All lost in Primark

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I've often wondered what The Clash meant when they sang about being all lost in a supermarket. I guess it wasn't meant to be taken literally. They weren't actually lost in Tesco while looking for the cornflakes, they were talking about the plight of the individual in the modern day consumerist world. But after the two hours I've just had, I'm can believe Joe Strummer might actually have been struggling to get out of his local Asda.

I only went into Primark for a couple of cheap t-shirts, just something to wear when I'm out on my bike, just pop in for a minute or two I thought. But Primark in Cardiff doesn’t let you pop in for two minutes. It should carry a government health warning. 
Shopping here can seriously damage both your mental and physical health.
When I went in, I was full of hope and excitement. I was entering the consumerist Nirvana, lured in by promises of relatively good quality clothes at bargain prices.
At first, in my naivety, I didn't notice the fights going on over beige tops or the discarded clothes and accessories scattering the floor. I found the strange nightclub style lighting quite alluring and the crowds of people were comrades in aisles.  But soon the first blow was struck, a shopping basket to the knee followed by a glare that suggested it had been my fault. I apologised and limped towards the escalators. But before I got there, I'd been shouldered into a rack of women's bras; just three pounds each I noted as I staggered to my feet, Before I could regain my composure, my toes were scythed by a double buggy's wheels. My scream was drowned out by the call for queue busters to go to the tills.   Limping now on both legs, I finally managed to get down the stairs to the men's department, I hoped it would be calmer there.
Boy I was wrong, here we had the typical matriarchal Welsh woman in her natural habitat; out shopping with her man. Normally such a sedate beast, the Welsh woman in Primark is primeval.  It was a dog eat dog world, every man, woman and child for his or herself. People grabbed at clothes like they were the last pair of shoes in a soviet department store. Elbows, shopping baskets, umbrellas and handbags had all become shopping combat weapons. The dark blueish light and loud music were now making me feel slightly queasy. Where were the t-shirts? I could see socks, pants, shorts, jeans, pyjamas, but no t-shirts. I jumped out of the way of another pushchair and crashed my knee into another shopping basket. I decided to cut my losses and escape.
But where the hell were the up escalators? The down ones were in front of me, but there seemed to be no way up. A child ran past me nearly tripping me up , followed closely by a chasing mother who stamped on my foot with a four inch heel.
I looked around, all I could see were people, people of all different colours and creeds, all different classes and backgrounds all united by the bargain bug. You could see the determination in their eyes. 
I lacked the training, I lacked the spirit, I lacked the nous. I was defeated, a shadow of myself.  An elbow caught me in the square of the back, I lost balance and fell, no one gave me a second glance. I crawled into a quiet corner behind the men's dressing gowns, curled myself up in a ball and that's where I stayed, in that foetal position, until  a security guard found me some two hours later.

So next time I hear that Clash song, I'll think of the disillusionment Strummer felt with the modern depersonalised society, but I'll also shiver at the thought of Cardiff Primark on a Saturday afternoon.