My SCS Experience

Critical Review written by Rob Kosy on Sunday 15, October 2017

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Just over a year ago my wife & I purchased a new three piece suit from SCS furniture store. I was asked to fill in their on-line review of our ‘SCS experience’. I did. I didn’t get to edit. This is me pretty much naked. I was kind to the salesman.

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What can I say about my experience at SCS Silverlink today? Well, for starters my wife told me it was Halfords - which is just next door - so when I asked the muscular Scottish bloke where the windscreen wipers were he was, a bit bemused. As was I when I actually had a look around. There were sofas and carpets everywhere; ‘Wow,’ I muttered to myself, ‘Halfords has a waiting room.’ Of course, the muscular Scottish bloke knew it wasn’t Halfords (probably because he works for SCS) and hooked me a, ‘the missus just set you up’ look. It was an expression so, so familiar to me in retail establishments. ‘Don’t tell me, ’I said, resignedly, ‘we’re in a sofa shop, aren’t we?’ The muscular Scottish bloke nodded sympathetically. I warmed to him in an instant. So, like the unfortunate kipper, “wor lass” had stitched me up once again. Now, before my involuntary visit to SCS today, I had always viewed shopping for furniture as something of a last resort. I much prefer hammocks. But wor lass is not a fan of hammocks or tuffets or anything like that and to preserve the harmony of the family unit I, well…caved in under her steely glare. The muscular Scottish bloke, however, has changed my mind on that score. He couldn’t have been more helpful, encouraging us to roam around and lounge about on the furniture (which I did, on a sideboard until the wife pushed me off). He made the experience enjoyable for me, whilst treating wor lass like she knew what she was talking about, answering all of her many questions without so much as an elevated eyebrow. Finally, after sitting on every sofa in the shop, the wife came to a decision and told me we were buying it. ‘Can’t we look at some more?’ I asked. So pleasant had the muscular Scottish bloke made my SCS experience that I had totally forgotten about Halfords and wanted to stay in SCS forever. She replied in the negative, of course, and the muscular Scottish bloke whizzed through the paperwork in an instant. Then, just like that, it was done and the missus was pulling at my arm to leave. ‘What’s your name, muscular Scottish bloke?’ I asked. He smiled and shook my hand, ‘It’s Rob,’ he answered, ‘Call again, anytime.’ Instantly I knew why I had been drawn to this amiable good guy. Rob is, of course, short for Robert which spelled backwards is Trebor which are, in turn, the strongest, best and freshest mints in existence. No wonder my experience had been so refreshing. ‘You can count on it, Rob,’ I said, ‘You can count on it!’

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    Rob, to fully appreciate your stories I'm going to have to learn another foreign language: English.

    'So, like the unfortunate kipper, “wor lass” had stitched me up once again.' What the f#@k?

    And this pondside, a three piece suit usually refers to coat, vest (waistcoat), and pants (trousers).

    It is a testament to your humour that, even missing half of the references, I still got more than enough chuckles to repay me for trying to interpret it.

    PS How does the 'wor lass' (your wife, I presume) feel about your infatuation with the eponymous (in the lesser sense) 'muscular Scottish bloke' regardless of the direction of spelling?
    Rob, I show this stuff to my wife and she always says, "What's he talking about? It's funny but what's this mean or that."

    Hell, Half the time I don't know so I tell her anything that comes to mind. I don't think she always believes me.

    This funny as you usually are. The love the way you Brits can talk in code. You're mistake was ever agreeing to go with the lass in the first place. Well, you're young.

    Great story.
    Thanks, chaps.

    as usu(Al) you got me, Mr Grisham. It was supposed to be 'suite', not suit. A three piece suit is exactly the same over here. Like I said I couldn't edit, but that isn't an excuse. I completely missed it (drat!)

    As for the rest of it, made sense to me.

    'Stitched up like a kipper,' is a cockney term, meaning 'set up.'
    I love cockney banter, even though their beer is warm and they're all soft.

    As for the 'muscular' Scottish bloke, I was being kind, like I said at the top of the show.
    He was really just fat. He actually phoned 'wor lass' laughing about this review and said that he'd posted copies of it all over the shop.

    Don, I also tell the wife anything that comes to mind. It's usually enough to garner a few quiet moments in the man cave if nothing else. But what's this 'agreeing' to take wor lass?
    You think this is a democracy? She tells me where to go & I go and if Alex & your good self try to tell me that is isn't the same in your respective households, I'll ban you from 'proper man talk' forever.
    Chaps? Those are leather leggings that protect horseback riders from cactus and such. Don't know why you'd be talking to them.
    And, on your comment re: democracy vs. dictatorship, I will refrain from any reply. My password wasn't made secure enough with the intent to guarantee my spouse never reads this.
    OK, Rob, I tried to let it pass, but I can't. Although it may be too late for you, the secret to maintaining a man's rightful place in a relationship is to assert yourself from the beginning. Most disagreements can be avoided if the proper partner makes the related decisions. Before my wife and I married, we divided up the expected decisions into mine (the big, important ones) and hers (the more mundane, household ones). This lets her feel she has a say, that she's an equal partner. For example, I decide all the big ones: what should we do about North Korea and Iran, is it reasonable to colonize Mars, should we renegotiate NAFTA; she has the more ordinary items: where we go on vacation, how we spend our money, where we live. This keeps her content without me sacrificing my male role.

    A lot of men could lead happier lives by following my example.
    OMG, I think Rob and I corrupted Alex. I don't know because I lost track of what this is all about.
    Corrupted? Me? Surely you jest! Me? Oh, Don, little do you know. You are over half a century late, and young fellow Rob wasn't even born in time! You shouldn't claim credit for the work of experts.
    Well, not to beat a dead horse but Rob and I are the experts.
    Yea, Don, we've corrupted the Scribester alright, despite his protestations of occupying the man cave before us......or before me, anyway.

    But you haven't got it quite right, Al.

    It's no good acting all big and macho in the man cave. Coz in the man cave you leave all that at stuff the bear skins (there being a heap of bear skins at the entrance instead of a door, of course).

    Decisions about holidays and money are the big ones, Al. You have to let 'your lass' think, she's making them. It's all about subtle manipulation (an area in which women are, admittedly, more accomplished, but where us blokes can sneak the odd victory under their veil of arrogant invincibility).

    And 'assertion', Al? Really?

    Are you a raving lunatic? Like I said, leave the macho crap at the bear skins. Here in the man cave we're realists. We don't assert, insist or, heaven forbid, demand anything. The very substance of the man cave could be under threat if we did. What if she stopped your beer, or made you take her shopping when the football is on?

    Come on, man. GET A GRIP!

    Anyway, since you're now a member of the cave (as long as you behave), Al, I feel I can answer your 'chaps question' in a more relaxed, 'sinking a beer,' even, 'Donald trump - locker room talk,' mood.

    Yes, I know what chaps are and I know that you know I'm English and why I use 'chaps' as a greeting to fellow members & all of that stuff. However, have you had time to peruse the old magazines Don has furnished the man cave with yet?


    Okay, well, ignore the Cross stitcher's weekly and that weird 'rubber doll' publication and instead pick up a copy of 'Hello Chaps.'

    It's full of naked ladies on horses wearing nothing but leather chaps. Well, who wouldn't talk to those chaps?

    God bless the man cave and all those in there.
    Suspect something's amiss when the comments get more laughs than the stories. Maybe a compilation of them would work -- for the ten or fifteen people who would appreciate them. The unsold copies could be used to fill the bookshelves in the cave.