Rocket Man

I had to go grocery shopping this evening; my third least-favourite activity after dusting and being nice to children. The checkout at Sainsbury’s was being manned by Elton John: age 4. I didn’t think it was possible for someone so young to be so fat and so camp, but the two carat diamond earring was the icing on the fairy cake.

“Would you like some help with your packing?”

I don’t know why they always ask me this. It's quite obvious that I have arms.

“No.”

I had obviously laid down a challenge. I reached forward to take a shopping bag and his fingers twitched on a jar of pesto. We glared at each other. I was somehow having a Mexican stand-off in Sainsbury’s with a fat, gay four-year-old. The next moment, I grabbed a bag and he started firing items across the scanner at the speed of light – there was no fucking way I was going to keep up with him (especially while trying to place the heavier items at the bottom in a sensible and logical manner) and pretty soon I was swimming in Hovis and Lloyd Grossman sauces, empty bags flapping on my hands like pom-poms. Elton stopped scanning and looked at me like I was pathetic. I wanted to smash his head in with a chicken kiev, but I knew they’d tease me in prison if I went down for that. So I finished my packing and paid, resisting the temptation to say “Go fuck yourself” when he asked if I wanted cashback.

Next time I go to Sainsbury’s I’m going to buy nothing but 24-packs of Stella. That’ll show the bastard.