There’s something just wrong about Tesco. Sure, you can point to the fact that they saw fit to roll out price reductions to stores around the border whilst leaving the rest of us to pay higher prices.

You can then be suspicious about many of those reduces prices being increased on the sly.

You can accuse them, quite rightly, of ditching 100s of Irish suppliers to bring in cheaper goods from the UK. Not good for our economy and a good reason not to shop there.

But the worst thing about Tesco has got to be the shops themselves. There’s just this sense of grime and filth about them. As if existing on the edges of another, filthier dimension. Think about it, if you were in a Tesco and there was some kind of mysterious storm indoors, the lights went out, leaving only emergency lighting, and all the staff became zombies and started lurching around after you trying to eat your brains would you be even the slightest bit surprised?

Not me. And that’s the main reason I never shop there. I like my brains in my head and not in the mouth of some spotty shelf-stacker who stinks of Red Bull and John Player Blue.

Some places speak distinctly.  Certain dank gardens cry aloud for a murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwrecks. – Robert Louis Stevenson

And so it is with Tesco. The shops offend my senses, they make my skin crawl, I believe something fetid and foul exists within each one of them.

Even the discount German supermarkets, with their frozen lamb chops and low-fat malk, don’t come close.

Of course it’s up to you. If you want to risk it, who am I to tell you not to? But think about your brains getting caught between the teeth of the shelf-stacker. Or in the gap where his front tooth should be. Which he then pokes out with his skidmarked finger.

Bleurgh. I’d rather fucking starve than shop there.