Aaaargh! Just got back from collecting my mum's pension at the Post Office. I suppose I should be grateful for the continued existence of a Post Office hereabouts, but this one always pisses me off. They started out as newsagents, and until they shrugged their shoulders in a "Not my problem" kind of way when I complained they hadn't delivered The Observer, I gave them my business.
Then they started to stock groceries; bread, soup, microwaveable pasta, dog food, that kind of thing. This seemed totally unnecessary in view of the close proximity of a KwikSave which stays open until 8 o'clock at night. It just looked like greed and a wilful desire to drive the few remaining little shops out of business.
Then they took over the Post Office business. Rampant commercialism.
But none of this prepared me for today's horror. And this time it wasn't even of their doing. They simply provided the theatre for the appearance of....
...a packet of dog food called JERKY'S.
So what, you may ask? (And I wish you would.) At first, I thought nothing of it. But then a creeping doubt came over me, and while the queue stood still waiting for a dear old soul at the counter to finish the tale of her husband's dentures, I reached out and picked up a packet of JERKY'S.
And of course, they actually bore the brand name Pointer. They were actually Pointer's JERKY'S with game. Next to them were some Pointer's DOGSTICKS with chicken.
My blood froze.
You see where I'm going with this? This may well be the first example of a commercial product on which the superfluous apostrophe appears in the name. Obviously they should be Pointer's JERKIES!
Western Civilisation continues its collapse. We each begin to talk in our own individual language. Babel is upon us.
Don't tell me it doesn't matter. Don't tell me I'm aping Lynne Truss. Not so. It does matter. If they're called JERKY'S, I'm entitled to ask, "JERKY'S what?" And there isn't an answer.
By god, it feels good to get that off my chest. Off to the Old Farts' Club now, for a pink gin.