By WH Smith
TAKE a look at the high street. Big names going down left, right and centre. But what about us? You’d think a bumhole like WH Smith, more of a skip than a store these days, would be ripe for bankruptcy.
Have you seen what we charge for a bag of crisps? It’s shocking. You’d be better off going to the little newsagents down the road, if it’s one we haven’t driven out of business.
But here we are. And here we will be until the end of time. Long after Pizza Express has served its last margherita, long after Paddy Power has gone into receivership, WH Smith will still be standing and so will you – in a long queue while our befuddled staff are still working out how to use the electronic tills.
Even after the apocalypse we’ll still be trying to fob you off with 20-year-old Toblerones or doing ‘3 for the price of 2’ deals on chocolate-coated cockroaches.
You’ll shop with us because you know no better, because faded, shopworn heritage and British mediocrity is all you know.
And what will happen when Brexit kicks in? I’ll tell you what. You’ll just be left with us. WH Fucking Smith. Sitting on the high street like a discarded Oasis bottle with a mouse nibbling it.
Because we are Britain, in all its overpriced, lukewarm, rundown former glory. We are Britain. You are us, and we are you.