Many middle class Britons will be familiar with the low-brow brand name Sports Direct. Many having driven past a store quickly to avoid the zombies or scally’s pouring out of the place or underneath a photo of a football hooligan looking fat bloke who actually owns it; but few will have had to venture inside.
Middle class Dad, Stewart Wheelan, was forced to go into Sports Direct on a mission to buy his Son, Jasper, an emergency pair of pants (that weren’t jeans) for a year 7 school outward bounds weekend. Mr Wheelan of course tried the middle-class stalwarts of Marks & Spencer and the obligatory Next but was forced to resort to retail hell when they failed to stock “sweat-pants” in a small enough size.
“I had no choice”, Mr Wheelan recalls, “I had to go to Sports Direct or Jasper would be the laughing stock at the camping expedition; and I’ll be honest I was shitting myself!”
“It was like an other-worldly place inhabited by some kind of hooded Ork-like creature. Clothing was sized by hardness, for example, my Son is not hard at all as his Church funded high school frowns on such behaviour, but I was forced to buy him Medium-hard sweat pants which are presumably marketed to the scumbag, father-less, twats you see riding stolen BMX bikes around town at midnight?”
I kept my head down, grabbed three pairs that looked vaguely the right size, paid the ex-Sunday league football captain sales assistant and fucking legged it!
By the way, three pairs of sweat pants for £50; no wonder Mike Ashley’s a billionaire and the poor sods that shop there are on the bread line!