Wilkinson (“Wilko” to the cognoscenti) is the Walmart of England and I hate myself for shopping there but they beat me into submission with the bargain bat.  So cheap! All the signs are in neon yellow and the prices have exclamation marks and you walk in with no intention of buying a Saharan Spice Market exotic plug-in room deodorizer but it’s 97P! Get two! And bouncy wire egg cups!  97P for four!  I don’t even eat boiled eggs! Get the egg cups, get them! So much yellow!  So much punctuation! It’s a yellow, high-decibel free-for-all and then I come home and see my purchases for the instant landfill they really are.

Their merchandise is usually lowbrow but inoffensive—gingham tea towels and wicker baskets and eyelet curtains—but the buyer for their bathroom department obviously lost a bet or their sight or their sanity or something.  After “Trainspotting,” I never thought a toilet could traumatize me again, but I was wrong:

It’s a solid chrome toilet seat!  Just waiting to enthrone some serious pimp-daddy ass. I don’t know whether it’s for sitting on or snorting coke off.

Wait, there’s one more:

What in blazes?  What fiberglass monastery did this come from?  What trailer park Zen garden?

So spectacularly wrong.  It made me want to camp out there so I could see who bought them.  Like, would the chrome seat be tossed into the cart of a guy wearing a top hat made out of rhinestones?  Or of some sweet old lady in a cameo brooch and too many hairpins?  Unfortunately, I had a very important appointment with the biscuit aisle at Marks & Spencer so I had to abandon this important field research.