Today, I am going to talk about something that angers me… No, not my Daily Booth picture, which is at the time of writing, plastered to the front page of my blog like a poster for abortion, I speak of another ailment to my psyche; Ikea.
The multi-national company have recently made their mark in Southampton, which has duly enraged me enough to write a very aggravated blog article! Yes, I talk of the store made infamous by providing massive amounts of modern (well, by modern I mean almost entirely fake pine) Swedish furniture, keeping what we assume to be affordable prices and, perhaps their greatest achievement of all, the pioneering of the do-it-yourself generation (of which I rather begrudgingly know no other, past the occasional glimpse at a off-pink lounge set in the occasional charity shop).
The new Ikea store is reported to be the biggest in the south, and as far as I can tell they aren’t kidding. The building itself has been placed rather strategically next to West Quay and the Leisure Centre, in amongst a collective of other superstores, a commercial gold mine that’s a mere 5 minute walk from the train station. The problem I have with it, however, is how grotesquely imperious it is.
Have a look:
Christ… Ikea? More like Isore. Towering over Borders and Tesco like some giant, inordinate beast readying to swallow the entirety of the Southampton shopping district, the new Ikea is absurdly large and visible from almost every point within a 5 mile radius. A garish blue and yellow icon now marks it’s territory like a gargantuan tom cat pissing in the middle of our town centre.
For a company renowned for it’s innovation in space saving, they could have made a better effort to, say, flat-pack the building down a bit. Was there any real need to go so far up? As far as I know, there isn’t a massive market for 20 foot tall, fabricated shelving.
What a horrible image to be greeted with as you leave Southampton Central, as if the terrible tile montage in the train station itself isn’t bad enough, now I feel as if the entirety of my home city has been branded by the bloody Swedish. I’m sorry, that’s not fair, we have a higher count of Polish people last I heard. Where is our BATA ZAOPATRZYĆ, eh? WHERE IS IT?
That’s it, I’m done here, if you could just imagine me, now having gotten bored of pestering you, rambling off into another room accompanied by the crazed mumbling of a drunken history teacher.