Vinylrichie’s Weblog

 Thieves. It takes nerve to be a successful one. It takes guile and cunning and sleight of hand. Thankfully, they are mostly opportunist idiots - about as subtle as Alan Carr’s homosexuality or Amy Winehouse’s nights out.

Having a very small shop gives me the advantage of being able to keep an eye on everyone. That is unless I’m on the computer which faces the door and not the punters – I lost about 10 hip-hop and R&B CDs last week due to my blogging and Scrabble addictions. (It was those bloody chavs again and they didn’t even have the manners to drop some a little bag of skunk on the floor.) Still, theft isn’t a real problem usually.

 The funniest thief was about eight years ago. I was late for work having just had an early morning argument with my girlfriend (no, honestly), so naturally I wasn’t feeling very buoyant. That argument turned out to be beneficial because I was seething when I had my first visitor. He browsed around whilst I slammed price stickers on a new batch of CDs and put them on the counter in the ‘fresh in’ section. A few minutes later the visitor approached the counter so I composed myself and nicely asked if he required assistance. I recognised him as a local busker, and a shit one at that. The only song he ever seemed to play was ‘Daydream Believer’ by ‘The Monkees’ (badly and in an almost falsetto whine, which may explain my hatred of this song.) He asked me if I had any ‘Everly Brothers’ 45s. Indeed I do, tons of them, so I turned my back on him to root around for the box to show him. Turning back I noticed he was standing in front of me with his hand inside his jacket, Napolean style. How weird. So as he one handedly set to the task of rummaging through the box I noticed that the ‘fresh in’ section had a huge gap in it.

Hmmm. What can we deduce from this turn of events?

‘Can I have my CDs back now?’ I ask him.

‘What the f*ck are you talking about?’ is his eloquent reply.

‘Why do you have your hand stuffed inside your jacket?

‘None of your f*ckin’ business, you can’t go around accusing people of stealing.’

‘It is my business. I just filled the ‘fresh in’ section FIVE MINUTES AGO and you are the only person in the shop and there is suddenly a gap there and your hand is tucked in your jacket.’

He calls me a c*nt and admonishes me for accusing him of theft.

‘Who’s the c*nt?’ I reply, ‘you are the one with a bunch of empty CD cases stuffed in your clothing.’ Then I wave the actual discs at him which are sitting in front of me to file in the drawer. He looks a bit abashed but tries to bluff it out some more. Stupidly I march round to his side of the counter and wrench open his jacket. Surprise! Oh look, CD cases. I give him the option of handing them back and never coming to the shop again or he can stay in the shop with me and his cases and wait for the police. He left to pursue his obviously highly lucrative career as a musician.

That brings me to this Monday just gone. At 10.40am I was making coffee and two guys walk in. They, as every other person on a Monday morning tends to, ask me the oft repeated question of whether I buy records. Yawn. Whilst looking at the records half heartedly I inform them that I have no money to spend in the till as it’s Monday morning. The records are pretty good so I offer them £17 for all eight. They agree and I suggest that they return at 1.00pm. I offer to keep hold of the vinyl until then to save them the bother of carrying them around until then. Upon their return I will furnish them with some lolly. All good. I carry on with my ultra hectic morning of overdosing on coffee and looking out at the occasional pretty office girls walking past.

12.40pm and one of the cheerful goths I wrote about in an earlier blog ventures in on his lunch hour to praise my sparkling wit/prejudices/cynicism. After thanking him profusely he then explains that he’d had some records stolen out of his (mum’s) car the previous day. Again, I’ve heard all this before and he doesn’t seem too upset so I nonchalantly say that I’ll keep an eye out for them as he mentions a couple. Amused when he mentions ‘Sonic Youth’ I laugh at the co-incidence of having had an LP by them in first thing. He has kittens when he spies the others and says ‘that’s them!’ I explain the above and suggest that, as the little toe rags are due back in twenty minutes, he may wish to inform the local nick. Good lad, he’d reported the theft the day it happened so we thought it would be quick. However, he didn’t know the crime number or registration of the car so things slowed.

 Time was running out, almost like an episode of ‘24′ except without explosions or split screen action or any excitement whatsoever. I give him the shop ‘phone and, after looking up the police switchboard phone number on the internet (I suggested 999 was a little over the top for a few stolen LPs, that number should be reserved for people who have lost a cat or locked themselves out) he dialled and struggled with all the questions they fire at you to see if you’re a time waster or not. Then it’s my turn. I take the ‘phone and suggest that a police prescence might be a good idea. They’re all busy apparently. But the shop is literally yards from the police station, and it’s a big one which must be full of people doing law enforcement type things. I wonder if Chief Wiggum from ’The Simpsons’ is in charge for the day. I am informed that all of the local CCTV cameras are trained on the shop. I look forward to appearing on ‘Street Wars’ soon.

The call continues. I am asked to give descriptions of the two scallies. This bit is quite easy because they have just arrived outside of the shop, hanging around finishing their cigarrettes/joint. So I give a rather accurate description very quietly to the switchboard operator of the gentlemen. The thieves enter. I am informed to keep them here and a car will be with me in fifteen minutes! Fifteen minutes? I enquire what I am supposed to do to stall them, give them £17 very slowly in one pence pieces? Ask them their favourite colours? Suggest we start a book group this instant? Remarkably, the whole shop – which is gaining more lunch time visitors – are waiting quietly whilst I seemingly totally ignore them all to have my chat on the blower. But I do that a lot anyway. Even the fingersmiths are patiently just waiting. They even start listening to our vinyl on the record deck. My, these criminals are as good as gold, they can come again. I’m only surprised they didn’t offer to take their shoes off when the entered.

Just when I feel I can’t hold them anymore, the biggest, tallest copper I’ve ever seen walks in and I have the really lovely duty of pointing the guys out. No christmas card for me this year then. The first guy looks a bit shocked upon being told that they are under arrest but kindly hands me back the record he was just listening to. Bless. Searched in the shop they unload their pockets of further illicit goods – a stolen MP3 player featuring goth music was turned up. This also belonged to the cheerful goth funnily enough. They also had some dope in a really funky tin taken from them. That pissed them off. Then four more units of old bill turn up so the outside of the shop is surrounded by three squad cars and a big van. Anyone would think they’d just found Osama Bin Laden buying ‘Nolans’ singles from me.

Job done, they are led away in handcuffs and the shop gets busier as passerby visit for a good old gawp. The shop empties with the exodus of the Queen’s finest. Later, I give my statement, cheerful goth gives his. The Policeman that takes mine exclaims that it was like an episode of popular trashy cop soap opera ‘The Bill’. I pointed out that he was wrong as no one that used to be in ‘Eastenders’ was present. How we laughed.

 Are people a little bit dim on purpose? Do certain humans, upon rising to face a new day, decide to try and enliven the mediocrity of their daily grind by seeing if they can perplex others for some sort of amusement? It would seem like it. There may even be a group where these poppets can get together and come up with ways to mentally hassle shop keepers and swap hilarious anecdotes at their achievements in this field, whilst enjoying coffee and cake and the odd jumble sale.

Who’s been causing me to audibly sigh or bury my head in my hands of late? Today a regular browser popped in and had a little mutter to himself whilst walking around the shop. On his way out he says: ‘Oh, you sell records as well.’ The shop is wall to wall records, thousands of 7″ singles line the shelves from floor to ceiling. There are LPs all over the place. ’I didn’t think they made records anymore’, he adds, failing to grasp the concept that this statement is irrelevant as we are second hand anyway. I assure him in my world weary way that ‘they’ do and always have done and leave it there for fear of venturing further down the path of this man’s idiocy. He probably still buys cassettes.

Some aggressive feral youth came in last Wednesday and marched up to the counter. ‘Have you got any Diana Straits?’ (Yes, ‘DIANA Straits’) was his question. No please, no manners and not a clue, so I mildly ridicule him. This I somehow have down to a fine art, but only at work. I know just how far to mildly goad people by instinct without getting a smack in the face. In fact, in twelve years I’ve only been asked outside for a fight twice and threatened with assault once. But this guy is so stupid (he’s a chav after all) my facetiousness is beyond him. So I give up and direct him to the ‘Dire Straits’ CDs and try to get back to eating my lunch. Upon perusing our selection of ‘the Straits’ staggeringly mediocre output he pipes up: ‘Why the f*ck are you listening to this?’ as he gestures to the speakers. I can’t remember what I had on but it was probably Ryan Adams, ‘Uncle Tupelo’ or ‘The Broken Family Band’ as they are on rotation at the moment due to them being my current obsessions. Great question. I told him that it was on as I hated it so much and I like self torture. He left empty handed (and empty headed, naturally.)

On Monday last week a girl comes in (ohmygod A GIRL! Look! Look!) and after a small browse she enquires: ‘Are these CDs for anyone to buy?’ Nope. Today I’m only selling music to people who’s names begin with the letter H. Tomorrow I shall only be selling to bricklayers called Dave. I didn’t say that obviously, naturally I was struck dumb by the presence of a member of the fairer sex. I may even have fainted.

If I do actually end up fainting in here, or have an accident like falling off the ladder, there’s a good chance I won’t be discovered for some time. At the moment I’m getting more visitors to this blog than to the shop. This doesn’t bode well seeing as it is the run up to the celebration of greed, money and stress that passes for an apparently religious festival called Christmas. Over the years Christmas here as turned into a bit of a non-event. Again, this reflects people’s reluctance to go shopping so the lucky internet traders get all the trade. This is totally unsurprising to anyone that has actually tried physically shopping in England recently – it’s horrendous. Most of the time you are lucky to find more than one member of staff manning the tills. Inevitably the people queueing in front of you will be laden with stuff, ask too many questions to the monosyllabic teenager who grunts moody replies and they will pack their bag far too slowly. Then they’ll pay for everything with a mixture of credit card and vouchers before asking for cashback too late so a new transaction has to take place. Then something will go wrong with the teenager’s brain/till so everyone has stand around tutting whilst a supervisor gets summoned so they can use their magic bunch of keys to make it all better.

People should be flocking to this shop; no queues, every till manned all the time (all one of them) and wonderfully polite and tolerant staff (errr…) It’s just a shame that there might not be anything you want to buy for anyone but surely that is a minor drawback compared to the aforementioned bonuses? You’ll only buy them things they don’t want anyway, so why not buy you loved ones a used ‘Steely Dan’ CD or a Marc Almond picture disc? If you disappoint your friends and relatives with your choice of present at least you can take solace in the fact that you’ve helped keep me in a ‘job’. Think of it as kind of buying a goat for an African village or adopting a manatee. I can even write you a certificate if you like, and I’ll write to you every quarter to let you know how I’m doing. (Why when people adopt an animal does this happen? Who wants to know that ‘their’ meerkat spent the last three months eating scorpions and standing cutely on it’s hind legs? Or that the manatee looked weird and ate kelp slowly? These things are surely bleedin’ obvious.)

So, Christmas is cancelled. I gave up putting the shop decorations up about three years ago because no one ever noticed them. The nearest you’ll get to festive here is if you look through our Christmas singles box. After finding 146 copies of ‘Walking in the Air’ next to each other you’ll want to forget about Christmas too.

Sex.

 There, I have your attention. Sex and certain types of music go hand in hand. For instance, don’t try seducing someone whilst listening to Meatloaf or Hawkwind  – go for a bit of Marvin Gaye. Although I would suggest you are better off not taking advice from someone who has all the pulling power of a thalidomide tug-of-war team.(I.E: me). There are a lot of songs lauding this still popular pastime/procreation method, although most of the ones sold here get bought by single men so any romantic connotations included are pretty much rendered redundant. So where do these men get their real life kicks? Best not delve too deeply into this as who knows what degree of sordid behaviour one would discover? But the obvious answer is good old reliable pornography. This is where I, er, come in.

We get a fair amount of grot in here. Unfortunately we are unable to sell the hard stuff as we don’t have a license so it’s all pretty tame Sunday tabloid fodder but it still sells well, especially to young adults and old men. I used to think that getting rid of the records and CDs and just stocking blue movies would be a better business strategy overall, but I love the view of the bus station so much that I don’t want to paint the window black. Plus I get more than enough wankers in already so my idea was rightly abandoned. The grim thing is that when buying in this sort of stock you have to handle it; you have to check that that the right video cassette is in the right box or that the DVD is not scratched. Obviously this means handling somebody else’s second hand masturbatory material, which is pretty grim if you think about it, especially as you have the soon-to-be-previous owner right in front of you. One really has to try hard not to think about what those hands have been doing before, during and after viewing  said movie. Still, as long as you wash your hands afterwards, can stop retching and can afford decent therapy, it’s worth it as the profit is excellent.

My main supplier of ’special interest’ used to come in every couple of weeks with one or two carrier bags full of pornography. He must have been rather keen on this art form as he clearly spent a lot of time buying and watching these. (Maybe he was a reviewer?) He was quite a sight. If there was one man who you thought would have looked like a porn fan it was he. He’d lurch into the shop in a tatty green jacket, balding head, over-sized glasses and buck teeth. He was about six foot seven inches tall and his trousers were a little too short. Every time he ventured in we would start the transaction with his usual question of: ‘Do you buy videos?’ I would reply in the affirmative and he’d ask: ‘What, adult videos?’ And off we’d go. The first time I bought stuff from him, all the while trying to keep a straight face as I read the titles like ‘Lesbo Soccer Mom 6′ or ‘Russian Porno Housewives 8′, I nearly wet myself laughing when I got him to fill in a cash pay out form and he wrote his name: Mr J Leper. Priceless. I hope he doesn’t read this, mind you he probably hasn’t got a computer as they’re  no good for accessing pictures of naked people are they? Computers only exist for spreadsheets and checking the football results. Oh, and for receiving emails telling you of your urgent need for a bigger dick.

 It’s amazing how some people have no shame. One young gentleman was in one Saturday afternoon perusing our selection of marvellously priced DVDs. Having tired of wading through the usual titles on the rack (Harry Potter and The Interminable Boredom, Rush Hour 8, The Eyes of The Hills Have Eyes etc) he decides to rummage somewhere else. A little while later he asks to see our selection of porno DVDs behind the counter, in a really loud voice. Several heads turn in surprise and amusement. I was slightly miffed as at that time there were no flesh flicks in the shop. I asked him what he meant and he says, ‘Look, it says here to ask to see your porno DVDS’. Huh? Puzzled I follow his finger to the sign he’s reading. Bless ‘im. It said ‘Ask to see our Promo DVDs.’ Well they do say that masturbating makes you blind, but I don’t know if it makes you dyslexic too. He tries to gloss over it by saying that he has a rather adventurous girlfriend who likes it, not him. Hmmm.

I had an acquaintance whom I got to know accidently through his frequent visits to the shop. His main passion was cinema but he also had a massive collection of gentlemen’s videos. He would share his passion freely, like when you or I hear an album we like and think others should too, and he would copy stuff for you whether you wanted it or not. One day I asked him to do me a copy (yes, shoot me for hypocrisy) of the highly middle class and repected Queen Victoria story ‘Mrs Brown’ as I really enjoyed it at the cinema. In due course he furnished me with a copy but put that Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee Jones home movie on the cassette too. He didn’t tell me first. All I can say is I’m pleased I decided to watch ‘Mrs Brown’ before I lent it to my mother first. This man also decided to give me a copy of ‘X-Men’ he’d taped for me even though I had not asked for it and had no desire to watch it. So I didn’t watch it and gave it straight to my dad who will watch anything. (He even went to the cinema to watch ‘Batman and Robin’ which, fair play to him, he walked out of with five minutes to go – the only film he’s ever walked out of.) A few days later I asked his opinion on the ‘X-Men’ just to engage in a little small talk. He said he missed the movie as he fell asleep half way through. He said he was very confused that when he awoke the actors seemed to have shed all of their clothes and were engaging in some vigourous jiggery-pokery. He soon realised that the ‘X-Men’ had long finished and something a lot more involving was being played out. He seemed quite pleased and it certainly woke him up somewhat.

I have since had that video tape returned to me and have still failed to watch ‘X-Men’. I’ve seen the ‘extras’ though.

  Fashion. David Bowie once sang about it, quite nonsensically as it goes. He sang: Listen to me – Don’t listen to me, Talk to me – Don’t talk to me, Dance with me – Don’t dance with me, Beep Beep – Beep Beep. Thanks David. That’s the world of fashion concisely dissected.  Makes De Do Do Do De Da Da Da sound like it was written by Wordsworth.

 Anyway, fashion. I get to see a lot of what passes for fashion coming through the door, as music lovers like to emulate their heroes, or try to mirror the genres they like (or in the case of teenagers, what they are told to like by their friends and/or told is rubbish or offensive by their parents.) However, this observation doesn’t work with classical buyers – I’ve yet to be approached by someone dressed as Beethoven, more’s the pity. So what sort of fashions am I trying to illuminate you about? It’s time to pigeon-hole a few people rather cheaply. Just for a change.

The Rock and (sorry) ‘n’ Roller: Most often old enough to be Bill Haley’s dad, these people downright refuse to pander to such fripperies as what decade it is, or how old they actually are. It is very common in any second-hand record shop to find a late sixty something male rifling through the racks searching for ‘Sun’ singles (mostly male anyway, although I did have a married couple that used to come in who dressed indentically; D.A haircuts, leathers and the like. She had the most amazingly upsetting tattoos – of Richie Valens, Bill Haley and, all over her back, was Buddy Holly’s face. Huge it was. It still makes me squirm to think of it. She showed me pictures, don’t worry - she didn’t get naked.) These people all stopped buying new music in about 1962, until Elvis’ comeback special anyway. They are also slightly dull because only liking one sort of music from a decade and a half makes it quite difficult to have anything to sell them that they don’t already own. For some reason they fail to get excited about Radiohead or Dizzee Rascal. However, they don’t download music so they get my thumbs up for that.

The Goth: Much villified for looking weird by, er, other people. I’m sure you know the uniform: as much black as possible, pale skin from too busy looking at the floor in their bedrooms whilst listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees. Maybe some studs and huge lace up boots as modelled by wannabe witchfinder generals everywhere. The obligatory three quarter length black coat can be used as a shield against spit from any passing punks or chavs, or protection from sunshine in the summer (hateful, hateful summer – goths don’t like flowers, bees, sunshine or swimming). Make up is very important, nail varnish and eyeliner especially (guess the colour). Long hair is also common and piercings are essential. Smiling is optional, but most of the ones I have met have actually been very cheerful and pleasant. However, it seems that unlike the rock ‘n’ rollers, these people grow up and have to ditch the image as no one wants to have a dentist draping hair in their mouths or buying a house from someone who models him/herself on Marilyn Manson. But I think Goth Cops sound like a good idea… hang on, that sounds like a TV show from Sky three or something. I might be on to something here.

The Indie Kid: Apart from the smaller children that think Nirvana T-shirts are still cool, this is actually quite a fluctuating style which reflects which decade of Indie the ‘kids’ are keen on. When I first started working here it was all baggy ‘Sultans of Ping’, ‘James’ or ‘Wonder Stuff’ t-shirts with Converse trainers and jeans or checked trousers and big, floppy hair. Now all the kids try to look like they are in ‘Franz Ferdinand’ with angled haircuts, skinny ties and skin tight jeans. This is all rather more acceptable (although still quite mirth inducing in the soon-to-be-fuddy-duddy-world of the thirty something) than the styles that accompany this look. I.E: the disastrous showing of underwear from trousers that don’t fit and the resurgence of the ‘Bay City Rollers’ mullet hair-don’t. Girls that wear tiaras and angel wings as well, just look at yourselves, surely you grew out of dressing up at the age of five? Can I just take the oppurtunity to slag off ‘Ugg’ boots too? I Can’t think how they fit into a blog about music but they, to me, are the most offensive item of footwear ever conceived. Looking like a pigeon-toed teddy bear on purpose is something I just can’t grasp.

The Heavy Metal/Rock fan: A timeless look which will just go on forever, I’m sure. You don’t need me to tell you about the leather jackets, ‘Ramones’ or ‘Guns ‘n’ Roses’ t-shirts, black jeans and black boots. A lot of these people have been into this sort of music since ‘Black Sabbath’ so are well ensconsed into middle age. For some reason this doesn’t stop the (mostly male) devotees from sporting bloody pony tails and oversized skull shaped rings. Newsflash: Sorry, you aren’t twenty-two anymore. Really.

Reggae and Dub fans: This town is predominantly white and middle class, there are only a handful of sightings per year of those who might be termed properly rastafarian. Therefore I can only base this entry on the posh middle class types who like reggae around here. They are usually called Giles or Henry and live in big detached houses in the countryside with their mums. But they have smelly, grime magnet dreadlocks and a tie-dyed t-shirt, as well as a poster of Bob Marley in the scullery, so they must be bona fide rastas. They also smoke ‘de ‘erb’ probably bought from their friend who’s dad is a dentist or a magistrate. Just like in Jamaica then.

Folkies: Nearly always chaps in their fifties and sixties. The sensible ‘I let the wife buy all my clothes in Marks & Spencer’ look is the most common. Spectacles are a must, maybe a broad rimmed hat, and a beard is mandatory. It is illegal to go to a folk gig in Britain without ornate facial hair, and anyone caught not drinking real ale is put in the stocks and pelted with dung. Nonny nonny.

Soul/Northern Soul: Again, music largely attributed to black people, for black people, but I’ve explained the customer base in the reggae bit so it’s the white middle-classes again. They seem to always wear corduroy trousers, sensible and dull sweaters, moustaches and spectacles. I have no idea why. I think if they dressed up as George Clinton that would be much more entertaining. Kill-joys.

Jazz er, ‘Cats’: I would love to say berets and polo kneck sweaters, cigarette dangling from the mouth and small, coloured-lens glasses. But in truth they just aren’t that noticeable. Maybe it’s because most jazz is unlistenable shite and they don’t wish to let it be known to the general populace that they actually like it for fear of ridicule.

Punks: It’s still hip to rail against authority and smash the system by having a concrete spiky mohican! Rip your clothes, iron (or get a grown up to help you) on a ‘Rancid’ patch or paint on a ‘Crass’ symbol (with tippex) onto your bomber jacket to destroy the squares! Get mistaken for a National Front supporting racist! Then become a soilcitor in later life. Anarchy!    

Phew. There’s probably more but I can’t be asked to write a longer post, just like you won’t have time or the inclination to read it.                                          

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Disclaimer: What the hell do I know? I don’t claim to be a fashion guru in the least. In fact I have very little fashion sense at all. I think I’m desperately trying to cling onto my disappearing youth too, I still wear t-shirts with amusing pictures on and only wear proper shoes at weddings and funerals and I’m 32. And I work in a record shop like a teenager. Therefore I accept any ridicule that comes my way with good grace. I only make an example of the above people because I am a facetious and slightly cruel sod. But you know that by now.

 Who else can be found festering like bacteria in a petri dish in this most illustrious of shops? Let’s take a swab and meet some of the regulars.

Picture the scene: I have my back to the door, flicking through a pile of 7″ singles (or 45 inches as some lady said one day, I’d love to see the record deck she had). Suddenly I shiver, a cold sweat breaks the surface of my skin, all the birds stop singing (probably, somewhere.) I spin round and am met by the sight of a spectre almost hovering by the entrance. It’s Ghost Man. Restlessly prowling the earth in limbo, emanating unspoken grief, trying to find a way into the other world cursed to walk the earth, obsessively buying DVDs. Honestly, he always arrives without me realising as he is stealthier than an invisible ninja cat with a cloaking device. When he walks it is as if he drifts, his movements are slow and deliberate. I swear I can hear the distant chiming of a bell tower when he materialises from the ether, or the bus station.

 He is also a painter and decorator so he is always covered in white emulsion and fine dust, sublimely adding to his spectral aura. His voice is slow, deep and spooky. ‘Anymore promo DVDS?’ he enquires. ‘Be gone, spirit’, I reply ‘your time on this plane is over. Whom is it that you search for to assuage your limbo?’ OK, I don’t really say things like that. I usually just say no/yes depending on the state of play. Supernatural eh? Maybe I should start late night ghost tours of the shop. However, there are definitely more horrors to be experienced in the daytime so I’d probably best to stick to that.

 Who else? There’s a guy who is the spitting image of Father Jack from TV’s ‘Father Ted’. He has the lovely good looks, food stains down his yellow rain coat, long hair made of straw and he uses a magnifying glass to look at stuff and screws up his teethless mouth with the effort. He doesn’t shout ‘feck’, ‘drink’ or ‘girls’ though. Shame.

How about Kevin Eyebrow? He has a rather funky white eyebrow, just the one as the other is normal. He used to be a visitor every day, selling or swapping sixties records with an almost religious zeal. He was an almost permenant fixture here he was so dedicated. Then his wife left him, then his attempts at picking his life up by dating turned out to be futile. Sadly, I’ve watched him turn his record buying habit into a chronic amphetamine problem which has seen him reduced to living in a squat and only coming in now to try and sell me knocked off steaks or stolen CDs or cadge a cup of tea off of me.  (I seem to have forgotten the humour in this bit but I guess there isn’t any. Poor bloke. I won’t do it again, promise.)

Then there’s Roger. Roger is one of the local, er, challenged people. He loves nothing better than coming in to stammer badly about his two favourite artists: sixties one-man band Don Partridge, and exponents of techno, Orbital. You really couldn’t make it up. His visits are painful as he’s happy just to hang around looking at you even if you don’t speak to him. Brrrr. I love the way he has had the same carrier bag for years that he keeps all of his stuff in. Over the years this has begun to disintegrate badly. The other day I saw him carrying his old carrier bag in a new see through carrier bag. So in a way he’s laminated it. Good work Roger, his carbon footprint must be admirably small. Shame he’s really annoying but that never killed anyone. Well, not in this shop. Not yet.

Not a regular anymore, but worth mentioning because of the amount of irritation this man enduced, is Harmonica Guy. Harmonica Guy was an old fella that used to stand on a certain street corner in this town, endlessly assaulting the ears of the public with his relentless harmonica renditions of things like Cliff Richard’s ‘Living Doll’ and other obvious sixties hits. He really put some welly into it, stomping his foot in time to the infernal whining racket he created. He did it for charity, which is admirable, but – like anyone that plays the bag-pipes – they should be paid to stop and preferably move far away. I only have sympathy for the people that worked nearby as the noise travelled quite a distance. He would do this for hours, come rain or shine. When he came into the shop, he would pick up video after video asking ‘How much is this?’. I would point to the rather obvious price tag. ‘How much is this?’ he would ask again proferring another video cassette to me. Seeing as all the videos were the same price this got a little tiresome as you can imagine. He would also exchange videos and I would give him £2 trade on each one he brought in, if they were any good. So he’d bring me maybe eight video cassettes and I’d give him the obvious £16 part exchange. So he’d then proceed to enquire about how many videos that will get him. Jesus. Then he’d pile up five or six videos and ask how much he’d got up to and was it over his exchange limit? This would happen once or twice a week. Now where did I put that valium?

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 Have you got anything you want me to talk about? Any questions about my scintillating ‘career’? Probably not, but if you do then leave them as a comment and I’ll feed off of your input due to my lack of imagination and creativity. There may even be a cash prize for the one who inspires me most.*

 * There won’t be. Sorry.