More reasons NEVER to shop at Morrisons

I've just braved Camden Morrisons. I don't go there unless I absolutely have to. It was Safeway once, and no better for it. Then Morrisons took over and after a brief spell when yellow and black everything seemed a little brighter than dirty red and chewing gum white, I realised that the nice ones I'd been in up north were never going to translate to this grimy area of north London, or even down south at all. It's like a giant, hollow wasp. And what good are they?

It's bleak. Really bleak. It's right in the middle of a load of flats once built for the late 80s yuppie market, but because they couldn't shift them, despite their proximity to far nicer Primrose Hill, they're full of mad people and nasty families and their mean kids, most of which hang around by Morrisons idly pissing off passing shoppers. It's like A Clockwork Orange, without the warm welcome.

If you're thinking of getting your lunch there, don't do it. Unimaginative sandwiches comprising bleached white bread and minimal filling, which you just know has been knocking around the light industrial unit in which they're made for longer than is necessary. The salad bar is largely beige from a distance, with croutons and heavy on the mayo potato salad presented as the main attraction. And of course, the obligatory hair that isn't your own.

So take a look around. Spot scary looking mothers-of-five in tracksuits barking at their unruly children, see the woman with the heroin scabs and the anorak, hear kids shouting. There are office workers being as quick as they can, legions of sallow, embittered old people, most of whom smoke about 60 a day, which is evident from the snaking queue at the fag kiosk, which only ever has one person on and takes forever to be served at. Coughing their way down the 'international foods' aisle, tutting at the exotica on display. Needless to say, the hot pie counter is always heaving, while in the fruit and veg bit, done out like a farm-fresh marketplace, but in reality nothing of the sort, you could hear a pin drop.

Here, the selection of veg and fruit is depressing. On offer are the primary colours of the veg world - carrots, apples, endless salad in a bag, oranges, etc, purely functional, nothing fancy. If you want a pomegranite you must walk 20 minutes to Fresh and Wild and pay 3.60 for it.

Generally, all food on offer is of poor quality, and so deeply unappetising that if you go in to by something for your supper, it's likely you'll come out empty handed. The cheese counter is like a teenager's bedroom. There is an unusually large cake section. The wine dept is deadened by the addtion of garlands of plastic vineyard. The echoing muzak puts one in mind of being in Eraserhead. Shelf-stackers bellow at each other, laugh loudly, sing excerpts from Vamos A La Playa, talk on mobile phones in an unidentifiable language or glare at you - anything but work, really, which doesn't help smooth things along.

The 'cafe' is a spartan hanger reeking of greasy chips, more like a works canteen from the 70s. It's populated by pasty faced porkers and their ADHD children, all of whom have fags hanging from their mouths while they gulp down fried chicken and swill their extra-strength Pepsi Max, or lone pensioners with dead eyes taking their time over an overly-milky tea. I once braved this place as I was a bit hungover and wanted a fry up, but the woman behind the counter told me she couldn't do bacon AND sausage, I couldn't even have a sausage on a separate plate and pay extra. Why not? She had no idea. Depressed by this inflexible automaton, I've not been back in there since. It was better as Safeway, actually.

And once at the checkout - only four out of 10 are ever open at one time - you must queue for hours while a fat couple with a trolley full of convenience foods bicker about whether to bring the car round to the pick up point or not. When it's finally your turn, if they're not busy engaging in entertaining badinage with their pal on the next till, the checkout person may or may not catch your eye/greet you/thank you at the end. Chances are you'll be completely ignored. I'm mystified at how a store can allow itself to be so badly run.

On the way out you get accosted by poor buggers desperately trying to shift Sky TV (sorry I have it) or some telecoms or insurance rubbish (I don't want it. No really, I DON'T WANT IT!).

There is often dogshit right outside the door, trodden everywhere by an unsuspecting customer, meaning you must look a tit by hopscotching your way across the untainted flagstones due to the sudden realisation that if you don't, you'll be haunted by a faint nasty smell all afternoon.

The only vaguely good thing that ever happened there - and I mean because it was rather surreal and made it more interesting - is that I once saw Jude Law doing his weekly shop with his kids. No one bothered him. Surely, you'd think, someone like Jude would have it done for him. Or at least go to Waitrose. So well done Jude for keeping it real, yeah?

By contrast I did an early morning way-into-work dash to M&S today (cos you can park if you get there early) and yes, while we all know it's more expensive, you can't beat the service, the food, the ambience, the layout etc. Assistants are helpful. Someone could read my mind that I was at a loss for the sausage rolls and asked if they could help me. And there were managers on the floor helping out.

Waitrose is another good one, though cripplingly expensive. Sainsbury's seems to think it's operating in Iron Curtain era Russia, with swathes of empty shelves and shifty assitants. And we never go to Asda, it's too green and white.

So there are my reasons NEVER to shop at Morrisons. And I only went their because M&S don't sell taco shells. You can't have everything.