Dear Exalted Conquistadors of Tesco,I write with regards to your methodical and thus far efficacious attempt to seize control of the world. The recession has brought great tidings of doom to your commercial enemies, and consequently has blessed you with an even larger market share, bringing you one step closer to your ultimate goal of a Tesco own brand Earth (less than half the price of the current planet!).
Alas, with all plots for world domination, there are the inevitable hindrances that present themselves at the most frighteningly inopportune times, such as vodka martini-quaffing British secret service agents seducing your sexy yet otherwise ruthlessly bloodthirsty scientist/dominatrix.
It may shock you to learn that the greatest threat to global Tesco homogeny is posed not by tuxedo-clad spies armed with an arsenal of high tech gadgetry and disarmingly witty rejoinders, but rather by the army of bumbling and ineffectual henchmen and yes, even henchwomen representing your brand at the frontline.
Where to begin? Perhaps with the grotesque assortment of human waste given the honour of manning the checkouts. The women are abrasive, surly strumpets; feckless ingrates unable to muster even the most base level of small talk one would expect from someone paid to deal with the public. The men are misshapen, slovenly social outcasts; they pause from counting the flakes of dandruff collecting on their shirts for long enough to lick their slimy reptilian lips as they ogle my lady friend and ask her for the fourth time in as many weeks if she has any ID, because, corr, she doesn’t look old enough to be buying alcohol, phwoar!
One could avoid these vile, inexplicably employed stains by taking one’s business across the street to Marks & Spencer. Unfortunately, one doesn’t earn enough to spend £17.99 on a pint of milk. Thus, I adopted your online shopping facility. I enjoyed the lack of spiritually dead, drool-stained “service” staff. I also enjoyed the endearingly abstract moneysaving tips provided as I shopped. Jameson Irish Whiskey: see cheaper alternatives – why not try Tesco own brand mineral turpentine?
Satisfied with my choices, I cautiously paid for the goods, already dreading the living, breathing horror that would deliver the groceries. How misplaced my fears were. The order was delivered by a pleasantly affable chap that bore a striking resemblance to house/techno (electronic music – not really my cup of tea) DJ Carl Cox. Food and drink at the click of a mouse button, celebrity delivery drivers; things were beginning to look up for Team Tesco. And then, like an uninvited mentally retarded cousin of a world leader bursting in to peace talks between Israel and Palestine and urinating on the treaty, then came the wine substitutions.
I shall assume that those of you in Tesco HQ are largely unaware of the intricacies of the wine substitution policy for online orders. It is as follows: should the bottle of wine the customer has ordered be unavailable, please ensure that it is replaced with a bottle that bears absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to the original request, short of giving them a bottle of Tesco own brand washing up liquid. For example, if the customer orders a 2003 Shiraz Cabernet, a suitable substitute would be a 2009 Sauvignon Blanc.
Even more staggering is that this generally occurs when one orders a wine that is on special. As far as I am aware, Tesco is not a newcomer to the supermarket industry. Therefore one would deduce that you would be au fait with the concept of supply and demand. If a specific product is advertised at a discounted price, demand will invariably increase. Accordingly, supplies of that particular product should be increased to a volume to meet the demand created by the marketing. Simple enough, right? Apparently not.
One could draw the cynical conclusion that this is a devious plot schemed up by the marketing department to lure in unsuspecting shoppers with a promise of heavily discounted wines of a certain standard, only to send them away with a bottle of the Chateau de Merde that hasn’t been shifting as many units as they would have hoped. Nobody else would pull this sort of a stunt. Oh, I’m frightfully sorry sir, we’re inexplicably out of those £500 Bentleys, however we do have a surplus of rusted pushbikes with flat tyres, bent handlebars and no saddle.
It’s not just the wine substitutions and aspiring sociopaths manning the checkout that are devaluing the Tesco brand. Might I also suggest that a smidgen of product knowledge be bestowed upon the in-store seafood aficionados. This should ensure that the next time a customer points out that all the mussels are open, they won’t have to wonder to themselves what the big deal is, because like, you know, how would you eat them if the shells were closed? Should you be unfamiliar with this bizarre law of the sea, mussels with their shells open prior to being cooked = food poisoning. Food poisoning = lawsuit. Lawsuit = bad press and compensation. I loathe the parasites that masquerade as personal injury lawyers, so let’s not give them free business, eh?
Whilst the stores may be littered with poorly trained seafood staff, loathsome and lecherous checkout operators, and cantankerous old bastards fighting over the last copy of the Daily Mail (not entirely your fault, I suppose), there are sporadic bursts of commercial sunshine. There are the obscenely cheap and delicious jam doughnuts, not to mention the mini jaffa cakes. Other than that, it’s really just a series of tremendously disappointing experiences that entrench one’s opinion of Tesco as a patently evil hyperconglomerate that would sell a child if it was left unattended for longer than a few seconds.
Complaints aside, I shall no doubt continue to endure the substitutions of a calibre one might expect from a visually impaired football manager listening to the telecast from a tennis match. But as I sip on the glass of pistachios that have taken the place of the 2003 tempranillo I ordered, I shall console myself with the belief that my letter has penetrated the deep recesses of the heavily fortified capitalist heart of Tesco, and the person reading this has resolved to act on my sanctimonious critique of What’s Wrong With Tesco.
Aye, they will cry loudly, no longer shall we offer ridiculous alternative products. Adequate product training and basic hygiene practices shall be imparted upon all employees as standard, they will proclaim as they slam their fists upon the table. Furthermore, they will utter as they tremble with the giddy joy one enjoys when faced with imminent and dramatically positive change, we shall cease employing checkout staff drawn from a gene pool that probably could have done with a splash of chlorine.
Heed my words, ladies and gentlemen of Tesco – you are fortunate enough to be experiencing one of those rare moments when the customer is right. Abuse your corporate monopoly responsibly, or risk becoming a universally hated purveyor of unadulterated evil that exists only because its reluctant and downtrodden patrons have no other feasible alternative – think Ryanair.
I concede that it would be wholly unrealistic to expect that all of my suggestions be implemented immediately. Slow and steady wins the race. Though when my next online order arrives and the wine is of the same grape that I requested and vintage is within a decade of the year advertised, I shall consider it a little victory. After all, every little helps.
Yours sincerely,
Eoinín McAlpine
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