Won’t somebody think of the Woolwennials this weekend? Precisely one decade has passed since Britain lost the true hero of the high street. And for those aged over 24, whose childhood weekends were wasted in its labyrinth of kitsch, this Woolworths anniversary stirs up communal grief. So spare a knowing nod to fellow rustlers of the DVD bargain-bucket, a reassuring squeeze to the hand clutching the cola-bottle scooper, and a sympathetic cheek-stroke to the vacant-eyed browser of discounted superhero pyjamas. Together, somehow, we’ll muddle on.
Nostalgia, like love, is blind – and the world is filled with hackneyed wasn’t-it-wonderful articles of bygone Britain. And, yes, Woolworth worship is the very stuff of satire. But the store was fundamentally different precisely because it was fundamentally flawed. Woolworths didn’t try to be anything: it bobbed along as a jack-of-all-trades but master of non-essentials. Everything you didn’t quite need was there. If you wanted something well made, you went to a specialist; if you wanted something well done, you went to the expert; if after that you still wanted something, well, you went to Woolies.
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