Truly, Tesco is the other son of God
Armando Iannucci Sunday March 12, 2006 The Observer
Sunday I wake up to hear that all the Christian churches had got together and decided they're going to launch a new, fourth member of the Trinity designed to appeal to a younger audience. He's a friend of the Son's, called the Holy Mate, and sits next to the Messiah but in front of the Holy Ghost. I hear a Church of England spokesperson on the radio say: 'No doubt there'll be some older people who won't like us changing theology like this, but eternity's nothing if it's not about moving with the times. If young people get into the Holy Mate in a big way, then they might go on to like some of His more sophisticated colleagues in the Trinity, such as the Father. This is much the same way that BBC3 feeds a more youthful audience on into BBCs 1 and 2.'
Monday
Early in the morning, I hear a muffled, regular thudding outside. I wake up to discover Tesco has won planning permission to build a superstore over my house. I go out of the front door to see my bungalow is now situated somewhere in the fruit section. It's the bit where stuff is sold loose, rather than pre-packed, and the noise I woke up to was the sound of shoppers clumsily dropping apples. A small note is popped through my letterbox; it's from the Royal Mail, explaining I have to change my street name to Aisle Three. They also say they called to deliver a parcel, but I didn't hear them knock. The sound was drowned out by the noise of lots of loose, ripe plums thlopping on to the floor. They say I can collect the parcel if I go to the local sorting office, which is currently somewhere in the toiletries section.
Tuesday
On all the phone-ins, the talk is of one thing: in the midst of all her personal difficulties, just how does Tessa Jowell manage to stay looking so fresh and vibrant? Tesco launch their own Jowell range of face creams, aimed at women seeking that enviable 'just separated' look. They say that if it does well, they have plans next month to launch a Jowell range perfume called Just Resigned.
Wednesday
Drive up to Leeds. Am intending to take the M1 but, on the way, learn that Tesco has been granted planning permission to build on it and it's now called the T1. It's a 200-mile-long, drive-through supermarket. I enter the store in London at top speed and a basket is slammed on to my car roof as I pass Luton. At Northampton, I spot some bread. I honk my horn and a robotic cannon hurls the goods at the car at 120 miles an hour. My credit-card details are spotted by a tiny camera close to Derby, and I pick up my receipt from a junior staff trainee sitting by a check-out desk in Sheffield. He asks if I want cash-back, which I get just past Wakefield. Fags have to be bought separately on the outskirts of Leeds.
Thursday
Get back to my house, to discover a 40-foot-high photo of the Tesco store manager on the outside wall. I think this is madness and dial 999 to get the police. A voice on the other end of the line says: 'Tesco's emergency service; can I help you?' I ask if they can come right away. The voice says: 'All Tesco's emergency services are very popular right now, so the next available slot is this Saturday between 1pm and 2pm. Shall I arrange for the services to be delivered then?' I put the phone down and decide to go out and shop.
Friday
Wake up to hear on the radio that the Holy Mate has been such a success that Christianity is thinking of launching a further 320 new members of the Trinity, each one based in a local area. All the other religions are saying it's unfair that Christianity can flood the market with new members of the Trinity just like that. A spokesman for Buddhism says: 'This really stifles competition from some of the smaller independent religions.'
Saturday
Tesco's emergency services arrive at my front door. I explain that I'm unhappy. They tell me that's because I'm not near enough to a Tesco. I say that I can't physically get any nearer to a Tesco given that my house is actually inside one. They explain that's still not near enough and that I would be nearer if I had a small Tesco implanted in my stomach. An elderly lady comes forward holding a tray carrying several small plastic thimbles full of liquid. She asks if I would like to smell a free sample of their trial offer Tesco morphine. Before I have the chance to say 'no', I fall comatose to the floor.
Sunday
Wake up feeling groggy. My stomach feels bloated, as if I have eaten a heavy meal. Have I dreamt all this? I look down and see some stitching around my navel. I prod and can feel a small, hard, box-like object under the skin, and hear the very faint traces of a Tannoy announcement coming from somewhere near my ribs. I put on the radio. In my haze, I hear that Tesco is now launching its own cut-price god...
