Journalism

Guardian - Shaggy Blog Story

Part 5 by Richard Herring

In front of me was the Hillside Retail Park and Bowl-a-rama Leisure complex. I had worked here three years ago, when it had first opened, at the now defunct “Paperclip World”, a vast warehouse-style store, selling every conceivable kind and colour of paperclip known to man. In one aisle you would find the standard 33mm paperclips in polished steel, in the next the giant 51mm paperclips, aisle 5 was where you would find my own personal favour the IXL Premier-Grip Zebra Paper Clips, a tiny 28mm long, coated in high quality plastic in almost every colour of the rainbow (not indigo, violet or amazingly yellow). When the complex opened the other retail store owners laughed at us, saying there was not enough paperclip demand to justify a shop of this size, specialising in just one kind of office supply, “At least also sell those little green bits of string with metal on the end that you use to bind together loose-leaf paper!” they would shout at us each morning, “Or introduce a range of giant novelty paperclips or hats and T-shirts featuring cartoon paper-clips in amusing situations,” but Mr Dandfleece, the genius behind “Paperclip World” refused to be swayed. His motto was “Only Functional Paperclips Shall Be Sold At Paper-Clip World”. It was a motto that invited more derision. But he was sure that he would soon be the head of a multinational company selling nothing but paperclips. “Unlike the staple,” he would tell me over coffee, “the paperclip is easily removed, without adversely affecting the paper that it clips. I mean sometimes it leaves a bit of an indentation, but that’s nothing compared to the havoc that a removed staple will cause. And you only have to look at the success of the Staples store to see that a similar shop based on paperclips will do even better.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Staples actually sold a vast selection of office supplies, including a full range of paperclips, equal if not superior to ours in variety if not quantity. But Dandfleece was a visionary with such infectious self-belief that I and his other four hundred employees thought he could pull it off.
But the staff of the gigantic computer, furniture and supermarket shops were soon proven correct, as the few patrons of Paperclip World turned out to be mainly shoplifters who took advantage of the loose paperclip pick n mix counter, which Mr Dandfleece had thought would be his salvation.
Evenso, the two months I spent at that store, in my uniform made entirely from paperclips (uniforms not for retail) had been the happiest of my life, though had proven almost fatal as I had spent every breakfast, lunch and dinner dining in the biggest KFC in town, conveniently located right next door. Lack of paperclip demand meant I could also pop next door for brunch and lunner (the meal between lunch and dinner) and then elevenses and tea-time. I became addicted to the secret recipe coating and the deep fried dead bird in all its forms and quickly ballooned to thirty stone in weight.
Ironically if the store hadn’t closed and I would have been dead in a month, but after the closure, the walk of shame through the assembled throng of jeering, blackballing employees of the successful businesses and Mr Dandfleece’s ironic suicide (he shot himself a thousand times in the head with a staple gun) I had vowed to never eat the stuff again, got a job at a health food café and a membership to a gym and thought I was back on track. But the power of advertising had brought me back to confront my foe. Could I resist the finger-licking chicken? I found myself heading towards the Colonel’s door, like a zombie, my stomach already groaning in complaint at what it seemed I was about to inflict on it. “I’ll be with you soon, Mr Dandfleece” I muttered to myself. I had truly loved that man.
But just as my hand reached for the KFC door handle, there was an urgent shout to my left and my attention was drawn to the most incredible sight, which undoubtedly saved me life.