Why I hate Elmo

The ‘laminated book of dreams’ era of Argos is long gone. But that will always be my Argos era, not least because I worked there.

I toiled amongst the tiny blue pens, the scattered order forms, the mysteriously-numbered pieces of paper that came stuck to whatever you bought. These were the days when Argos, frankly, owned Christmas in the UK.

A generation grew up circling toys and whatnot in its glorious catalogues. It was a masterstroke, really, to give those away for free, whatever the printing costs. Years before widespread broadband became the norm, it meant a kid didn’t need to be taken to a shop to point out what they wanted; they had a book at their disposal, all day and everyday, to stoke their Christmas fantasies. I gazed upon the Argos catalogue more regularly than any other book in our house.

I started working at Argos while I tried to figure out how to rekindle my academic career, which was temporarily cut short after I flunked my first year at university. I’d end up staying for a few years, working there part-time once I started studying again.

I saw it all — the Christmas chaos, the post-Christmas returns hellscape, the stockroom flingers. Hell, sometimes I was a stockroom flinger. Sometimes it was my footprint you saw on the brown cardboard box containing your springy chest expander.

The stockroom was the scene of one of my clearest, and most traumatising, Argos memories. We were stretched thin in terms of staff, and I found myself manning the ticket machine alone. Every time someone purchased something downstairs on the shop floor, the machine viciously spat out another ticket bearing a catalogue number that corresponded to that product.

The stockroom was organised with aisles and shelves labelled according to these numbers. Crucially though, due to space limitations, this organisational system was not strictly logical. You couldn’t guarantee that, say, item 860/8125 was just down the aisle from item 840/9503. Nah. And so your efficiency as a stock-picker relied on your prior exposure to the stockroom and your ability to recall its intricacies. (Also your susceptibility to allergies; the place was like a dustbowl.)

I wasn’t a bona fide stockroom guy. I lacked tattoos, for one, plus I was just too darn valuable to the retail side. I would help out fairly regularly, sure, but as a result of my debonair centre-parting and beguiling teenage charisma I tended to emanate my vibes on the shop floor. But on this day, for a period of time, I found myself upstairs and, unusually, on my own.

A predictable lunchtime rush occurred, and the tickets were trailing on the floor as if the machine had spilled its entrails. I was getting more and more frantic, sprinting up and down aisles, flinging pillowcases and Pokemons (men? mens?) and water pistols and irons and ironing boards and ironing board covers down the conveyor belt. I called down to ask for another pair of hands, but none were forthcoming.

At some point my progress was hampered when I had to fetch a Tickle-Me-Elmo (957/3260), as it was located on a high shelf, above stretching height. With no ladder immediately nearby I made the split-second calculation to leap, Jordan-like, to pluck Elmo from its shelf.

Missing from my calculation was the consideration that, at floor level, there was a mystifyingly redundant concrete ledge just waiting to buckle my ankle as I came back down. And so it did, leaving the rest of me to slam ribs-first, face-second onto the floor, the air in my lungs violently expelled on impact like a weightlifter jumping on a Pro Action 3 Bellows Foot Pump (915/2818).

In those seconds as I lay gasping for breath, a cloud of dust settling around and on me, my ankle’s searing pain gradually made itself known. The only sound that made its way through the ringing in my ears came from Elmo, still clutched in my hand, giggling in delight.

“A-ha-ha-hee-hee-ha-ha,” he chuckled with joy, grinning at nothing. Over and over again. I can still hear him now.

I dragged myself to the conveyor belt and called down for help. I wasn’t sure if my ankle was broken, but it wouldn’t have come as a shock. What boggles my mind today is that I didn’t go home, or to hospital.

No — I worked, sitting down in another part of the stockroom, my ankle inexpertly bandaged by a colleague, helping check off stock from the latest delivery.

I forget whether I went to A&E or the doctor, but I was off work for the next week as my ankle was now the size of my arse and I couldn’t really walk. I lay on the couch watching the Olympics, fantasising about all the delicious sympathy and admiration I'd receive on my return. I mean, my ankle ligaments were as much good as perished elastic — but damn, I put in a shift!

On my return, sure enough, I was taken into the office where I all but bowed as I awaited my medal for Outsanding Commitment to Commerce. But instead, the store’s assistant manager gave me a formal warning for breaching health and safety guidelines and, to make the humiliation exquisite, I then proceeded to cry.

Despite my age at the time, it wasn't my first experience of physical pain in the workplace (that's a story for another day), nor would it be my last. But I suppose it was my first serious exposure to ruthless arse-covering, the formal warning clearly a pre-emptive strike to absolve the store of liability after leaving an inexperienced, over-conscientious kid in charge of the stockroom. But as you can probably tell, I'm over it now.

I'd love to say I took some kind of Wonder Years-style lesson from the incident, e.g.:

• "I knew, right then, I would never overstretch myself again — figuratively or literally."
• "I'll always remember that as the day I learned a hard lesson about the world of work: don't jump, look for the ladder."
• "I'll never forget the way I felt that day. Was it my ankle that was shattered, or my soul?"

But in truth all I really came away with was one ankle larger than the other and a visceral hatred of Elmo, the scarlet prick.

And now here's a song I like

A zero-engagement Tweet I refuse to give up on

Otherings

• One of the most fascinating things I've read recently was from Aeon: it's a short biography of human excrement and its value. [Poo emoji goes here]
• I created a new gravy which overwhelming public response dictated will be called 'Ultrabisto'. Here's the recipe.
• One of my current favourite podcasts is Three Bean Salad. It's not tagged as an improv comedy pod but it has some of that flavour, should that be your thing. It's quite unusual for a British podcast to do this in a non-annoying manner.

Until next time, or never again,

Stuart