Part 3: Overheard in Waitrose

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To some he’s a spotty youth hanging around the check-outs; to others he’s just another shopper queuing for his free coffee. But to the Daily Drone he is TRAINEE MULDOON, our very own unexplained item in the bagging area (I just love that, don’t you? Ed) bringing you more gems from the nation’s most upscale supermarket. It’s all new. And it’s all true!

“Perry and the lads from the squash club now go to that new Wetherspoons. You know, where the DSS riffraff spend their benefit. I told him: ‘I don’t care if Stella is £1 cheaper, don’t come home to me if you catch something.’”

“I came to get another jar of that Suffolk Regiment’s Malabar Chutney Orlando’s always on about but then I remembered I bought it in that farm shop on the Godalming Road and I’m fucked if I’m schlepping over there.”

“Oh, yes, Marius is full of the Spanish golf trip but if he tells that story again about being asked if he wanted a jig-a-jig by two Filipina tarts outside Crystals Karaoke Bar in Puerto Banus, I’ll scream.”


“Melanie says she’s joined a Rock Choir. Well, if you want to stand around singing Can’t Smile Without You waving your iPhone flashlight and fantasising about Michael Ball, best of luck to you.”

“Mummy’s been teaching me the alphabet. A for Armani; B for Balenciaga; C for Chanel; D for Dior...”

“What’s the matter with that bitch on the fish counter? She looks as if someone’s shoved a thistle up her arse.” “She’d probably like that. No. Haven’t you heard: John Lewis has just cut the Partners’ bonus again.”

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“Then he comes in from the pub and stays up half the night watching that piece on Newsnight. You know, the one with the shiny legs. Whenever I look at her one thought comes to mind: grubby grey bra straps.”

“Hi, Tim. No. Normally I wouldn’t be seen dead in here but one can’t expect the little woman to carry all that wine, old boy.”

“No artichoke hearts. Again. So, naturally, I demanded to see the manager. Huh. Chance would be a fine thing. All I got was a spotty (Have a care - Ed) youth whose idea of fine dining was probably chicken nuggets and chips in front of Hollyoaks.”

“Just dashed in for some snacks for our table at the school quiz. Last time that bitch Abigail shamed me by serving smoked salmon blinis. Forget the quiz, it’s the Battle of the Nibbles.”

“No, I don’t go there any more. When I clocked Roberto, the stylist, swanning around in a brand new Cayenne I thought: Fuck this. I paid for that. Now a little lady off the High Street does me: unsophisticated but cheap.”


“I’d love to come but His Maj is meeting his little mates for Pie and a Pint Night at the Black Bull. Men never rise too far above the swamp, do they?”

“And did you see her at the rugby club for the World Cup Final? Holding court in the front row with her ra-ra skirt up around her arsehole. Talk about the happy hooker.”

As Christmas approaches (on mobile): “I know it ruins everything, Petra, but they’ve run out of fresh cranberries. Well, what do you want me to do now, Petranella, fucking grow them?”

“Christmas? Don’t talk to me. I went to that garden centre near Poppy’s school for flowering plants. Wall-to-wall winter wonderland. Couple in front of me spent the entire Ethiopian national debt on coloured balls and festive crap.”

Christmas? I hate it. If he says ‘Don’t bother about me, darling, I’ll just have an orange and a Beano annual like the good old days’ once more, I’ll scream.”

Christmas? Nightmare! If some one says ‘What do you get the man who’s got everything? Answer: antibiotics’ as if it’s a new fucking joke, I’ll die. I will!”


© 2005-2022 Alastair McIntyre