The Big Tesco

It's Britain's unofficial meeting spot.

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Every town has two Tescos. There's the little Tesco where you nip in for milk and somehow spend £18.

Then there's The Big Tesco.

Not just a supermarket. A day out.

You don't say you're "going shopping."

You announce it.

"We're off Big Tesco."

Like it's Alton Towers.

You need supplies. You need comfortable shoes. You need a vague sense of emotional readiness.

Because The Big Tesco isn't just where people buy food.

It's where Britain goes to exist.

You could stand by the meal deals for ten minutes and see more of humanity than three years in Downing Street.

There's the bloke who's clearly only come in for one thing, carrying a single plug adaptor like it's an embarrassing medical prescription. His hair all over the place. Looking nackered from life. He’s only come out to get away from his Mrs and three kids for a bit. To have a rest. The modern day, great escape.

The pensioner inspecting every cucumber as though choosing a successor to the throne.

The mum steering a trolley one-handed while conducting hostage negotiations with a toddler who's furious about the concept of fruit whilst talking on her phone.

The dad who's been sent for "a few bits" and is now video-calling home from the pasta aisle because apparently there are twenty-three types of penne.

The retired couple who've somehow chosen 11:58 on a Saturday to stand perfectly still across the entire width of the meat aisle, discussing whether their next door neighbour Sharon's extension was "a bit much."

The teenager buying exactly one energy drink and a vape charger with the confidence of a man negotiating an oil deal. The smelly goth.

The student surviving entirely on beige food. Freezer aisles and then he’s out of there.

The gym lad with enough chicken and protein yoghurt to feed a full size bear.

The woman who's buying twelve birthday cards because she only ever comes to Big Tesco twice a year.

The man in paint-covered pants staring into the reduced section with the concentration of a bomb disposal expert.

The couple having a full relationship-ending argument beside the hummus.

Nobody even looks up.

It happens every Saturday.

Then there's the staff.

One woman has worked there since decimalisation and can tell you exactly which aisle moved the gravy in 2006.

One lad stacking yoghurts has somehow become the unofficial therapist for half the town.

The lass with piercings and a face that clearly shows she absolutely hates it here. She sits all day thinking about her future choices.

The security guard knows everyone's business.

He doesn't stop shoplifters either.

He just watches them with the expression of someone who's accepted that this is how civilisation ends. Not worth getting battered over a few packs of sirloin, is it.

The cafe is full of people who clearly came in for toothpaste three hours ago.

There's always someone treating a £5.95 all-day breakfast as if it's a Michelin-starred tasting menu. “It’s cold and it’s crap meat this Sheila, I’m going to complain” Have a day off John you big grass.

The toilets have seen things. Terrible things.

The clothing section contains jumpers nobody would ever intentionally buy, until suddenly it's December and you're standing there thinking, that will do for uncle knobheads Christmas present.

Eventually you leave.

£127 lighter.

Without the one thing you originally needed.

You don't remember putting half the trolley in.

You suspect the trolley filled itself while you were distracted by discounted wine.

Outside, someone is loading enough bottled water into a Nissan Qashqai to survive societal collapse.

A child is licking the trolley handle.

A seagull is harassing folk as they cram everything into their car boots. Little gobshites.

Discarded trolleys have been left because nobody has the physical or mental energy left to put them back where they belong.

Rain has started despite there not being a cloud ten minutes ago.

It's all perfectly normal though.

Because The Big Tesco isn't really a supermarket.

It's Britain's unofficial meeting spot.

A place where every version of the country quietly bumps into every other version over the self-checkouts, mutters "Cheers” and carries on.