3 September 2025

An outing with the Ikea botherers

A new store opening in Brighton makes a visit to the Swedish homewares emporium a looming inevitability.

The big news in Brighton has been the opening of Ikea. This is, of course, of no interest to me. Sometimes, when I feel sorry for myself – no stable relationship, no real home I can fix up in the way I’d want – I remember that at least I don’t have to go to Ikea. I do not like its aesthetic. I want my interiors to look like a cross between a 500-year-old pub and a 300-year-old library, and you’re not going to get that in Ikea. Also, the company was founded in 1943 by Ingvar Kamprad, who was at that time an actual fascist. But my friend Ben, who is a mod, likes its bright, clean lines and is sure it is no longer run by Nazis. He rang me up the day before the opening. He lives in Kemptown which is a way away from Churchill Square, the shopping centre that houses the store, but he’s very fit.

“I’ve got a proposal for you. You’re not going to like it at first, but there is a reward.” At this stage I do not have the faintest idea what he is talking about.

“Really?”

“A potential reward.”

“They’re opening a new Ikea. And they’re giving out vouchers to the first 100 people who show up on the day.”

“And?”

“Well, most of them will be for £1. But there will be one for £10,000, and one for £1,000. So, if we turn up together we have double the chance of winning a ticket.”

“I presume there’s a catch.”

“Well, they’re vouchers you can only spend in Ikea. And you have to go on their website and register as a friend of Ikea. Or family or something. But you have to register, ’cos if you don’t, you won’t get the money, and if you cock that up, I will never forgive you. Ever.”

He suggests that I get there at 6.30am, seven at the latest. I try to explain that I am more likely to go to bed at 6.30am than get up at 6.30am, and he tries to explain to me that one in 100 odds of getting £10,000 aren’t only not bad, but they become better if they are reduced by half. It might mean only £5,000 each, but that’s not to be sneezed at, especially considering the initial outlay.

But the outlay for me is too much. That is, the early start. I sleep in, and put my phone on Do Not Disturb just in case he tries to ring me.

Later in the day I get in touch. Did he go there in the morning? He did.

“It was incredible. The whole of Churchill Square was packed. There would have been no chance we’d have got even one of the £1 vouchers. You know, even if they’d brought the Turin Shroud over to Churchill Square, with the Pope making a personal appearance, they wouldn’t have got more people there.”

So my decision to have a lie-in was vindicated. It always is. A few days later, I popped down to Churchill Square to see how it was all going. I also fancied a bedside reading lamp; it’s been at least seven years since I’ve had one, and I do spend a lot of time in bed, and a lot of time in bed reading. I do without so much. John Lennon sang about imagining no possessions; I could have showed him round the Hove-l and taught him a thing or two.

The queue, on a Thursday, at noon, or noon-ish, was not the longest I’d ever seen; but it looked like a good 20 minutes, at the very least; and you have to stand up. At least if you’re waiting in A&E you get a chair. So nuts to that for a game of soldiers.

But I kept thinking about that bedside reading lamp. I was becoming acutely aware of the people in the house opposite being able, because of the big light, to see inside my bedroom and being filled with a mixture of horror and pity, and thinking, “There but for the grace of God go I.” (Their interiors look pretty much like my ideal interior mentioned above, and fill me with shame and envy.)

So the other day I called Ben and said sheepishly, “I’m thinking of going down to Ikea this evening, around 5pm, and if there aren’t any queues I was… I was thinking of buying a bedside reading lamp.”

Ben did a good job of keeping the triumph out of his voice. He said we’d be joined by his wife, Janine, after she clocked off work.

I was hoping for a queue so we could just go to the pub instead. But there was no queue.

“When was the last time you were in an Ikea?” he asked.

“At least 20 years ago. It was partly instrumental in the break-up of my marriage.”

“So you know how this works? You have to follow the yellow lines on the floor.” Fascists, I think to myself.

But… it was pleasant. Ben is an Ikea Botherer, and likes going up to people considering some knick-knack or useful item and saying, “You won’t regret it, mate.” In the end I buy a lamp – Nävlinge, £12 – and a bog brush – Shittescråper, £1. I tell a friend who has known me well for decades.

“Is this your first ever bog brush?” What an impertinent question, I think. “Yes, it is,” I reply.

[See also: The wonderful world of Prince Andrew]