This was published 3 months ago
Opinion
Supermarket self-checkouts must die. And no, I don’t wish to print a receipt
Michelle Cazzulino
WriterWhen future historians are tasked with identifying how Western civilisation accidentally slid off a cliff, they won’t pinpoint climate change, or Trumpism, or even the earth-shattering revelation that Dannii Minogue apparently now identifies as queer (which in no way relates to her new gig hosting a reality show for lesbians, you cynic).
No, they will decide humankind really started to jump the shark the minute the supermarket giants decided to persist with self-checkout machines, despite overwhelming evidence that easily completing transactions was above the pay grade of a depressing number of customers.
There’s overwhelming evidence that easily completing transactions is above the pay grade of a depressing number of customers.Credit: Bloomberg
The experience of being among them is often akin to falling into a dystopian clown world populated by Cimmerian misanthropes imported directly from The Land That Time Forgot.
Not even Colesworth radio, with its chipper soundtrack of criminally underrated hits of yesteryear (John Farnham’s Two Strong Hearts, I’m looking at you here) is consolation for the industrial amount of stupidity routinely on display at the front of the store.
Just ask the supermarkets themselves. Despite their relentlessly upbeat marketing campaigns designed to unite farmers and shoppers in a warm embrace featuring shiny Granny Smiths and Curtis Stone’s kitchen shears, their faith in customers’ ability to negotiate the self-checkout appears to be fading faster than a BBQ chicken after six hours in the bain-marie.
Some shoppers are beyond help.Credit: Bloomberg
A few weeks ago, US supermarket giant Walmart joined a number of other smaller operators across North America in quietly scaling back or phasing out the self-checkout machines in some of its stores, citing consumer theft and technology failure as reasons for the decision.
Hello, tip! Let’s do a quick tour around the rest of the iceberg.
There’s the queue, which – as usual – is less of a line than a thought bubble generated by a particularly demented labradoodle. Who was here first? Is that machine free? Are you paying with cash? Wait, they don’t sell petrol here? So. Many. Questions.
After slogging/grafting/threatening/pleading (strike out where not applicable) your way to the front, your reward is a three-and-a-half-sided rectangle of self-checkout hell, simultaneously screening every reality show ever put to air.
Currently staggering to self-checkout number one is the grocery world’s answer to Carmen Miranda, who came in for bread and milk and is leaving with a bag of grapes, eight boxes of tacos, 24 rolls of toilet paper and a box of nappies, which she’s currently wearing as a hat. Any minute now, she’ll realise she has no bags, but she certainly won’t be buying any more because she’s got approximately 18 million in the car.
At self-checkout number two are a pair of lycra-clad gym bunnies. It’s hard to even see the machine over the armfuls of foliage they plan to go home and blitz into smoothie oblivion, but having somehow managed to scan it all, they gaze around in wonder, having (apparently) never undertaken a single retail transaction, ever. What is this payment you speak of anyway? And where is the hole for cash in this clearly signposted “card only” machine?
Self-checkout number three has been out of action for the past 50 minutes because a bloody-minded shopper, jaded by the number of dodgy product changes in her last online order, is now eking out her revenge by putting through $800 worth of groceries and periodically knocking out the fresh produce scale, delaying the transaction by yet another 10 minutes until someone’s free to fix it. Again.
No one is at self-checkout number four. It was deserted 10 minutes ago by a shopper who started putting his items through and then remembered he had to nip back into aisle two for serviettes. Oh, and a bag of chokoes. And a jar of Chicken Tonight. And a can of deodorant.
The shopper at self-checkout number five just caught sight of Myra Hindley’s ghost and is now in fear for her life. No, wait, that’s not Myra Hindley’s ghost – it’s her own reflection, as rendered by the security camera on her screen, which seems to exist to make even those with no intention of shoplifting look like master criminals.
Speaking of which, the drongo at self-checkout number six has just spent the past 10 minutes berating the spotty teenager manning the registers because his self-checkout wasn’t working. Said spotty teenager, wearing a rictus grin, has decided not to point out that the shopper in question has dumped all his shopping on the wrong side of the machine, which is now locked in a death roll with itself.
Self-checkouts seven to 10 are broken. A fresh layer of dust is forming, and tumbleweeds mingle with the misbegotten aspirations of whoever tried to use them in the first place. As always, thank you for shopping with the fresh fools, people.
Michelle Cazzulino is a Sydney writer.
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