Hell is not the word for it.
Lost among the little cherubs running amok on a sugar rush gleaned from breaking into packaging before reaching the checkout, and mums screaming "COURTNEY! GET ERE YOU LITTLE SHIT!", I hear this charming exchange:
There's a small child seated in a trolley, packets of nutrition-free calories already piled on top of him, engaged in a shouted conversation with his father. Mum tries to flee, but she cannot.
Kid: You're a retard
Dad: No, mummy's a retard
Kid: Daddy's a retard
Dad: NO! Mummy's a retard! AND THAT'S THE LAST WORD
Kid (sotto voce): ...retard...