until the next Ice Age to get my £1.20 parking back.

There are few tills open at my local supermarket but there is always someone in one of those microphone headsets fitness instructors favour, and occasionally a giant foam pointy hand as popularised by Kenny Everett at the Tory Party conference.

I’d rather they served me but they clearly have cones to set out and health and safety warnings for spilt milk to add to aisle 3. Sorry, for the grumpiness. I don’t let it show. I fume in a quiet English way. Anyway, enough context.

My yoghurt gag was a big hit with the Portuguese

8 thoughts on “Checkout Captain – a poem

  1. I never use self-checkout! That means less jobs, and no human interaction. We don’t have foam hands here, just a pretty girl with a telesales headset who opens up a spare checkout for you.
    If it wasn’t Tesco Dereham, it would be all too easy to fall in love with her (fake) smile.
    Best wishes, Pete.

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