Vinylrichie’s Weblog

 I thought that small scale independant retailing was tough. I thought that finally tearing myself away from the weirdness of second hand record retail was a release; coming up for air after long being submerged in its murky, cloying waters. But upon surfacing, gasping and blinking into the air, my eyes open I find myself in familiar surrounds: in a shop. Surrounded, once again, by bastards.

 I couldn’t keep away for ever. I have spent the last year away from this blog thinking that I’d never need or want to write about working in retail again once in the safe haven of a leading high street stationers/book shop. Christ knows what gave me that idea for once again my days are filled by the inane, the bizarre, the downright iritating and the hilarious. So join me in my new adventures as a book seller where I try to survive the onslaught of life on the minimum wage whilst dodging the recession and the foibles of the human condition. Huzzah.

 ’You’re that bloke who used to work in the record shop.’

 Damn. The past is not so easily escaped. I have a new job and still the people that recognise me want to talk about the old one. Still, it is nice to be remembered and at least I have a legacy because on my first week in the book selling section of my new job I’m swiftly taught that I’m nobody now; just a grunt. I look around and spy that the large majority of staff are children. School leavers or the yet to leave on their way to bright futures, enduring the ignominy of retail awaiting their real calling. Oh.

 Still, I have escaped the nutters and the customers I didn’t like, such as Peter – my arch nemesis from the record shop.

 Ringringring. That’s the bell we use to summon more staff to the tills when there is a queue or a problem. It sounds a bit like being chased down a country lane being pursued by an irate vicar on his bike. I’m at the other end of the shop doing something or other and I, still on my first week and trying to get to grips with everything, respond. I turn and J, who I’m convinced really doesn’t like me, says that this gentleman wants to place a customer order.

Oh look. It’s Peter. Fuck.

 It turns out that he is an avid shopper, sorry, I mean time waster and irritant at this leading high street retailer too. Obviously as we sell CDs and DVDs and he, as established in my previous blogs, just hangs around music shops all day spreading his fetid smell and endless charm. This time he has the upper hand. It is not actively encouraged to tell customers to piss off when working for a large chain. For some reason this is a sackable offence. It turns out that everybody safe guards their own positions at this shop by running and hiding when Peter turns up so they don’t fall into the ‘piss off’ trap. This particular gauntlet was mine so I picked it up.

Awkwardly we pretended not to know each other, although any dogs nearby would have heard the snarls that are inaudible to the human ear. He wants to order a film. He wants to order something called ‘Helvetica’. He wants to spell it for me. I inform him that I can spell helvetica. I type it in to the ultra frustrating ordering system and come up with nothing.

‘Do you want me to spell it for ya?’ He asks again, the words dripping and glistening in delighted sarcasm. I spin the screen round so he can see how one spells helvetica. Crestfallen, he asks me to substitute the c for a k. Hey, the customer is always right so here I go. There we are Peter, I’ve mis-spelt it for you just like you wanted and we have only gleaned one thing from this exchange: you are still a cock. He turns tail and leaves and I bemoan the injustice to my colleagues. Incredulous with rage as that man invades my life again.

 But it isn’t just him that has been sent to destroy me. There are one or two blasts from the past that have discovered my whereabouts and haunt me. There is also a glittering array of new talent to frequent my days. In due course I shall introduce you to them. There is the Sleeping Ninja, Lotto Man (we have a lotto machine in the books department – bloody thing) A.K.A Wassname, Cat Piss Lady, Crazy Crutch Lady, Silver Snake man, this bearded grumpy old man who doesn’t have a nickname, Tony, Nigel Havers (yes, the real one from the telly and films…and panto). There are others too: the ugliest, most nasty new mum whose hobby is causing distress, the ‘Five Children and It’ boy and, of course, there are the staff – each with our own wonderfully differing natures, and we can be bastards too.

It’s good to be back.