In The Year 2041...

 

Let me take you 20 years into the future. You sit in an armchair, snowy-haired and frail, surrounded by grandchildren and great grandchildren.

 

Tarquin, the precocious 9 year-old with a penchant for obscure subtitled films from Mongolia, looks up adoringly and says, “Grandad, what was like in the Cushelle wars?”

 

A tear comes to the corner of your dimming eyes and you begin:

 

“Well, it was hell, let me tell you, kids. When it first broke out, we of the generation who had lived through the 70s and 80s, with the deforestation of South America caused by our use of hair spray and the terrible music of the later years of the 1980s, which made many of us dress in black and retire to subterranean night cubs for solace, thought it was a flash in the pan.

 

But we were wrong…”

 

The children shudder involuntarily and gather in closer as you continue.

 

“Nobody truly went hungry, but a few middle class types whose income was so low that they used food banks and free dinners for kids, were moaning about the fact that the government food parcels were not from Waitrose. What really hit us was the lack of artisan bread making ingredients and the hoarding of quality toilet tissue.

 

I remember the fights in Tesco over in the bread aisle. I was there with Grandma, stocking up on Claret and Prosecco, the wine aisle being adjacent. Hipsters - well they were before your time, but imagine a bears arse with horn rimmed glasses and skin tight jeans - were going hand to hand with old ladies. Eggs and milk were flying everywhere and some people were battered in the ruckus. That was when we knew for sure, things were serious.”

 

And involuntary gasp issues from the twin boys, Wendy & Lisa. You smile and go on.

 

“It all came to head, 3 weeks in, when supplies of Andrex and Cushelle, the best toilet rolls ran out, well almost ran out, and if you had a pack of 12, you could go into your local Games Workshop and take your pick of armies, and still have enough credit to buy some Contrast Paints. 

 

We were in Sainsbury’s when the Battle of Aisle 7 took place. We’d just... - Yes Neville, we were wearing our masks, even then, your generation aren’t the first to have to do that - … where was I? 

 

Ah yes, we’d just grabbed a caramelised onion and pancetta quiche and a ready made beetroot and herb salad for our tea, when the shouting began, and a 4 pack of Sainsbury’s own brand kitchen roll nearly knocked your Grandma off her feet as she reached into the chilled counter for some 28 day old Aberdeen Angus beef - we could still eat meat back then Tarquin, without being sent to a vegan re-education camp - and then a roar went up as somebody spotted the Holy Grail of shoppers, a 24-roll pack of Cushelle. 

 

Well, all hell broke loose as people rushed forward, jamming the aisle. They were punching, slapping and using harsh language. Avocados were used as sling shot ammunition as men driven to the extremes by irritated sphincters used their wive’s bras as improvised weapons. I saw one pale and wan vegan, wielding a Vileda mop like a quarterstaff, slip on a broken tub of Quark and vanish under the mob. 

 

It was then that I realised that nobody had seen the obvious solution, and I told Grandma to stay where she was and enjoy the free floor show, whilst I nipped down aisle 6 and back up the other end and whilst the throng were absorbed in the horror of that battle, I grabbed the Cushelle and made my way as fast as I could to the tills.

 

I made it to the car, and stashed what was by then more precious than life itself in the boot, and called your Grandma on her mobile, telling her to pay for the shopping at meet me back at the Volvo.

 

A few weeks later we managed to get hold of more quality toilet rolls, but we never forgot the horrors of that time, and we have never been without those soft, strong and oh so wonderful sheets ever since”

 

At this, Prince the younger sister of Tarquin who identifies as a male Border Collie wriggles in his seat.

 

“Yes Prince, dear; go to to the toilet before you wet yourself.”

 

Prince heads for the stairs…

 

“And Prince? Don’t use more than 20 sheets. It doesn’t grow on trees and we are down to the last 96 rolls!"