Au revoir to Chateau Primark

I won’t try and sugar coat this entry. This one will be filled with elitist bile, unsubstantiated allegations, misinformation and prejudice. “Wow, sounds fun Mark tell me more”, I hear you cry. The object of my ranting is King Street in Hammersmith, which is the main shopping street in the part of London we live in (or near) depending on whether you’re trying to buy my house or I’m selling it.

Most people pass above Hammersmith on the elevated section of the A4 and are only just aware of the smell of rancid burger fat and the sound of machine gun fire from the old Palais de Dance that is now an internationally renown murder spot and fight zone.

Don’t get me wrong not all of Hammersmith is terrible; a pint by the river, at the Dove, on a summer’s evening is a rare and beautiful thing but the main shopping street redefines the notion of Chav. Now I am amongst the first to concede that not everyone can afford or indeed wants to spend their money on Hon-Shimeji mushrooms (£1.89 from Sainsburys) and that there are those for whom a good night out is measured by the number of facial stitches they receive. But dear God they are an unpleasant group to go shopping with.

While my wife was picking up things, I decided to do some street photography. What can I say? The pavements were so dotted with old chewing gum they looked like a Damien Hurst painting. The shoppers, in their muffin tops, claim to value designer brands but they end up buying faux rubbish like Giovanni Guchi, Coco Channells or Fred Smith. I saw one pram face outside McDonald’s with three kids and a McLaren baby buggy, as if an F1 ‘style’ pram puts the owner into the jet set.

The whole street is full of hideous no-name shops like SuperSaver, YoursForAQuid and AllYouCanImpregnateForAFiver.

A once a year it is enough for King Street. Next week roll on High Street Ken.


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