Black, Johnny

I keep seeing mention of the coming of ‘Black Friday’ popping up in my social media time lines. This is indeed black news to me. I get a damp, oppressive wave of darkest gloom flooding over me, followed inexorably by the red mist of hysterical rage.

Next to people who start getting excited about Christmas in June, the people who get excited about Black Friday are my least favourite sort of people in the world. I would be inclined to think more kindly of serial killers than people who get excited about Christmas in the summer. Serial killers who are also early festive adopters would have to be executed though, obviously.

This year I actually deleted someone from my Facebook account for daring to be hyperactively enthusiastic about Christmas in August. I may have to start using the same, stringent rules for Black Friday enthusiasts.

For those of you who are blissfully unaware of what Black Friday is, it is something we have imported, lock, stock and depressing barrel from our American cousins.  It is the fourth Friday in November, and it is a day on which we are encouraged to binge shop to the point of insanity by the promise of bargains that make even the Boxing Day sales look meagre.

You would think, avid consumer that I am, that I would be sharpening my elbows in readiness, smothering myself in olive oil so I can slide through the cracks between shoppers, and flexing my credit card in delighted anticipation.

I am not.

I hate, and have always hated sale shopping. I hate the frantic rush to purchase things that you would never in your right mind, normally buy. I hate queueing. I hate being jostled. I hate not being able to browse.

Mostly I just hate crowds of people, so my worst nightmare is being crammed into Next with four thousand strangers fighting over a half emptied packet of novelty pants.

It transpires many people agree with me, but then they tend to confess that they shop the sales for electrical items rather than clothes, as if that makes it alright. It does not wash with me, mainly because I hate shopping for electrical items even when I have to buy them.  We had to buy a kettle earlier in the year after ours blew up from too much use. I ended up having a small melt down in John Lewis electrical department and had to go and have a lie down it was all so horrible. Why can’t people make aesthetically pleasing electrical items is what I want to know? Also, aesthetically pleasing items that actually do what I want them to do?

I don’t want my fridge to be able to talk to my kettle. I don’t want to have an oven that shows me back episodes of Emmerdale Farm while my chicken is roasting. I don’t want an electric toothbrush that plays ‘Turn back Time’ by Cher to wake me up in the mornings.

Nobody wants that.

Not even Cher.

So the thought of fighting someone over a toaster that can also iron my underpants makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth, sale or no sale.

So if you’re going to throw caution to the winds next Friday and find yourself half battering a stranger to death because you want the last shonky, Japanese telly from up the Asda, even though you already live in a four telly household and need another appliance like a hole in the head, don’t come crying to me about it.

I shall be spending the day in bed, drinking gin and playing knock out whist with the cat.

2 responses to “Black, Johnny

  1. The good news is that Asda, having helped to introduce the idea, has abandoned it.

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