As a fundamental part of our Saturdays, we are scouring supermarkets for Bloo Sweet Tulip in an increasingly desperate manner and in a wider and wider radius from South Manchester. Whether you make something of this says more about you than us, in our opinon.
Parking the car dubiously somewhere in the East of Manchester and not being fooled, at all, by the false bravado of the cheep of the remote control door locking, we headed in, the everlasting sadness smoking in our heart, causing our eyes to itch.
No. No Bloo, another dissapointment. A mixture of pain and familiarity. Sadness in the missing space. A silent defeat, another mark in the wrong column in the scorecard of the universe on Aisle 6, (which, we note, has ominously had ‘Brand Value’ stuff shoehorned into it. Begone, cheap biscuits. We cannot spare the space here. Go to the beer ailse or somewhere You can’t fool people you’re Aldi, Tesco, by having one unordered aisle, in the same way that I can’t fool people at work that I am a party animal by having half a Brooklyn Lager at the Christmas party)
Anyway, as we cast our eyes silently up to the heavens, or at least the terrible terrible roof, we saw this:
Method Toilet Cleaner
That’s another thing. Have you ever noticed the difference in roofing between a Sainsburys, a Tesco and an Aldi. You have, haven’t you. I mean it’s obvious. That tells you all you need to all you need to know. Whilst you were incorrect to draw meaning from the first paragraph of this review, you are quite correct to do so from an examination of the various supermarkets internal roofing policy.
Method Toilet Cleaner. We admit, embarrasingly, we’d never heard of it before, and we admit, naturually, we were charmed.
There it was jostled between the Harpic and the Domestos. Like a schoolboy on his first day, unwisely choosing to sit between the cool kid (harpic) and the bully (domestos) on the school bus.
‘Don’t be shy’ we thought. We might even have said it aloud. We hope not but we have to face the fact that we might have.
After checking that it definitely wasn’t a hateful ‘ecover’ product in disguise, we picked it up. For some reason, perhaps the lower case ‘m’ in the ‘method’, we got the impression it was an import from France. The neck of the bottle was slender. It was very chic. Certainly something cool enough to leave out on the coffee table when friends came over, to impress them in the manner that my mother used to with the ‘history of time’ book.
We were dubious, though. Something about it reeked of ‘environmentaly friendly’, which we hate in a toilet cleaner. We don’t want the namby pambiness of ecover on our germs. We want the remorseless, terminator style bullying of Domestos.
Anyway, we opened it and sniffed. If you can taste wine in fancy dan restaurants before they fill the glass up, you sure as shit can sniff a disenfectant before you buy it. A much bigger commitment.
It smelt nice, subtle but nice. The subtlety, combined with the shyness of the packaging and the loneliness of the space made us buy it. It looked so alone, crowded between bullies and cool things. Confident things. We knew how it felt.
Then we looked to our left:
There’s shelves of the fucking stuff! They look guady as kiddies fake plastic jewels, and look, surprise surprise there is the ecover
When we got back, disgusted, we looked on the website. lower case letters, meant it started out promisingly enough, but then we got to ‘biodegradable’ and gave up.
We haven’t really used it. We’re dissapointed. We thought we’d stumbled accross a rare lost treasure. In reality, though, we’d just happened across an outlier for another ‘oh look how green we are’ shit brand. Doutless tesco put it there making it look shy, an experiment in placement vs sales. Fuck you with your experiments, tesco. Fewer expermients and Alidi dalliances, fewer eco shit and more Bloo if you please. No wonder you are on the skids.
We went back to the car and home to the family which was waiting there for us.