This week’s writing challenge is to write something mimicking Hunter S Thompson’s brilliant Gonzo style journalism so here goes, inspired by a recent trip to Ikea in Leeds that I did not enjoy:
I walked into the store and my ears were immediately assailed by the distinctive local accent:
“Gerr ‘a’ ‘un t’ wheels are straeight”
“God knows why they sent me here.” I murmur to myself. Some spurious claim about them providing the best furniture you can buy under £100. I’d rather have been posted to Butlins.
I stroll up to the information point and demand to see the management, determined to get this over with ASAP.
“Hi, my name is Tarquin Smithers. I’m here about the award you won.”
The fresh faced teen behind the counter squeaked back at me in his best English:
“Av theur getten an appointment then?”
“Of course.” I tell him “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
He checks the trays in front of him:
“Thy nem int int tin”
It takes me a couple of seconds to realise what he has said before I lean forward and insist that I am expected.
He shuffles over to the phone and calls for the management:
“Ther’s eur suit ‘eear abaht an award” He mumbles into the phone and then turns to me asking me to take a seat.
I sit down at the drab coffee table, covered with boring titles about supermarkets: “Tesco – Every little Helps” and “Asda – Saving you money Everyday”. Pass me the cyanide any day.
After 5 minutes plotting the demise of the designers of the crap grey sofa I have been forced to wait on, an oily man in a drab grey suit approaches me asking if I was from the paper.
“Course I am, why else would I be here” I repeat, already taking a disliking to this guy for the inane questions.
“Dis way then.” The dialect grinded across my ear drums, but I followed as instructed. We passed through into the maze of shelves at the back of the store, floor to ceiling with bland, mass produced tat. Get me out of here I say to my inner voice whilst I turn to my guide:
“Do you enjoy working here then?”
“O’ course, whoa wouldn’t enjoy dis? Ah manage t’ place ‘n love t’colours.”
“I bet you do.” I mutter as we approached his office in the warehouse, a small grey box dumped at the back of the floor space, abandoned like last night’s kebab.
He offers me the seat facing his desk. I stare at the offending article.
“No amount of money in the world is going to make me sit on that!” I exclaim pointing at what appeared to be a large rat sat on it.
“Ahh dooant min’ ‘im, that’s just uz Billy, ‘e is eur gurt softie.”
What I’d thought was a rat was actually a Yorkshire Terrier, weepy brown eyes starring up at me as if to say: “You think you’ve got it bad…”
Published as part of this week’s Weekly Writing Challenge: Three Ways to Go Gonzo | The Daily Post.