Vinylrichie’s Weblog

 Vinylrichie is no more. I can’t call myself vinylrichie for any longer unless I decide to revert to a weird liking of vinyl products other than records, such as pseudo ’leather’ jackets from car boot sales or cheap flooring. Or sex toys.

I’ve finally quit my job.

Therefore I thought I’d have one last whinge to entertain those of you that bemoaned the end of the blog, which has had a very loyal following since its inception. A few of you vinyl junkies that actually visit the record shop as well as read this (all three of you) might be a little shocked at this news as well as annoyed that you will lose my generous discounts, fabulous wealth of knowledge and my miserable face. You’ll just have to start downloading like everybody else (the music, not my miserable face). So I’m off to pastures new which means I can say goodbye to the things I won’t miss, forever.

 Most of all I won’t miss going to the London store once a week, this has been mentioned before but not nearly in enough detail and I’m feeling frivolous.

Previously I have told you off my hatred of the journey there – the 3000 stops before arrival whilst being mentally assailed by loud kids, mobile phone users, sticky seats, graffiti’d windows and endless, endless announcements. A couple of weeks ago after the long and interminable diatribe about keeping your belongings with you, keeping feet off the seats, engineering works etc I was quite amused to hear the guard announce that ‘This train consists of eight feet’. So that’s one passenger with the train driver sitting on his or her head is it? I knew that Network Rail were downsizing but that is a bit over the top. My mirth did not last as I contemplated the day ahead: Seven uninterrupted hours of crushing ennui and er, colourful characters. Each week there is almost exactly the same as the last. Even the stock is exactly the same and things are precisely where I left them the week before even though there has been a gap of week and the shop has actually been open and staffed without me.

 Upon arrival I will be met by the people from the office upstairs who congregate in the street and smoke for a living, occasionally nipping upstairs for a crafty work break. (Seriously, I counted one day and they had fourteen cigarettes in six hours. Each.) Through the fug of smoke I’ll wrestle with the archaic door that yelps like a stepped on puppy when you open it and enter my prison for the day. I immediately put the kettle on. Drinking coffee and tea is my main activity here, my second is urinating. Sometimes I go the toilet just for something to do, and I mean that, it’s not much of a hobby but it’s free and easy to do – I’ve been doing it for a few years now.

Usually my first visitor of the day will be the cheap sovereign ring  wearing shouty chav family who come in after doing their weekly shopping at ‘Wilkinson’s’ up the road. They communicate by verbally assaulting each other (and that’s just the children – four of them) whilst rifling through the cheap CDs to find £1.50s worth of R&B. Then there will a small window of about two hours where no one at all will come in and I start swearing about having got up at the crack of dawn to make less than two quid when I could just come in at noon and stuff that same amount in the till just so I could have a lie in. I’ll perch myself on a hideously uncomfortable stool and start my half hearted ploughing through newspapers. By lunch time I will have gone through at least three, and tried to do all the crosswords. My favourite is the local rag that tells you how many people have been assaulted and stabbed that week, how many junkies have been arrested for nicking from ‘Wilkinson’s’ and how many childrens’ playgrounds are covered in raw sewage, as well as the weekly rant about cyclists versus pedestrians.

Next up is usually a guy with a silly hat who goes through the £1 LPs and buys one. He always comes in, without fail every Friday. That in itself annoys the hell out of me. Then the bald man that doesn’t ever buy anything whom I’ve mentioned before visits…. mid-day Steve with glasses comes in and might buy one CD. It’s so painfully predictable, the same people every week and the same stock. The afternoon goes by in a blur of excitement as I spend most of it looking out of the window, through the cloud of the full-time smokers’ efforts. By this time the local street drinkers are out in force clutching those blue carrier bags full of Tenant’s Nuclear. Sometimes they  see me looking bored and come in to ‘cheer me up’. This is dreadful – I had one last week that proceeded to dribble and spray his way through telling me that he’d been released from prison after a ten stretch. I didn’t ask any questions, you may think I’d be intrigued, but the main rule of people you want to get shot of is never ask them anything because they’ll answer you at length. This is due to them having absolutely nowhere to go and nothing to do.

At least twice a day I’ll see ‘Wilkinson’s’ security men running after a thieving oik with a few fat Community Support ‘Police’ officers in close-ish pursuit. I want to know what you can steal from that pikey store that has a resale value, maybe they swap scourers for skag on the streets these days. The tea-leaf (thief for my readers across the Atlantic) is usually accosted outside the pub next door which I have never been in as it looks incredibly right-wing. It holds metal and punk nights, the owner is covered in tattoos and the logo of this pub is very similar to the Nazi eagle. There is no end to the hideousness – even the street where all this occurs is permanantly covered in dog shit although I never see dogs down there. Maybe the council have a contract to keep the streets faecalised and they deliver it in the mornings ready for people to slip in on their way to work/shoplift/rehab.

Just as I’m about to openly weep as the day nears it’s end the real timewasters come in. There is a rather large selection of bargain LPs that are priced at £1 each or you can get ten for £5. A favourite past time for the hoards of cheapskates is painstakingly going through each title and inspecting the discs for marks or scratches. People actually have the audacity to ask for them cheaper if they find any nano-scratches. They are ONE FUCKING POUND! Honestly, If I hadn’t have left already I’m sure I would be the next person in the local newspaper to be reported for stabbing someone, but the only sharp thing in the shop is the fork I bought from ‘Wilkinson’s’ to eat ‘Pot Noodles’ with so it would have to be a rather drawn out attack with a very compliant victim with a few hours to spare.

Around four thirty I kick them all out (naughty – I’m supposed to be there until half past five) before I start smashing things up or sink irretrievably into a deep, dark psychosis. Then it’s rush hour on the train where you can’t move for suit wearing, i-pod sporting, ‘Blackberry’ bashing business men/women or bloody teenagers with their amazing knack of speaking lots but saying, like, nothing, like. Weirdly everyone seems to get off at Horsley (a village largely populated by the well to do and their au-pairs) where the wives of the suits will be waiting in their Volvos to take hubbie home, where their two kids, Clitorissa and Labia, are practicing the oboe before dinner. Sorry, I meant supper – the word dinner does not exist in leafy Surrey.

But (thank Christ) all this is soon to be a distant memory. My time as a record dealer is at an end, I finished yesterday; I was expecting some sort of fanfare after around 14 years of peddling vinyl, I was hoping that my boss would come in and present me with a jeroboam (this isn’t a rodent) of champagne and a hearty thank you. Hrumph. All I got was a phone call from him saying he can’t come in as he’s got gout. Yes, gout. Anyone would think that I worked for Henry VIII or Michael Winner.

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So that’s it. Vinyl Richie is now as obsolete as cassette singles or VHS which means this blog is now definitely over. But don’t fret as you can follow the further adventures of me on my new blog page which is thus: http://apathyintheuk.wordpress.com/

Apparently it’s quite good, well I’ve had lots of hits but then again so has Rick Astley. Thanks everyone, it’s been emotional (mostly wailing and sobbing.)