Vinylrichie’s Weblog

 Maybe when I’m at a low ebb I give off some sort of pheromone. (Today’s low ebb is brought to you by the makers of insomnia and the idiots that insist on carrying on with the utterly pointless UK Daylight Saving Time, and is sponsored by the unfairness of life). This pheromone must be a sort cat-nip for crazy or difficult people. Today’s scent, I can only assume, must be quite pungent. They are flocking from miles around to play ‘How far can we push the shop-keeper before he slumps to the floor sobbing and rocking back and forth like a piss stained Polar Bear in a Ukrainian zoo’. Not much further to go actually. Give it another hour or two and you might wish to come and see the outcome. Bring a bottle (to defend yourself with).

 For a start, it must be ‘Spanish student discount asking day’. I’ve looked on the internet but it doesn’t seem to be a recognised event in the Iberian calender. I’ve had two asking for large discount on items just this morning. If you don’t ask you don’t get, but generally you want to be buying a lot more than one CD at £5 before asking for 40% discount, if you  want to be treated with anything but thinly veiled contempt. Having denied them both this ridiculous request, they proceeded to think that haggling was the way forward. So I doubled the price and then agreed to give them 50% discount, a bit like HMV do in their ‘biggest ever sale’ every three months.

 Then, joy upon joy, my day is darkened by the arrival of a brand new nut case that I first encountered whilst working at the London store a few months ago. When I’d first met him there he made me miss my train home at the end of the day because I couldn’t get him out of the shop. I literally had to push him out and shut the door whilst he was still squawking at me about CD singles with semi-clad girls on the cover (he bought one just because of this …and I thought I was desperate to see some female flesh). He’s quite a striking character. He’s (very) French, has thick bottle top glasses, wears a white vest with white three quarter length cotton trousers and white shoes. He has long hair that reaches below his shoulder blades and pretty hairy arms to boot. He always carries a stripy laundry bag with god knows what in it. I’m not going to ask, he probably has a collection of dead voles or matted balls of his own hair.

 This man is properly crazy. He just won’t stop talking, uttering things about how he loves music – it’s his life apparently – how he plays guitar, and what a lot of music we have… (yeah thanks for that. Maybe he goes into Shoe Express to tell them they have a lot of footwear, or McDonald’s to inform them of the plethora of lips and arsehole based foodstuffs they sell.) His life consists of sitting in bus stations worrying passersby.

On this visit he proceeds to pile £1 CDs high, waxing lyrical about how great music is, but not the shit music which is shit. I marvel at the dream like quality of his erudite descriptions, thinking that he must be a descendent of Emile Zola or Victor Hugo. He then kindly imparts the wisdom that ‘Whitesnake’ are the best band in the world. All the  while I’m grunting at him whilst trying to concentrate on writing a message to a friend on Facebook. Even with my back to him he persists. Then we get into an exchange as he wants to reserve 24 £1 CDs and not pay a deposit, he doesn’t need to, as he promises – and here’s the bit that almost made me weep – that as we have a lot of music and music is his life, he will visit every day. I utter a distinctly low spirited and sarcastic ‘great,’ which makes another customer titter quietly, safe in his knowledge that he can experience this freak show from a distance and leave anytime should he get bored/scared.  Unhappy anyway, I’m in no mood to suffer anyone gladly, let alone this gallic verge tete. He then decides he wants to listen to the pile of CDs which I have little choice but to agree to, and it gets him out of my face for a while. He then annoys me a little more by having no understanding of how the CD player works. I actually quite loudly say ‘for fuck’s sake’ and he chooses to ignore me. Another titter raised from the other man, someone else leaves. After I show monsieur how to press a play button I retreat back to behind the counter, pursued still by his interminable waffling, which is louder due to him now sporting headphones.

I endure twenty more minutes of this before he approaches me again to ask if he can take all the CDs away and pay me tomorrow. I sternly tell him that he is doing my head in and that I’m going to need him to leave soon. He tells me he likes me as I’m nice and polite and friendly. Errrr….

Finally he leaves with a pound spent and I reserve the rest for him, without taking a deposit as such things don’t matter when your soul has died.

 Sweary charity pop-meister Bob Geldof famously sang about not liking Mondays. But the protaganist in his song went a bit far and murdered people, whereas you and I might just be a bit moody and not feel much like talking to anyone. So what better way to start the week than get accosted by a seriously mentally challenged fruit-cake every Monday morning as soon as I reluctantly flick the sign round to say ‘Open’?

 His name is Dave. Every Monday he’s allowed out of the local head hospital to unsettle local shop keepers such as myself. He’ll enter and immediately say: ‘Hello man, I’m not a bad bloke am I?’ He’ll then babble on about how he didn’t mean to get into that fight in Epsom in 1976 just because he’s a gypsy and that Dave isn’t his real name. Dave’s favourite song is Bobby Thurston’s ‘Check out the Groove’. However, Dave does not have a copy of this song or indeed a record player. So the purpose of his weekly visit is to hear this tune. Naturally, the first time I met him I didn’t really know what he was like, so when he asked if I had this record I happily produced it expecting him to buy it. Oops. So every week he could be found at the record deck caterwauling along to this popular soul tune. Then he asks me to reserve the record for him every week, so he can buy it the next. As you can imagine, this became tiresome after about a year, especially if you are generally as hung over as me on a Monday morning. So some weeks I pretend I’d sold it just to get rid of him, but that failed as then I’d just have to listen to him complain about not hearing ‘Check Out the Groove’ for ten solid minutes.

One Monday I just gave him the record and implored him to leave me be. He was most effusive with gratitude, singing my praises and getting rather excited and thanking me rather over zealously. I just about managed to avoid getting kissed. As it’s only worth three quid I thought it was worth being charitable it so I might get some peace on future Mondays.

That backfired. He thought I was such a good bloke that he proceeded to come in every week asking for more free records. I really didn’t think that through did I?

 Similarly, Friday used to be the day of the bus spotter. Every Friday afternoon he’d venture in with his notepad, cowboy boots and camera round his neck and ask for things that don’t actually exist. His favourite question was ‘Have you got any Marvelettes cassettes?’ Same question every week without fail. No matter how many times I told him that there aren’t any in existence, he’d still persist. Myself and the guy who I worked with got so bored with this weekly rigmarole that we taped an LP for him. Again, we were thanked to the heavens but, again, too much rope was given as he came in every week asking for us to tape other LPs for him. There really is no God. Or if there is he’d be the sort of bloke to ask for Marvelettes cassettes too.

 As if I’m not subjected to enough dazzlingly bizarre human behaviour, once a week I get sent off to work at our other branch on the outskirts of London. Here awaits a whole new and varied learning curve of what can constitute the human condition. Like all major cities, there is a melting pot of people. Different religions and cultures rub shoulders whilst going about their daily business. It is a shame that the only culture I am exposed to is that which grows on the customers unwashed skin and clothes.

 On these commuter days the misery starts early, as it takes me an hour and a half to get there on the train. Throughout the journey, like any of you poor, poor people that have to take British public transport to get to work, I am assailed by suited people from leafy Surrey towns yelping inanities or ‘killer deals’ down their mobile phones, so the rest of the carriage can find out how important they are and how society would collapse without them. I do believe that the rule on trains is that there must be at least one South African or Australian with a very loud voice doing this on every journey. I would move (if there were any spare seats) and sit next to someone else, but they are invariably listening to ‘The Best of What Sounds Like a Load of Snakes Hissing Vol 2 ’ on their i-pod. Or one can sit near a gang of youths who think playing ‘Akon’ out of their mobiles to the whole carriage (who naturally absolutely love it and really appreciate hearing half baked R&B through what sounds like ‘Alba’ speakers submerged in a puddle) is acceptable. I’ve come to the conclusion that most people use an i-pod to block out the sound of other people’s i-pods.

When I arrive the fun begins. For a start, the shop is far too cold in the winter – it takes five hours for the place to warm up with two pathetically ineffective fan heaters – and it is far too stifling in the summer (lucky we didn’t have one this year.) The manager there is very particular about how things are done, so I feel obliged to do nothing to upset his system. Which means that I don’t get much to do. Sitting and waiting seems to be the order of the day (for home time and the joy of the popular English pastime of trying to find trains that are actually running when you want to get home.) Occasionally this interminable stretch of time is ‘enlivened’ by a visit from some of the locals that reside around those parts. Any given week I can expect some, or all, of the following:

Tattoo Face: A man of few words, but he lets his face do the talking. Well, his big spidery tattoo face which he could probably just point to parts of to convey what he wanted or felt. He has a tattoo’ed tear coming out of his eye. Someone once told me that means he’s killed someone. He did try talk to/at me once but made no sense. I didn’t bother to say pardon.

The ‘I’ll buy something next time man’: Nice, friendly bloke. However, every week he comes in, and every week he leaves empty handed. On his way out he’ll promise me the earth, ‘I’ll buy something next week’, he says. I’m getting tired of those empty promises. Men are such bastards.

The Couple That Look Like Those Things That Used To Chase The Fraggles in ‘Fraggle Rock’ That I Can’t Be Bothered To Google: He comes in, replete in early nineties football manager coat and lager advertising baseball cap, and sends her next door to the coffee shop whilst he does the hunter gatherer male in record shop thing. Another person that can barely speak. He grunted at me and pointed last week and I pretended to understand. The next thing I know is that he’s let himself into the back room to use the toilet. All sorts of worries went through my mind then, you never know what you might find after strangers use your toilet. Best not to ask where this worry originated from as my therapist has warned me against reliving the horror. Then she’ll come in from the coffee shop and use the toilet without asking too. If I’m lucky they might spend a fiver, and leave splashes on the toilet seat.

A.T: Frightening. Those of a nervous disposition would do well to avoid this strange man. He’s not much stranger than many men that frequent record shops, but he is (but only in person) the loudest. (The loudest in person is a customer at my usual place of work is PHILLIP! When he phones up ear defenders are vital, as well as holding the phone as far away from the head as possible.) A.T tends to sneak in whilst I’m out the back making a cuppa, upon my return he will have gone behind the counter (more liberty takers – it must be a London thing) without permission, and then he’ll bellow at me, about Elvis or something, as soon as I step into view. Queue hot tea spillage and heart stopping terror, quickly replaced by deep depression as he’ll stop for quite a while before asking to borrow records.

R. Gumby: He’s not really called Gumby but we named him after the brainless handkerchief wearing idiots made famous by Monty Python (‘My brain hurts!) This man takes the biscuit. He lurches in, old smelly coat flecked with his last few meals and his own spittle, which he is powerless to prevent sharing with those around him. He is almost totally incoherent. He took up 15 minutes of my time slurring about what sounded like ‘ficus’. I grew more impatient with him, my brow beading with sweat just wishing that he had somwhere else to go. Finally I figured out that he was trying to say Phil Collins…. To counteract his inability to make himself understood, he brings in CD covers of eighties compilations and points to the pictures of the artists in the inner sleeve if he wants their songs. So, he’ll have me clambering about digging out Climie Fisher or A-Ha singles, all the while polluting the shop with his unique scent and drenching me in saliva if I have to get near him. One delightful day, he accumulated a pile of singles that I’d found for him and he spent two hours in the shop listening to them all even though he knew them. Eventually I managed to get money off of him for them, a nice £50s worth, and I finally breathed easy as he left. Phew.

Two hours later he comes back and slowly, painfully manages to get the words out: ‘I’ve got all these already.’

 You wonder why I’m cynical?

  The town where this special little boutique resides is home to a large array of wannabees. There is a music academy, where people can be taught to be a rock and roll clone by the triangle player from someone like ‘Dubstar’. There is also the acting school and conservatoire which is doing its upmost in essentially providing the area with more bar staff and waiters. But with affected manners and a tendency to break into show tunes at any given moment, causing anyone in the vicinity to wish that assault was legal in certain cases. But one of last year’s students got a part in ‘Eastenders’ so I can’t be too disparaging. (Maybe I will)  Actually, I know an actor who actually excelled himself and broke into film….selling tickets at the local Odeon cinema. But I did see him on a commercial for a well known electrical retailer once, so he did gain some fame. And probably a new dishwasher. Lovely stuff.

 Fame, to me, holds about all the attraction of being pelted with dog turds. It is beyond me why anyone would want their lives to be a freakshow where you couldn’t even pop down to the shop to buy a newspaper without the public staring, pointing, quoting whatever song lyrics or film lines that you’d tossed off some time ago at you. Then you open said newspaper to see some sh*t has revealed that you are known to enjoy a spot of light dogging of a weeknight. Is nothing sacred?

 So when I come across the odd celebrity I try not to harangue them much, as what could one possibly say that they would find illuminating and inspiring? Except Newton Faulkner came into the shop once, (you might have to look him up) and I was tempted to inform him that dreadlocks on white middle class kids from Surrey is tantamount to a catastrophe. Especially as he’s also ginger. But, at the risk of appearing to be an opinionated git, I refrained. But sometimes people need opinionated gits, and I regret my decision as I could’ve spared him a great deal of soul searching in later life as he wept over photos of his misguided attempt at a hair-don’t. But no doubt he would’ve informed me that looking vaguely like an older Harry Potter is none too clever either. Fair point, Newton.

 It is surprising the amount of known celebrities that are around here, and sometimes pop into the shop. I once got visited by the Kinks’ Ray Davies and he gave me his coffee container to throw away. I tried to sell it, naturally. Kinks spittle has to be worth something doesn’t it? If Elvis (not Costello) pubes can fetch money then why not? Fleetwood Mac’s LSD soaked Peter Green once popped in and proceeded to ask where he could buy knives. Slightly alarming seeing as he literally went bonkers through drugs and clearly should be only allowed cardboard boxes and crayons to play with. But maybe he just loves whittling sticks.

Before you lose interest in this incessant, quite unimpressive name-dropping, I shall continue with some more incessant, unimpressive name-dropping.

 Other visitors have included: Eric Clapton, who used to be in ’Cream’ and then went ar*e numbingly dull; Paul Weller (on my day off that was, I was gutted – used to be a big fan but I’ve learnt to live with it after many years of therapy and repeated listenings to ‘Style Council’ LPs); Paul Rodgers from the band ‘Free’; Radio DJ, presenter and professional drinker Chris Evans too. But my favourite was when I told off ex ‘Doctor Who’ actress, Bonnie Langford for leaving the door open in the winter and she apologised. I said I’d let her off seeing as she was famous. (Once anyway.)

 Apologies to reader(s) from other countries, this is not very impressive. I’d love to say I’d accidently spilt coffee on Robert DeNiro or tripped up Julia Roberts but they haven’t popped in. I’m waiting until they do the pantomime in the local theatre for my chance… NB: a pantomime is a terribly camp, terribly shit play based on popular fairy tales - usually performed over the christmas period – featuring washed up television actors for the ‘entertainment’ of the nation’s children. This is a form of torture in the UK and is soon to be incorporated in Guantanamo Bay to break the spirits of inmates, and will undoubtedly feature TVs Gary Wilmot as Widow Twanky and Bob Carolgees and Spit the Dog as the stage curtains.

As highly glamourous as all this is (just pretend at least) there is a major flaw in being visited by the well known – they’re invariably tight and never spend anything. Oh, except Noel Gallagher from Beatles cover band ‘Oasis’ who’s juke box I personally stocked about seven years ago (although I never met or heard from him, just his agent). If it inspired his musical ‘growth’ you can blame me for those last few terrible albums he and his simian brother farted out at the world. Sorry.