Her indoors told me this one...
"Me and Trace were bored out of our minds on a Saturday afternoon, like usual. We'd zombied out watching rubbish telly all morning and polished off most of a bottle of plonk.
"Fancy heading to the shops and taking the piss?" I said. Trace grinned. "Go on then you tart."
We got the bus into town and wandered past the usual discount shops and pound stores littering the high street. But then Trace stops dead. "Look at the size of this bloody place!" she exclaims.
We were standing outside an enormous supermarket we'd never set foot in. The car park was packed with Range Rovers and Teslas. "Posh bastards must do their shopping here," I said. Trace was already striding towards the automatic doors, eager to take the mickey.
We stepped inside and I nearly choked - it smelled like bloody Chanel No. 5 in there. The fresh produce aisles stretched as far as the eye could see, stacked high with exotic fruit we couldn't pronounce. Trace grabbed a pineapple and pretended to motorboat it, making me cackle.
An old bint tutted as she passed by with her wicker basket and cable knit jumper. "Prudes like that come here to look down their noses at us," Trace sneered.
We wandered past stacks of quinoa, kale and "tofu bacon" that turned my stomach. In the cheese section, Trace held up a packet and announced to no one in particular:" Five quid for a slap of brie? I'll give you a slap!". An assistant wearing a floral apron shot us evils.
By the time we reached the deli counter, the staff were clearly on to us. "Think I'll treat the girls to this salmon, love," I said to the spotty lad behind the counter, pointing to a slab worth a week's wages. "On second thought, maybe it's past its best before date if it's still here!"
We sloped off giggling, past displays of luxury dog snacks and cornish pastries the size of my head. "Definitely not our kind of people," Trace muttered, eyeing a woman in designer running gear comparing wine vintages on her iPhone.
By now we couldn't control our cackling and decided it was time to depart before security had us pinned as the chavvy yobs we are deep down.
Once outside, Trace stopped dead outside a swanky department store we'd never set foot in before.
"Bloody hell love, look at the price of this handbag!" she gasped, pressing her face against the glass. A leather satchel was displayed with a tag reading £495. I nearly swallowed my chewing gum.
"I could buy me entire wardrobe at Primark for that!" I said. But Trace was already dragging me through the revolving doors, intent on getting our money's worth of entertainment for the bus fare at least.
The girls behind the perfume counter immediately turned their slimy fake smiles on us. I could tell they were sizing us up, guessing how many Chanel No. 5 testers we could feasibly leg it out with under our duffel coats.
We prowled the aisles, cracking jokes about the oxblood brogues going for near a grand and slacks made of "baby seal scrotum" according to Trace. A posh bint in a floral dress and mules shot us a death stare as we howled laughing over a kimono for three month's rent.
The strangest bit was all the helpful assistants hovering, clearly expecting us to nick stuff. One approached as I held up an Armani wool coat, asking if I needed help.
"Yeah love, think this would suit me down the Ritz on bin night?" I said, doing a twirl. She gave a tight little smile and backed off sharpish.
Eventually, our cackling drew too much attention and we decided a strategic retreat was in order before security had us legging it down the main strip. We stopped in a cafe by the entrance for a well-earned cuppa and people watched the ponces passing by.
"God I needed that," Trace sighed, lighting a fag by the window. "Nothing better than a dose of reality to make you glad of what you've got."
I had to agree. For all the glitz and glam on display, at the end of the day, nothing beats a natter with your mate, knowing you'll both be laughing about this later down the Pub People like us, we've learned the real treasures in life don't come gift wrapped. This posh store was another world and no mistake, but ours was looking pretty good from where we sat.
We shared a pack of Bakewell tarts on the bus home, deciding you could take the girl out of the estate, but not the estate out of the girl. This posh supermarket was certainly an experience, but nothing beats a laugh with your best mate and a few cheeky snacks, even if they are only 99p a pack. Now, who's round is it down the local?"
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