Dear Mars

devastation

I got a choc bar out of the machine just then, a Twix Fino (sounds like a Chilean gigolo, a chicoglo?). It felt smashed when I held it but I ludicrously hoped it might be encased in some kind of futuristic choc-bar-inner-sleeve-bubble-wrap. But it wasn't, as you can see from this shocking footage shot at the scene.
I've sent it back to Mars along with a note which I've added below as I want the internet to think I'm as funny as that prick who sent the smug letter to Branson about the toilets on Virgin rail or something.

3/5/11

Dear Mars,

I bought this the other day and thought you’d like to see it. It was from a vending machine but the bloke who fills them up isn’t around so I thought I’d go straight to the source.

No idea what happened to get it in such a state but I was forced to purchase an alternative bar, made by what I thought was your arch rivals Galaxy. I see however you make them too so you’ve got me there.

A mate of mine years ago said his dad sent back a busted Mars bar and received a massive box of chocs in return. I’m not after that but I would like a different bar to the smashed one enclosed. I took a punt on buying the less fat option and it’s backfired horribly.

Yours,

Biff Bifferson III

Get knotted Tescos, you too Sainsbury's

Give me my Cornettos!

After months of putting it off I eventually gave in - beep! - and used the self-service bit at the - unexpected item in the bagging area! - supermarket. I'd been putting it off but a steady reduction in the number of people tills has combined with the rise of the DIY ones - like they're forcing us into their self-service ghetto by stealth.
If your stuff all has barcodes on then it's not too bad, although sometimes it just refuses to read the code so you're swaying a tin of beans back and forth like a rummy sailor trying to start a sea shanty. And if you've got anything crazy like loose potatoes then it turns into a really cruddy version of The Crystal Maze as you try to find the nearest approximation to what you're holding on their bizarre computer menu while a harrumph of waiting shoppers give you the stink-eye.
But that's not the main problem, it's getting the stuff into the bag without being shouted at by the horrible, prissy voice they've detailed to shame people into paying for the plum they've tried to sneak through.
I had to give up because the whole thing was getting too much. I picked up my beans and cornettos (that's two items, you've not missed an incredible fusion) and spluttered at one of the assistants who patrol the area, 'you should have more staff on and less of this... rubbish' while gesturing wildly at the crowd, each huddled with grim determination over their own machine, wildness in their eyes like kids who'd cracked the eternal-free-credits code on Defender. The assistant blinked at me before turning to aid an old war hero who was struggling to accept that his CurlyWurly remained resolutely 'unidentified'. I dumped my stuff and disappeared into the night, beaten but not mortally so. I shall return...