Category: Comment

One thing that’s always bugged me about going to buy a new pair of training shoes is the level of customer service you get from the sports outlets. Maybe I’m just going to the wrong stores, but in Britain I’m usually served by monkeys who are paid peanuts and have absolutely no desire to be helpful to the customer.

The other day I went into JJB Sports in the retail park nearby with the intention of buying a new pair of trainers. I want to use the new shoes for general wear and also to play tennis, plus whatever other running around I choose to do. Immediately upon entering the shop I’m confronted by a wall of what can only be described as fashion accessories. The shoes were so flimsy that there was no way I could justify spending upwards of ?50–?60 on a pair that would be coming apart after a few games of tennis (like the Nike’s I have at the moment). So that makes the choice of shoe that much more difficult – I don’t want a flimsy pair, nor do I want a particularly garish pair.

However, even if I could live with flimsy, avoiding garish is near impossible – it’s like they’re trying to fucking outdo each other in some warped vulgarity competition. My current Nike’s are bordering on garish, but I thought they seemed robust enough to cope with some running and tennis. I thought wrong, as they’re coming apart in less than six months.

After browsing the shoe shaped fashion disasters before me in JJB Sports, I finally narrowed my choice down to a white and blue pair of Nike Air Pegasus. They weren’t the most sturdy pair of shoes on offer, but they had a nice colour scheme and were on sale at ?49.99. I fetched a nearby sales “assistant” and asked if I could try a pair of size nines on.

Over a squealing and squelching walkie talkie he mumbled a vague description of the “blue and silver Nike’s” to the equally disinterested individual on the receiving end. In my mind alarm bells were ringing straight away, as not once did he mention the words Air or Pegasus, descriptive terms that I thought would help identify these shoes from all the others, being as they were the only Nike Air Pegasus shoes on the shelf.

I can say whatever I like here, really, because Amish people don’t use the internet. Probably. Well, by process of elimination, I’m fairly confident that AMD doesn’t stand for Amish Micro Devices and, even if it did, electricity isn’t their thing. The chances are high I’m not going to be found “accidentally” suffocated at the bottom of a grain tower if I mock them.

That’s not the purpose of this post, though, it’s to marvel at their building skills. We’ve all seen these DIY programs on tv where a team come in and transform a room or two in a well edited couple of days work. But after an Amish couple had their house torn apart by a tornado, the members of Club Medieval rebuilt it in just 15 hours. That’s awesome.

As the song goes; tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 1699

I mean the Milky Bar Kid from my childhood – the late 70’s and early 80’s, who’d save the day each time the banditos attempted a milky bar heist. He must be well into his 30’s now, and I often wonder where he ended up.

I bet he’s in some really dull job, like working in a pension processing depot. Maybe to this day he’s still riddled with the insecurity that causes him to stand up on a wooden box at afternoon tea break time and announce “The Milky Bars are on me!” so he can remain popular.

I bet they all rip the piss out of his cowboy outfit at the pensions depot. Not to his face, obviously – they wouldn’t want to miss out on their afternoon Milky Bar, not that he’d ever deny them. Secretly, though, it eats away at his soul that they ridicule him whilst being perfectly happy to undulge in his wares.

Some days are worse than others – he’ll catch himself in such dispair that he starts to wonder how much more respect he’d command if his guns weren’t plastic. But no, that’s not the kind of recognition he wants. He just wants someone to show him some unconditional love that isn’t bought by sweet white chocolate favours.

He never regrets taking on the mantle of The Milky Bar Kid, though. He made a promise to protect and distribute, and each time they sung The Milky Bar Kid is tough and strong it swelled his heart with so much pride he felt that he would burst with happiness.

It wasn’t a job, it was an honour and a privilage.

If he has one regret, it’s not following things up with that cute mexican girl who would gush “Eets da Meelky Bar Keed!” each time she saw him. At the time his young ego adored the fact she was so in awe of his pristine white uniform and undeniable talent for thwarting banditos. Perhaps if just once, instead of basking in the worship of those who were feasting on his Milky Bars, he’d instead turned to the cute mexican girl and told her that hers was the face he looked for in the crowd each time.