Ten things I hate about : Waitrose

In a new series of blog posts, I’ll be spending Sunday’s having a well informed rant about something I take completely unfounded umbridge against.

This week, on the shit list of things I hate.


Here goes.

10 things I hate about Waitrose

Having to listen to Sebastien & Lorna from Clapham* discuss which halibut recipe they’re going to cook tonight in aisle 10 and weighing up which of their mother’s makes the best tapenade, whilst you’re busy peeling yourself off the floor at the price of a single onion.

*pronounced Claaaahmm

Hearing the wails of middle class white women who can’t find the capers, the BLASTED CAPERS GODDAMIT. Before preceding to take out their anger at the fact that their dinner party’s amuse bouche has been utterly ruined on the poor unassuming Saturday lad who is literally just working there to pay to take his Mrs to Nando’s

The fact that their essential range is anything but essential. Realising you’re getting ripped off and then watching families in Balham ‘cutting back’ by buying white label halloumi and white label quinoa because they’re proper feeling ‘the pinch’.

You yourself trying to purchase from the essential range but realizing that Waitrose considers Ardennes patê and cambozla cheese as ‘essential’ goods, whilst you were, at best, hoping for a roll of cling film and a pack of see-through ham.

Watching Little Archibald have a shit fit because they don’t have his favourite flavor of organic popcorn in store and he really doesn’t want anything else in tomorrow’s prepared lunch.

Mummy. Please.

Questioning your own sanity when you go to buy some olive oil and realise that they have it on offer for £18. Wondering if you aren’t in fact on Croydon High Street like you believed you were. But perhaps you are in fact in the food hall at Harrods

Having to step over anywhere between 1 and 15 French bulldogs to get through the front door. French bulldogs normally going by the name of Liza. Or Pedro.

Only being able to buy padron peppers. Not standard peppers. Padron peppers. Getting them to the till only to realise that a) the only time you’ve eaten these before was pissed at a beach bar in Gran Canaria 6 years ago so have zero clue what you’re supposed to do with them and b) they’re the same price as the entire contents of your make up bag.

Leave it out. 

Not being able to lay your hand on a single normal biscuit. Not a ginger snap nor bourbon in sight. Cos if it aint gluten free and made of rice flour milled in the hills of a remote Indian village, you aint dunking it in your tea.

Bumping into Sebastien again in the cheese aisle whilst he proclaims to anyone that will listen, in a voice that really does project, how much he ruddy loves a bit Boursin.

Pipe down son. Pipe down. 




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