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  • Format: ePub

Trolley Rage: A Bastard's Barge Through the Tesco Inferno
By Owen Croft - The Shopper Who Can't Squeeze the Last Squirt from His Colgate-Smeared Soul
Step aside, Dante. Hell has been repossessed by Tesco on a wet Tuesday in October, and Owen Croft is your foul-mouthed, cagoule-clad Virgil.
This is not a shopping trip. This is a full-scale military fuck-up with a wonky trolley for a chariot, a bus shelter for purgatory, and a queue at the checkout that stretches clear to the seventh circle of frottage. From the moment the rain starts pissing down like God's got a grudge against the
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Produktbeschreibung
Trolley Rage: A Bastard's Barge Through the Tesco Inferno

By Owen Croft - The Shopper Who Can't Squeeze the Last Squirt from His Colgate-Smeared Soul

Step aside, Dante. Hell has been repossessed by Tesco on a wet Tuesday in October, and Owen Croft is your foul-mouthed, cagoule-clad Virgil.

This is not a shopping trip. This is a full-scale military fuck-up with a wonky trolley for a chariot, a bus shelter for purgatory, and a queue at the checkout that stretches clear to the seventh circle of frottage. From the moment the rain starts pissing down like God's got a grudge against the working class, to the final, soul-crushing unpack where the beans fight back and the ice-cream commits suicide on the lino, Trolley Rage is the blackest, bleakest, funniest descent into British supermarket hell ever committed to paper.

Picture it:

  • Pensioners weaponising handbags like medieval flails
  • Toffs eye-fucking each other over organic courgettes before vanishing to shag in the Beamer
  • Toddlers hurling Cornettos like fragmentation grenades
  • The same slab-faced Slav bus driver who hates you personally
  • And you - soaked, skint, and slowly losing the will to live - just trying to buy a packet of own-brand digestives without committing homicide.


Written in a Mancunian snarl of pure, uncut bile, Trolley Rage is Irvine Welsh on a bad kebab, Martin Amis on benefits, and Jeremy Clarkson if he ever had to get the 43 to Wythenshawe. It's a love letter to the great British public written in pure hatred, a tragicomic odyssey of puddles, prams, and processed poison that will make you laugh so hard you'll snort lager out your nose - then immediately delete the Tesco app forever.

If you've ever stood in the rain clutching a split carrier bag full of leaking Branston and wondered why the universe has singled you out for ritual humiliation, this book is your war memoir.

Warning: May contain scenes of graphic trolley rage, unsolicited groin contact, and existential despair in the frozen pizza aisle. Reader discretion - and a strong stomach - advised.


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Autorenporträt
Owen Croft was forged in the relentless drizzle of Manchester's backstreets, where the Irwell murmurs secrets to the stone warehouses and the city's heartbeat thumps like a faulty piston. Born and raised amid the red-brick sprawl of the North, this unassuming bloke traded the roar of Friday night lock-ins for the hush of forgotten moors, where he could finally hear his own thoughts without the din of the world crashing in.

By day, Owen's a ghost in the machinetinkering with words in a creaky attic studio overlooking the Pennines, far from the pixelated frenzy of social scrolls and siren calls. He's the sort who brews a pot of builder's tea strong enough to strip paint, cracks open a dog-eared Philip K. Dick or Raymond Chandler, and lets the pages pull him into alternate realities where Manchester's canals twist into wormholes or its cobbled alleys hide syndicate shadows. Writing, for him, is less a craft than a quiet rebellion: a way to wrestle the chaos of cyber-noir heists, gene-spliced grudges, and temporal double-crosses onto the page, all laced with that wry, rain-soaked Northern grit.

When he's not chasing plot twists through the ether, you'll find Owen hiking the wild fringes of the Peak District, notebook in hand, scribbling fragments inspired by the wind-whipped heather or a sudden squall. For Owen Croft, the best stories aren't told; they're unearthed, one sodden boot-print at a time. Escape with him. The world's mad enough as it is.