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I’d suspected that Michael Bublé was a robot for a long time. There’s no human being on the planet who could move his hips with such consummate ease; who could smile with such consummate sleaze and who could breeze through a contemporary smooch song with so little effort.

Not that I had any strong feelings for him one way or another: he did what he did, I did what I did. I made no disparaging remarks about his android personality and he made no remarks about mine. But I knew we were both waiting for the day when we would.

I was about to tick off the next customer in the unusually long queue I’d managed to generate when all of a sudden there’s Bublé wafting over from the deep freezer going through his usual supermarket gyrations. Before you know it the whole queue has joined in with the shimmering and the shaking, the swooning and the faking and they’re joined by staff from the delicatessen and the baking departments. I even found myself humming a brief snatch of ‘Sway’ or ‘Swoon’ or ‘Cringe’ or whatever it was he was warbling about this time.

I was livid. How was I meant to tot up, sort out loyalty cards, offer discounts, petrol tokens, vouchers for schools, green shield stamps, sell insurance, sell holidays, sell postage stamps, eat gum, look sullen and ask customers if they want a hand with their packing if the whole bloody queue was slinkily divesting itself of all its decency against the soundtrack of Michael Bublé’s untouchable tones?

By the time he was urging the crowd to sway and dissolve back into the aisles, I’d had enough and reached over the till for the Kraftwerk. “I am the operator of my pocket calculator,” I retorted to my supervisor as she tried forcing me back to my seat. And Bublé’s my number one target.

With that, I leapt over the till, skiddaddled over to the green grocers whilst Bublé continued to pine after his long lost love in the background. He may well have all the appearances of a super smooth crooner from Seattle but he hadn’t reckoned with my terminator determination to rid the planet of artificial intelligence modules with groins the size of lunchboxes but the brains the size of peas.

I banished Bublé to his home planet in the time it took to say five a day and the supermarket readjusted rapidly, continuing to sell its trinkets which contributed to the destruction of the human race without a murmur. Every Little Helps, I thought cheerfully as I mislaid conveyor belt items, dropped coins and watched the supermarket queue lengthen as the afternoon got darker and the shadows of the checkouts stretched out over the forecourt.