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So it’s official. Local residents are spitting venom. Council politicians are screaming about another resounding defeat for public opinion. Signs saying ‘8am-10pm’ have come down; signs saying ‘24 hours’ have gone up. And truly, it couldn’t come at a better time. The sadistic, uphill onslaught of final coursework deadlines throughout March is as inevitable as daffodils and crocuses.

But now, we have a reason to smile. The possibilities of nocturnal shopping are boundless. Both of Guildford’s supermarkets are already just the right distance from campus to provide a reasonable walk, as well as a nicely-timed break from reading, writing, and revising. Now that one is open all night, well … gosh. Packet noodles on demand. Endless supplies of milk for endless cups of screen-lit tea. Those who cannot bring themselves to leave their desks during civilised hours, and then realise all too suddenly that they are half-dead and need emergency nutrition, will have a chance to furnish their bomb shelters with sturdy rations. Soon, people returning to Park Barn from a hard night on the town will be able to purchase raw bacon and eggs at 3am, to help them torch their houses to the ground.

A small restaurant might even start up nearby, to satisfy the gastronomic demands of late-night shoppers. Who knows where this will all end? A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single footstep, but a 24-hour supermarket in pokey old Guildford is a gigantic leap forward. Guildford might even start to look like a credible city, albeit one populated by zombies who are compelled to work twelve-hour shifts for four pounds an hour in order to supplement the demands of financially more fortunate pissed-up students. But hey, we should sort out our shops first, and build some kind of civilisation later.

I predict that we will shortly see a new vogue for supermarket shopping. It will replace Staying In as the new Going Out. Where better to make new friends? A shy person could pretend that he or she is just there to shop, and could legitimately buy thinking time by eyeing up the marmalades whilst working on an introductory gambit which doesn’t sound too contrived or feeble. In another aisle, a doe-eyed temptress could lure her horde of admiring men by playing a protracted game of hard-to-get, carefully flitting about the store, ostensibly looking for a jar of crab paste or something equally elusive. The stacks of wares on shelves provide unequalled opportunities for strategic hesitation. It adds an extra dimension to the dating game. No longer will women need to flock together to the nightclub toilets for a few snatched minutes of private conversation. Instead, they could just move to the cosmetics or feminine hygiene sections and talk all they like, safe in the knowledge that nobody possessing a penis and a sense of self-esteem will dare ever to venture there.

As if this wasn’t enough, the chances to employ specialised chat-up lines in a supermarket are rife: there are so many more variables than there are in the alcoholic pressure cooker of the Students’ Union. In fact, Tesco could have singles nights. Forget dating agencies: a superstore is the ideal place for meeting your perfect partner. Where else can you tell, with almost infallible precision, so much about a person — their socioeconomic group, what they like, how disciplined they are, how healthy they are, how posh they are, how spoilt they are, whether they are single or not — without even having to speak? When you look into another person’s trolley or basket, you see into their soul. It’s as though you’re old friends. If somebody impresses you with their choice of fruit squash, cooking oil, or toilet paper, it’s so easy to move in. You’re surrounded by things to talk about. There’s none of that awkward ‘So what do you do?’ nonsense. Pah! That’s so old hat. So Duke of Edinburgh. Instead, the less socially-skilled Casanova might open with a craftily scripted observation, for example: ‘The beans aren’t as cheap as they used to be.’ You see? Comforting, nostalgic, and domestic. Slightly controversial, but not too outrageous. An interested party might reply, ‘No, but they’ve improved the tomato sauce recipe.’

On the other hand, you might be looking for an educated liberal kind of person. Catch the eye of a singleton who’s buying a copy of the Guardian, and exclaim ‘This aisle is labelled ‘Pasta and spaghetti’, and yet spaghetti is a pasta. It is indentical in both ingredients and method to a multitude of siblings — penne, fusilli, farfalle, tagliatelle and so on — shapes that this store has not seemed fit to distinguish similarly. As this store is a microcosm of society, and reflects society’s trends, can we infer from this explicit dichotomy a tectonic shift in the role of spaghetti within society? In this depiction of spaghetti as a ubiquitous, pan-social commodity, we risk ostracising it. Hence we may come to recoil from a pasta which our erstwhile glorification has turned into a commonplace foodstuff. In the story of spaghetti, we may remember a valuable lesson: that familiarity breeds contempt, even if you’re just a variety of pasta.’ The conversation could go anywhere: philosophy, fashion, deprivation, or a commentary on the decadence of the Twenty-first Century retail environment. One thing might lead to another, and before anybody can say ‘have you got a reward card?’ another lucky customer will be adding a toothbrush to the shopping list.

Chauvinistic men, out for some immediate gratification, could improvise their own disarming witticisms: ‘Nice melons, love’ (holding a watermelon for comical effect); ‘Beautifully stacked’ (leering from shelves to eyes to breasts to eyes to shelves again); ‘Your plaice or mine?’ (indicating the last pre-packed fish fillet). Here’s one for the ladies: ‘Are you shoplifting Pringles, love, or are you just pleased to see me?’ (This is also a good line for a security guard who is genuinely concerned that the stock is disappearing).

Commodity-related innuendo knows no bounds. Fortunately, so does the capacity to retaliate with violence. After a couple of months, once the distinction between retail Mecca and social hub has blurred completely, we can look forward to themed aisles. There could be a special ‘High Street’ aisle, for anybody who still sickens for the experience of spending a night out in Guildford centre. Staff could dress up in white puffa jackets and hand out ghastly fliers, before depositing the remains of each handful on the floor. There could be unfriendly overweight bouncers, supplied by the supermarket, to demand five pounds so that you can get into the aisle and spend more money. Once in, somebody will spill beer over you, and will apologise. You’ll say ‘that’s quite all right’, then they’ll turn round and say ‘did you just call me a slag?’ Then you’ll get beaten up and thrown out, and will wake up in bed twelve hours later next to a traffic cone, covered in semi-digested kebab.

Insular nerds could have their own aisles full of frozen pizzas, computer magazines, and medicated shampoo. One day, they might even install a gay aisle. This would feature halogen lighting instead of the usual fluorescent strip-lights, a barber to make sure that your hair isn’t out of place, and a cornucopia of items that have been clumsily attached to the homosexual stereotype. White wine and sparkling water would nestle next to quiche, Gruyere cheese, leather trousers, and Peter Greenaway films on DVD.

Those who are unlucky enough not to pull, perhaps owing to the quantity of cosmetics they’re buying, the high quantities of trashy convenience food they’re carrying, or their choice of ‘Reader’s Lathes’ as reading material, might still be uplifted on the weary walk home by the inestimable joy of having seen sober people at 2.30 in the morning who aren’t wearing Security uniforms.

Who knows, the University may even be persuaded to move some of their vital student services to the subway so that the route to campus becomes more populated, and therefore friendlier and safer. I look forward to a franchise of Rushes amongst the dark, damp concrete: what better surroundings for the scowling cashiers and the four-item breakfast?

Assuming that this enterprise is a success, the University would eventually cotton on to the nocturnal student market. For those of us battling with last-minute project deadlines and eager to sleep off an all-nighter, how about a 24-hour Unisprint? Or better still, a 24-hour laundrette, to cope with the doubling of the campus student population over the last ten years?

An off-campus launderette: now there’s a perfect project for the subway. The A3 assailant versus Service Wash Woman. Place your bets now, but I know where the smart money’s going. You really don’t want to get her angry.

Published in barefacts 1054 • 13 March 2003