Opinion: Robert McNeil: Thereby hangs a retail as customers are all over the shop

Further away still, there are other shops, for cosmetics, gewgaws and footwear, but generally speaking I poo-poo these. I could poo-poo for Scotland, me.

It was with a dangling jaw and dripping saliva, therefore, that your correspondent exclusively watched the scenes in England when the shops reopened. In Scotland, today, parents can often be found pointing their infants in front of the television news and saying “Look, that’s England. That’s how we could end up if we don’t do what Nicola tells us.”

Truth is, of course, we’re just doing all the same things a week or two later. We are using the English as an experiment, much as they did to us with the poll tax. At the time of dictating this article, we’re planning to follow suit anyway, and I expect the scenes to be just as desperate.

The most telling pictures from England contrasted the scene at newly reopened Westminster Abbey, where three folk turned up to hear some top bishops, and a Nike Store, which was mobbed. My researchers tell me the punters were desperate for designer trainers.

I’m not meaning to sound wilfully obdurate but who cares if your trainers are made by Nike or Matalan? I don’t spend all my time looking at other people’s feet. Like the Finns, I spend all my time looking at my own.

Primark also featured heavily in the coverage. Folk have tried explaining to me the nature and purpose of Primark, TK Maxx (why do I keep thinking that’s a brand of socks?) and that one that sounds like a laundry label. But none of it sinks in.

I did stick my head in a Superdry once but it seemed to set off an alarm. I was already retreating anyway, aware by the furnishings and decor that this was not aimed at the Man of Taste.

Online, another front opened in the never-ending World War of Opinion, when the usual ultra-sensitive people hit back at those allegedly sneering at those in the queue for Primark, accusing them of being “classist”. This news just in: I micturate on all your -ists. Classist. Did you ever hear the like?

I have lived much of my life among the working class and can confirm that most of them are utterly dense. Arguably, however, they are not as clueless as the middle class. I know nothing about the upper class, other than that they should all be arrested.

High-heid yins across Britain have called for people to shop out of a sense of “patriotic duty”. This is a noble idea, particularly if your patriotism is directed towards China or Bangladesh, where most of the goods are made.

If I’m absolutely honest with you, and not lying as I have done in this article hitherto, I wouldn’t mind a wee daunder roond Markies in Inverness or John Lewis in Aberdeen. There is an air of civilisation about such places, much more than you’d find in an abbey, with its cold, grey, inhospitable stone and detectable odour of dampness.

I look forward to haggling at the tills once more and trying on about 42 T-shirts till I find one with a big enough logo to disguise my moobs. Of course, all such garments will have to be disinfected afterwards though I think that, even before the virus, they used to burn anything I’d tried on.

Shops: they’re all part of life’s rich tapestry. As a return to normal life looms, therefore, and the warped lives we’ve lived for months are put behind us, let us weave our way to the shops even if, by the time I get there, I bet there’ll be nothing weft.

Loose ends

LIKE most decent ratepayers, I enjoy reading about the end of the world. It gives one hope.

This week, it was revealed that a rereading of the controversial, and arguably crap, Mayan calendar means the world will probably end this week.

Older readers may recall the calendar was originally interpreted to mean the world would end on 21 December, 2012. A few wackjobs took to the hills, as if that would save them, but most folk carried on as normal. And, of course, nothing happened.

Now, we’re telt there was mix-up matching the Mayan to the Julian and Gregorian calendars and, this time, we’re fur it. Ach well.

At the time of this article being glued to the page, tensions are rising between China and India, and North Korea and South Korea.

China and North Korea are both classed by the United Nations as “nutter countries”. However, of these two, only China is supposed to have nuclear weapons. Thank goodness for that.

That said, to my mind, only decent countries should be allowed nuclear weapons, as they are more likely to fire them off responsibly.

In the meantime, disappointingly enough, I suspect the end of the world is no’ nigh the noo.

Bin of fear

IT’S difficult to pinpoint the time when instructions accompanying household items and tools became ridiculous.

Possibly, it started with Ikea and their minimalist instructions consisting of a few cartoons and some hieroglyphics.

Often, today, you find the little pamphlet you get with many items has an “instructions for use” section consisting merely of the words “good luck”, but preceded by a massive list of “safety instructions”, such as “Do not use this toaster for a sun tan”.

Most of this is legal back-covering to forestall being sued by somebody who used a barbecue lighter to set fire to their own head.

This week, singed eyebrows were raised by an Amazon item that warned: “The user assumes all risk of injury due to use.” It advised readers to “read and fully understand the safety instructions”, adding that “while every attempt is made to ensure the highest degree of protection in all equipment, we cannot guarantee freedom from injury”.

“This product,” users were sternly warned, “is not a toy.” Jings. What it could be? A bazooka? A table saw? Nail gun? Nope. A bread bin. Honestly, what a load of bannocks.

Not bright

WHILE I’m on a roll, here’s something else terrible about the so-called modern world: sorting the brightness on your telly.

Back in the good old days, when Sir Harold Macmillan sat on the throne and we’d never had it so good, you adjusted the brightness by turning a knob on the set. Job done.

Now, you must figure out which of your three remotes you need to examine to find the dreaded “settings”. There, you might eventually find a section headed “Picture”, which contains much tripe about “aspect ratios” – que? – but nothing about brightness

Next, you make a huge mistake: you go online for help. Here, you find nearly every piece of advice is for a portable telephone. Who watches films on that tiny device? Oh, young persons do? Well, at least we’ve a new explanation for why they might go blind.

Even if you do find something applicable to an actual television set, you’ll be advised to select, from a drop-down menu, a heading that is never, ever, ever ruddy there.

So far, it’s taken you about an hour. And you’re still in the dark. It’s disgraceful.

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