Wasted Hmv — Extra Quality

We didn't just waste HMV. We wasted the act of hunting. We wasted the drive home, ripping open the plastic, sliding the disc into the car stereo before you’d even left the parking lot.

Think of the geometry of it. The Saturday afternoon geometry. The orange-and-yellow signage pulling you in like a lighthouse. The metal detectors at the door that beeped aggressively even if you only had a KitKat in your pocket. Inside, it was a cathedral of plastic. Row after row of CD jewel cases, their cellophane shrink-wrap catching the fluorescent light. You went in for one thing—the new single—and emerged two hours later, £40 poorer, holding a live DVD of a band you only sort of liked, a Simpsons mug, and a T-shirt that was two sizes too small. wasted hmv

To be “wasted” is a peculiar fate. It implies a squandering of potential, a slow rot of something vibrant. And no high street chain has felt more wasted—more tragically obsolete—than HMV. Not just financially (though the administrators have been called more times than the fire brigade), but spiritually. We didn't just waste HMV; HMV wasted us . We didn't just waste HMV

The Ghost in the Aisles

To be wasted is to be left on the shelf. And now, we are all just browsing ghosts, scrolling endlessly, with nothing in our hands. The dog is gone. The music stopped. And the only thing left to waste is the memory. Think of the geometry of it

We don’t say we “went to HMV” anymore. We say we “walked past where HMV used to be.”

That was the waste. The waste of time. The sublime, loitering, pointless waste of time.