Sunday, September 14, 2003

Fuck Ikea and its semi-disposable flat-packed monstrosities -- and fuck the people who spend their Sunday afternoons at Ikea's soulless, joyless cathedrals of homogenous middle-class blandness.

I left Ealing at lunchtime and headed for Walthamstow for Sunday lunch with triathlete Phil and his wife Claire, who's due to give birth to their first child in a matter of weeks.

As I hit the North Circular the traffic ground to a halt. It took 40 minutes to get from Hanger Lane to Wembley (a journey of a couple of miles).

I assumed there had been some horrific smash somewhere and expected to see a pile of metal twisted around the central reservation somewhere.

But no.

A section of one of London's major roads had been brought to a near stand still by people trying to get to fucking Ikea to buy sofas that'll fall apart in a fortnight and wardrobes that won't even last that long. Once I passed the store my speed increased to 20...30...40...50 and the traffic thinned out to a trickle.

It would be illegal for me to park my car in the middle of a motorway but for some reason it's perfectly legal for Ikea to clog up the North Circular by peddling their crap from a warehouse at the side of the road.

I don't know which I'm more angry about -- the fact that Ikea are allowed to get away with it or the fact that people are stupid enough to spend their precious days off queueing for hours just so that they can make their houses look exactly the same as every other rented flat between here and Stockholm.


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