Record Shop or Drop in Centre? Part 8
This shop is rather off the beaten track in relation to the main town centre, which means that people have to make an effort to shop here. Which is why you’ll frequently find me sitting around playing online Scrabble or writing miserable things on Facebook. Effort isn’t something that Joe Public are that keen on anymore, so a lot of my daily human contact is down to the regulars who are unwilling to embrace the digital age, or the loonies who are unable to.
One of these regulars deserves a special mention having been a part of my ‘working’ life for over a decade. We’ll call him A.W which may or may not be his initials (they are). This chap wasn’t someone whom I particularly enjoyed seeing quite so regularly for a number of reasons; his breath smelt of cabbage and he always stood too close, his quite terrible taste in Euro pop music which he waxed lyrical about even if you started crying, and his worryingly lecherous nature. Whenever he mentioned or saw someone who he deemed physically attractive (outside of the shop or on CD covers of course), he would sort of gurn and do the ol’ ‘phwoar’ thing which was about as palatable as catching your parents at ‘it’. He is nowadays about sixty, has a Bristol accent (maybe if he was some Eton toff his Benny Hill type outbursts would sound amusing rather than un-nerving – sorry Steve), and owns a dog bizarrely named Benny-the-Dip. He is also married to a woman called Squirrel.
Over the years I’ve spent a lot of time in his company as he specialises in doing record searches for people who write to him with wants lists. Therefore every visit he tends to spend at least two hours here, behind the counter going through most of the fifties/sixties 45s and talking to me whilst Benny-the-Dip roots through the bin and trips me up occasionally. He used to coincide these shop visits with when he had to take his mother, who was afflicted by Alzheimer’s, into town for various appointments. (Note the past tense because she died a couple of years ago.) Being a polite kind of chap, I’d ask how his mother was when we talked, and he’d tell me things like how her Alzheimer’s was distressing but offered some moments of light, er, humour. For instance, A.W went to visit her one day and noticed that she wasn’t enveloped in wreaths of smoke as usual – her mind was failing but her prediliction for cigarettes wasn’t. Upon asking her why she wasn’t smoking she replied that she had given up. Staggered, A.W asked how come. She explained that she had quit by accident after repeatedly visiting the local shop a few times a day to buy cigarettes, but each time forgetting why she was there and returning with items such as stamps and newspapers instead. This might not be the way forward for those smokers amongst you who wish to give up. Nicotine patches and will power are probably preferable I would say.
For about nine years we conversed about his mother (not in total) but she remained just some hazy image in my head of someone I didn’t know and never would. Until one day A.W comes in supporting this fragile old lady with one arm, and holding Benny-the-Dip’s leash in the other. I was a little surprised to be introduced to Mrs W – not least because he always left her in the car if she wasn’t at an appointment. She didn’t mind, didn’t really notice how long A.W had been gone and was content to sit his visits out. So, I carried on doing what I was doing and A.W led his mum over to the flyers table by the window where he sat her down. A.W proceeded to do his usual search and Benny-the-Dip his usual scrounge.
Throughout this time I would give Mrs W the odd nervous smile and she would look blankly back. I wasn’t too pleased that we looked like a nursing home/record shop but seeing as A.W was a loyal punter I thought better than to cause any fuss. Then, upon completing his record search for the day, AW pipes up and exclaims that he wants to nip down the road to the shop that sells lamps as there was a special base (yawn) that he thought they had.
‘Will you look after my mother while I nip out for ten minutes?’ he asks.
‘TEN minutes? I ask, aware that other people’s time scales vary considerably to what they actually say. ‘Can I ask you why you’ve brought her in anyway, you usually leave her in the car?’ I continue, not that keen to add Age Concern to my list of unrecognised jobs.
‘Oh, she pissed herself and it’s warm out, I don’t want my new car stinkin’ of piss do I? So I thought I’d bring her in here’.
The incredulous look that I gave prompted this further gem:
‘Oh, don’t worry. I walked her up and down the road a few times to make sure she wasn’t drippin’. Then, without any qualms, he left the shop while I stood looking at a urine soaked old lady. I turn around to find I’m dog sitting too.
After they’d left I went over to the table where she had been perched to check for any arse shaped wetness. None. So guess what? Yes, I sniffed it.
………
AW likes to keep busy. When not being a dirty old man over Gina G or the Cheeky Girls, he has a keen interest in learning new languages. This could be so he can lech in these girls’ mother tongues should he ever force his way back stage at some godforsaken Euro Pop night. He can speak German, Swedish, Spanish, and some Polish. His rather novel way of teaching himself is by listening to language modules on cassette while he sleeps. It seems to sink in, and with day time book work he gets the hang of foreign languages quickly. However, he was subjected to tests by men in white coats one time when he tried to learn Italian and it all went a bit pear shaped. Totally the opposite happened with the sleep learning thing. Now, whenever he hears Italian being uttered, he instantly falls asleep. So next time he gets a bit too close to me and I get the whiff of cabbages, or he pervs over some young short skirted girl outside, maybe if I put on Dean Martin’s ‘Italian Love Songs’ he’ll keel over and I’ll get some respite.
Record Shop or Drop in Centre? Part 7
If I worked in a chain store, I would have real cause to complain. I would, for instance, have to answer to some self important boss from head office that mistook selling music for something earth shatteringly important. I would have to have conversations with this person asking why I hadn’t displayed the new Lethal Bizzle album prominently enough, or why the new James Blunt album wasn’t being played at lunch time to maximise sales. Also, customers there would have to be treated with the utmost respect (hard when the might be buying a James Blunt album and the best course of action would be to take them to one side and make them swallow it, whilst lecturing them about ‘proper music’).
Here I am absolved of all of this tiresome pretence. Someone gets out of their pram in ‘my’ shop then they get treated accordingly. Thankfully, I’ve only ever been threatend with physical violence three or four times, and only been punched once. And that was by the guy I was working with when I tried to stop him tickling me. Happy days. It is just as well that I can do or say what I want (within reason of course, I may be a bit tetchy but I’m not unreasonable – unless you like James Blunt of course) because there are quite a few things that can get on one’s tits and drive me into a fit of pique. Usually I’ll suffer in silence but sometimes words have to be said. Here are some top annoyances for you to practice when you come and visit the shop.
Singing whilst listening to something on the headphones. We’ve all experienced this of course, and all done it. Granted, when your own voice is belting along to a soundtrack only you can hear, you are only aware of the beautiful music and the vibrations of your spot on vocals. The rest of the people in your vicinity hear something that sounds like a combination of cats drowning and of someone passing a particularly challenging bowel movement. Don’t catch their eye or they’ll shout ‘THIS IS GREAT MATE’ and continue their caterwauling and nodding to the beat. Invariably, the listener will treat you to the whole of side A of a Motown compilation before putting it back because they don’t have any money. Do come again won’t you?
Whistling. No. Just no. Whistling should be the activity of the solitary or the mad, to block out the incessant voices and /or self loathing. Or milkmen. This isn’t the 1950’s – whistling’s greatest decade (probably) – there is no call for it now. I have one particular customer who, if I am playing something recognisable, will tunelessly whistle along like a fucked kettle. My desperation with this situation once prompted me to very suddenly turn the CD off and replace it with something this guy could never have heard of: ‘The Neutral Milk Hotel’ second album. Sure enough, he didn’t know this work of sublime discordancy. Didn’t bloody stop him trying to whistle along though. Damn. Now, on his occasional visits, the CD player gets turned off. We occupy the shop in uneasy silence. Or he’ll fill the silence himself.
The Inebriated. Music goes hand in hand with booze and drugs (and sex apparently – but all you get in here is spotty teenagers slobbering over each other by the flyers table), so the shop gets its fair share of less than sober visitors. I used to have to put up with scouser Shaun, who would come in smacked up to the eyeballs and sit on the bin listening to Pink Floyd on the record deck. Then I’d have to help him up when the smack/Floyd got too intense and he toppled over. He used to give me the odd Valium as recompense (which I’d do at home – it can be hard enough to stay awake as it is here some days). I had a guy come in (eventually, as he couldn’t find the door even though he was two inches away from it) who was on ketamine. That was hilarious but frightened a few customers away – it could have been the white powdery snotty streaks oozing out of his nostrils. His friend was the one that confirmed that it was indeed ketamine, as he’d given it to him and brought him into town ‘for a laugh’. Stoners are common but unremarkable, but it’s the drunks that really do one’s head in. Spilling, slurring, being aggressive and shouting nonsense. But you can sell them a lot of crap. Advice: Never go record shopping drunk unless you want to go home with some Rod Stewart LPS.
Unruly children. Only the unruly ones. The others are usually either quite pleasant or scared witless by the strange man behind the counter (it’s really un-nerving when young children just stare at you though). One guy has three little gits that he allows to run around, dropping things, throwing flyers and shoving LPs where they shouldn’t go. His favourite artist is Gary Numan. His eldest child is called Gary. This is the sort of family they are, so there is no point fighting them. His friends might be electric (Gary Numan joke…sorry.)
Lack of courtesy. Note to idiots and gypsies: When I have a small piece of plastic at my ear and I am talking, that means that I am on the telephone. That means I am currently conversing with someone whom, although you can’t see, still requires my attention. Frequently, these interruptions will be someone demanding 80% discount. Which reminds me - people that ask for discount saying they’ve only got £9 when a record is priced £11, and then when I kindly let them off, pay with a £20 note need to have serious words with themselves. And probably need to go to guile school.
The Timewaster. The biggest problem in second hand record shops, as I’ve previously stated. The timewaster has many guises; young, old, male, female, transsexual and any colour or creed. The best one ever was a geordie lady that spent seven hours in the store one Saturday and spent £2. Then there are the people that listen to loads of things which they are evidently enjoying very much (see Singing whilst listening to something on the headphones). They usually have a huge pile of stuff which leads you into thinking that it’ll be a bonus takings day. Then, after two and a half hours of wearing out the stylus and keeping others waiting, they’ll put everything back in the wrong place -without covers and the vinyl falling out of the sleeve – and only buy a fifty pence 12″ single. They will also pay in 1p, 2p and 5p pieces. Something which is always jolly is the customer who comes in, asks for a CD which we have, and gets massively enthusiastic about how they’ve been everywhere and failed to find it, go on to say how cheap it is show their friend who also extols the joyousness of the situation. Then they say ‘I’ll leave it’ and go. I still don’t know what to make of these people. Except, of course, that they are twats.
(Still, none of the above compares to the daily misery of Peter (Manx). This week he has been in everyday for an hour at a time, and I’ve had to leave the door open - even though it’s gone pretty cold here in autumnal England - to rid the shop of the acrid stench of his body odour. I’ve decided he’s like those cats that seek out people that hate them, and go and sit on their lap for a laugh.)
Right, now it’s time to go and deal with the biggest timewaster of them all. Me.
Record Shop or Drop in Centre? Part 6
Life is full of surprises. Well, Obviously not that full or we wouldn’t get bored quite so often. Too many surprises aren’t that good for you anyway, you’ll only become over excited and get all silly. I do get surprised here occasionally; things fall out of record collections – like old love letters, used insoles or banana skins. Or the time we got broken into and had the cash register nicked, only for the police to find the culprit around the corner with the contents (just loose change) in a carrier bag. And he’d also emptied his bowels into said bag too. That was surprising, especially to the poor constables.
With surprises like that who needs them? So predictability is a friend. A really boring friend, the sort you’d hide from as a kid but your Mum makes you play with. In every job there is a huge amount of predictability. They kind of become unwritten rules which govern your daily existence. Here are the rules of this second hand record shop:
- Every record collection that someone brings in to sell must contain at least one or all of these: ‘No Parlez’ – Paul Young; ‘War of the Worlds’ – Jeff Wayne; ‘Brothers in Arms’ – Dire Straits; ‘A Hard Days Night’ (totally knackered and written on) – Beatles; ‘The Album’ – Abba; ‘Their Greatest Hits’ – The Eagles; ‘Greatest Hits’ – Queen; ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’ – Elton John; ‘Out of the Blue’ – ELO. There are lots more but I’m boring myself and feel the need to weep (not helped by the fact that I’m being accosted every 10 seconds by a woman who sounds like Brenda Blethyn in ‘Secrets and Lies’ as I write this. She’s even calling me sweetheart. Go AWAY. Jesus, I’ve only just got shot of a man that was talking to DVDs.)
- 90% of telephone calls must be someone asking ‘Do you buy records?’ More often than not they will tell you they’ve got ‘You know, …Beatles, Stones, Elvis’. Or it will be an old lady trying to sell you Jim Reeves, Roger Whittaker and ‘The Sound of Music’.
- Anyone under the age of 20 will call records ‘vinyls’. This is severely irritating to me which delights those of a less moody temprement (i.e everyone).
- Someone will tell you at least once a week that what you are listening to is ’shit’.
- There will be customers that only ever visit when you are playing a certain artist/album. They may not come in for two years and may not have listened to it since you last saw them but it happens. If I put Billy Bragg on the man with the curly grey hair and glasses will come in. And complain that I’m always listening to Billy Bragg. It’s a bit like having that box that summons Godzilla from the sea in the cartoon.
- All Soul genre collectors will have an attitude problem and the inability to keep anything tidy. They usually sport moustaches like the fat bloke who died of fatness and used to be in ‘The Bill’.
- All reggae LPs must be scratched.
- Every DVD collection that comes in must have ‘Matrix Reloaded’ in it. To add to the other 25 I have in the drawer. The same with the ‘Rush Hour 2′.
- A chav must come in everyday and call me ‘bruv’ and ask for rave tape packs.
- Every pikey that comes in must talk about Elvis. Or Tom Jones.
- The shop door will always be left open by the customers in winter and closed in the stifling heat of summer. Most of my excercise comes from to-ing and fro-ing from chair to door, seasonally shutting or opening it.
- Everyone that comes in the shop to ask for something specific must instantaneously totally forget what they want, what sort of music they like and their own name.
- At Christmas time, there must be at least four confused old(er) ladies in the shop at any one time, desperately trying to make sense of what a Linkin Park or a Biffy Clyro is from the list they have been given by little Tarquin or Clitorisa.
- One person per day must ask for an obscene amount of discount and tell me they are my best customer. When in actual fact they spend about a fiver a month.
- Every time I try to eat (especially if the food is hot) a massive, filthy, dusty, dead spider ridden record collection will be brought in. It will take ages to go through. And be shit.
- Whenever I have a day off, I’ll return the following day to a shop full of bloody House and Garage 12″s which some herbert managed to get the proprietor to buy off of them. I shall then have them under my feet for two months before throwing them away.
But despite all these somewhat sour observations, I quite enjoy it when these things occur. Because I can moan about it.
Record Shop or Drop in Centre? Part 5
Sometimes, things go from strange and exasperating and take a shortcut to the destination signposted Unsettlingly Sinister. (For those of you that have accused this blog of being cynical, dark and brooding, but with jokes, this has more of the same. If you want positive, life affirming prose then you should go and spend £18.99 on self help books probably called ‘Reassert your Chakra’ or ‘It’s Chi Time’ with rainbows on the cover and help keep american charlatan ‘doctors’ in exotic holidays and yachts, where they can let their inner child loose whilst yours is stuffed in the sticky play pen of your soul whilst you participate in ‘blue sky thinking’ in some boring office in Fleet.)
I think I’ve laboured the point before about the lack of female, er, interest that has arisen from my working environment. Except a few years in the past I actually pulled in this very hive of dust and testosterone. Maybe it was my impressive seven inches. (Record dealers joke circa 1959).
Miss M used to visit the shop quite often to see my then colleague who is pretty well known around these parts. He knew a lot of people through being a highly talented local DJ and all round unpredictable nut case. Therefore I assumed she was coming in to visit him. But it turned out that she fancied me and thought I was funny to boot. We went out for a drink or several and by the next day we were an item. I gladly let her relieve me of my over-ripe cherry a couple of weeks after that. However, it turned out to be a very fractious and short lived relationship – about three months in all (one of those weeks I went on holiday, another we weren’t speaking so it was really about 6 weeks.) I gained quite a lot from the experience from this fleeting time – and lost too; my AIWA hi-fi system and Cake CDs namely, as well as my aforementioned cherry (which I’m convinced has since grown back…)
That was that. Or so I thought. Who would’ve thought that there would be repurcussions from such a short lived fling? Four years later I started getting, er, ‘correspondence’ from a stranger. Place the emphasis on the first syllable there. These jolly little missives were startling. They took two forms: picture post cards with views of areas of local interest with the obligatory writings on the back, or little brown envelopes which were always sealed and empty. Very unusually, the address (which was never correct but they got here) was written on the sealed side, and the messages on the address side. The writing looked like a two fingered chimp had got hold of a pen and there was absolutely no punctuation at all. You’ll be wanting an example now won’t you? Try this one with all the spelling as it written:
Dear sir
I am sorry you split up with the psychotic one she is a nasty piece of work cursing up nasty things whats wrong with her still at least you know shes been risking AIDS thanks to a portsmouth Radio station called Radio Victory this station was cursed to lose its franchise sure enough it did I have had a stranger come up and say spend all your money you cunt this I can only put down to the capitalized Radio there is a curse on my radios watch out a well wisher
Delightful isn’t it? They are all pretty much of a muchness. At one time I was getting at least three a week. They would stop for a month or so (maybe while the author reacquainted himself with the room with comfortable walls) and then start again. Here, have another:
Dear sir
have you seen your psychotic ex lately the one who has been risking Aids thanks to me having simple minds Records like i said this was down to the bellerby bitch I hope she gets Aids after all she deserves to die the slapper I hate psychics who take the piss thats her favourite trick the moll yuk I despise her watch your back or you will go bust remember she can curse nasty things her favourite
a well wisher. Nice shop.
Hmmm. You wouldn’t think owning Simple Minds records was as dangerous as unprotected sex or intravenous drug use would you? You’d think they’d come with at least a Parental Advisory sticker. Or at least banned due to pomposity and being a little rubbish.
Radio Victory and Simple Minds remain firm favourites throughout the writings of this most erudite of individuals. Obviously, I notified the police about this due to neither myself and the alarmed Miss M having the slightest clue as to who it might be. They said that they have maybe a hundred of these sorts of cases going on at any one time, so they could not do anything unless someone got properly threatened or hurt. Great. Thanks for that.
Thankfully it all died down eventually and no one was diced up and thrown in the river.
Maybe the author found a new lease of life presenting drivetime on Radio Victory, playing all the Simple Minds hits back to back for all the navvies. Sure they’d love that.
Now I have that story out of the way I shall endeavour to be a little more light hearted in the next post and talk about Alzeimers. Look forward to that won’t you?
————
Update on post number 4: Yes, Peter did visit last thing at five PM on the day of that entry, and tried to sell me some Pat Benatar picture discs. Yes, really, like it’s 1983 or something. What next? Showaddywaddy cassettes? And he’s here now trying to trade in Trad Jazz that only the nearly dead like and have already got. I reckon I could kill him and plead diminished responsibility and get let off with community service. Or even get a community action trust award.
