Archive | September, 2012


28 Sep

I remember as a young child mum always had the radio on in the background, BBC Radio 2; Jimmy Young, Pete Murray, Terry Wogan.  “What’s the recipe today Jim” would squeak from the transistor swiftly followed by the Carpenters.

In those early years, the sound of music playing was comforting, and homely, if the radio was turned on, the house was alive, and happy.

The Radio 2 playlist of the early seventies was brimming with icons, and could sashay from Tony Bennett to Glen Campbell just pausing briefly for Dusty Springfield.  It was wonderful, stellar, but safe!

At the age of eleven I started to yearn for music that wasn’t so safe.  I had taken to listening to Radio Luxembourg at night on my petrol blue plastic handheld radio.  I had one of those ghastly one ear headphones, and although the reception was chronic, the music crackled with energy and danger and an allure that nothing currently being played on Radio 2 could ever offer me or my one ear.

We had recently moved to a different part of the country and having not started my new school yet, my only friends that Summer,  were the voices that serenaded me through that lump of bright plastic.

Little did I know. that popular music was about to change forever and that my yearning for music with a bite was about to be answered in spades.

Then like a gift from the Gods, perfection arrived in the shape of a surly, swaggering leather clad Yank named Chrissie Hynde!  I cut out every picture of Chrissie and the band I could find from Disco 45, Smash Hits and every other teen and music magazine. I plastered the cuttings on my bedroom wall which soon began to take on a Joe Orton feel to it.    I scoured the newsagents every week for articles on The Pretenders.  It didn’t matter how small the article was, whether it was black and white or if it was just the lyrics to their latest single, it still got glued to the  floral wallpaper, every addition to the gallery was treasured.

I joined the Pretender’s fan club, sat back and waited for the newsletters to arrive, when the membership card came I made sure it was placed on the cupboard by the side of my bed. Member 364, I was part of an exclusive number of fans, well you could almost say friends of the band.

I went looking for a Pretenders t-shirt, but I couldn’t find any, even in cosmopolitan Guildford!.  Well this just wasn’t good enough, I went to the local branch of  Woolworths and I had one made.  It was red with the “The Pretenders” emblazoned across my chest in blue glitter.  I knew people were eyeing it with envy when I walked down Fleet High Street, The county of Hampshire had never seen anything as cool as me in that t-shirt.

Top the Pops, an already vital part of my week became ridiculously intense, and if the Pretenders were booked to appear on a particular night, I would sit studying Chrissie’s every movement, every vocal inflection.

Chrissie was singing directly to me of course, she knew I was sitting there on the Art Deco sofa mum had dragged back from an auction, absorbing every word that she mimed.  I had my very own one to one concert !

The new decade began and the first new number one hit of that decade was Brass in Pocket by the Pretenders.  I was beside myself, not only had Chrissie made it to the top of the charts,but the group had made a promotional video for the single.  I was mesmerised, Chrissie played a waitress in the video, obviously the absolutely coolest waitress ever to grace the screen!  Dazzling  in traditional waitress attire, but every inch the rock star.  Men were in awe, but Chrissie had them in the palm of her ‘rockstar’ hands.

Having been blessed with only an older sister who left home when I was four years old, I had been brought up basically as an only child.  This had contributed to me having and extremely over active imagination for company. I actually spent half my life existing in a fantasy dimension.

The music video, was perfect for the fantasist inside me that I was barely containing.  As I walked to the bus stop to get the school bus every morning, I wasn’t Angela Collings,  Catholic school girl in the suburbs heading into another day of exercise books and Bunsen burners.  Oh no, I was Chrissie Hynde, swaggering about the café in leather and eyeliner and the women in the café were falling like flies (I always edited my videos to suit my proclivities).  I was far too young to settle down though, they were welcome to fall at my feet, it was their problem if they couldn’t see I was a free spirit. I was a rock star, and far too cool to commit to anyone!

These musical related fantasies continued for my entire teenage, I was just extremely lucky that the era I grew up in, happened to be packed with phenomenal music, and the music video was exploding onto the music scene  Every single release had to be accompanied by a fabulous video, usually moody gems that showcased the artist and the song .  The emergence of the Vh1 channel ensured that the marketing and image on the silver screen conveyed was as important as the quality of the product it was selling.

I spent those years in a haze, one minute I was walking through the West End with the Pet Shop Boys, the next I was rescuing a beautiful heroine from a comic book with A-ha, at one point I even ran away from home with a stroppy teenage Pat Benatar, even though she looked old enough at the time to have teenage kids of her own!

The next time I really fell in love with a musician it was of the male species.  Morrissey, the lead singer of The Smiths.  The lyrics, the image, the humour and the quiff, he had it all.  He was singing to me too,just like Chrissie he understood me too.

I bought the 12 inch vinyl single of ‘Shoplifters’  in HMV, it was the limited edition, it came in a carrier bag proclaming “shoplifter” in big, bold black letters!  I carried this around Guildford for three hours, swinging it ostentatiously.  Everyone would see how ridiculously cool I was.  Chrissie Hynde had proclamied it first “I’m special, there’s nobody else here like me”, she had known it all along.

I can’t help thinking, and I know I am generalising here, that the joy I had from the perfect partnership of music and imagination has been lost.  I know there are a lot of young people out there who are inspired by music and making inspiring music.  But the passion for popular music does not seem to hold the sway that it held over my generation.

Even the beauty in buying the music has been lost, no glorious record sleeves, nothing to hold in the hand and marvel at.  No lyric sheet inserts, no cryptic messages on the run off grove.  Just a song title on an ipod.

Individual songs listened to rather than albums purchased.  Yet the magic of a good album was always the tracks that were never released as singles, they were your secrets, only you knew how good they really were, you never shared them with the masses, only discussed them with other fans of that artist and asserted that they all could have been singles they were that good!

As they walk to the school bus, do today’s generation fantasise about being in Grand Theft Auto or World of Warcraft, is this their new inspiration?  I can’t help feeling slightly sorry for them.  I am glad I had Chrissie to accompany me on my journeys.

The Radio 2 playlist is now packed with the edgy musicians of my youth, and I have a confession!  Every now and then when I am driving I tune in and it starts all over again.  I’m not driving down the A5 passing through Lichfield on the way to Nuneaton.  No, Tracy Chapman knows where I am, I’m in a fast car, speeding out of small town America, lover in the driver’s seat, impatient to fly away, coz we gotta make a decision leave tonight or live and die this way!  Oh bollocks, the traffic lights have changed to red in Tamworth!Image



17 Sep

It has taken me forty-six years of being on this spinning rock to finally accept that honesty is not always the best policy.

To most that would be an extremely obvious statement of fact, but it is a ‘truism’ I have always railed against, and I still do even though I know a good liar is often more popular than an ‘honest Joe’!

I seem to have been born with the compulsion to always tell the truth.  Please don’t misunderstand me, I have never been deliberately rude, insulting or hurtful to anybody, I loathe people that make entirely unsolicited comments on other people’s appearance; weight, height, clothing, hair, etcetera, that is just the peak of ill breeding and bad manners.   No the problem for me is when anybody actively seeks my honest opinion, then unfortunately I always seem to end up in big trouble.

I remember as a child of six, my father had spent the entire Saturday afternoon at a neighbour’s house, having a drinking competition with his friend who just happened to be a retired naval officer and who could quite possibly have drank Dylan Thomas under the table, it didn’t end at all well for dad!

My father returned home absolutely, totally, unreservedly, pissed!  He then, to the horror of my mother, lay down on the living room floor, beneath the coffee table with the dodgy leg and within seconds was in a comatose state.  My mother was absolutely horrified, and left him to sleep on the living room floor for the rest of the evening, not even putting a vestige of soft furnishings beneath his head.

A few minutes after I had realised, that dad wasn’t waking up and that mum was not coming down the stairs again either,  the doorbell rang, at the door was the elderly lady who lived a few doors down the street she also happened to be a member of the church we attended every Sunday.  “Is your dad in dear”?  She enquired sweetly.  So, without hesitation I gave her the truth. “He is lying on the floor in the lounge because he is drunk and mum can’t come to the door because she is really angry with him she has gone upstairs and I think she is crying too”!

I didn’t really think anything more about our caller until the next day with an apologetic father and a now forgiving mother, seated in the kitchen, I told them that ‘Mrs Jenkins had called and that it was okay because I had told her why you neither of you could come to the door’!  I just remember the look of abject horror on both their faces, then my normally placid mother erupting into what I can only describe as ‘a shrieked telling off’.

Well, you would think the ‘Mrs Jenkins’ incident would have given me pause for thought but, it really didn’t.  I continued with the unwavering belief that when consulted for an honest answer, I should always deliver it.

I am not really sure why I suffer from ‘honestitis’ but I do have my theories.    Most children go through a phase of telling whopping lies it is a common part of growing up.  But if you want me to be honest, and I know you do, I think the roots of my affliction may lie in my sexuality.

I knew from the first time I picked up a Ladybird book, I was a little bit different, and by the age of five I had absolutely no doubts.  When I grew up, I was going to be just like George in Enid Blyton’s Famous Five, and when I got bored of solving mysteries, I would find a nice woman, settle down and get marry the nice woman!  There was never any doubt in my mind about all of this, and I certainly didn’t know that nice ladies didn’t marry other nice ladies in drab, dull seventies Britain.

I learnt to read at the age of three, books were always my best friend, one day, I was sneaking a read of mum’s Woman’s Realm magazine.  I had read it the month before, a woman had left work with a splitting headache and died the next day of a brain haemorrhage I had spent the ensuing weeks totally traumatised, and the merest twinge lead me to believe I was about to expire.  But I was drawn back to the magazine with ghoulish fascination.  Little did I know that what I was about to read would profoundly change my outlook on life.

I found the problem page, and started perusing, there it was in black and white, a married woman had fallen in love with her best friend and wanted to leave her husband and live with her friend, was there any way she could divorce the husband  and legally marry this woman?   Now I just remember the tone of horror in the magazine’s reply.  It was curt and disapproving, the woman was told this was probably just a ‘silly phase’ and that she should make more time for her husband, things would soon sort themselves out between them  and  she must stop seeing  the friend and that “THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY NO WAY TWO WOMAN COULD EVER BE LEGALLY MARRIED”.  It was made plain the poor woman should categorically get the silly idea that two woman could ever be in any legal relationship out of her head!

The words kept shouting out from the page at me, I was dumbstruck, why was it so wrong?  Would the people at Woman’s Realm be equally appalled at me?   I liked this edition of the magazine even less than the ”brain haemorrhage week’.

It was there and then that I realised that my future plans were pretty damn impossible and seemingly something to be deeply ashamed of.   I didn’t feel any shame, I knew the person who had composed the reply in the magazine was wrong and obviously a fool who had never read the Famous Five.  But I also, at that young age knew that my future plans for marital bliss, were not something I could ever verbalise to my parents or anybody else, until I was at an age where I couldn’t be chastised or even worse persuaded otherwise.

So at the age of five I promised myself I would never be in the situation the poor lady who wrote into Woman’s Realm for their guidance had found herself in.  I would never marry a man then regret it, that was dishonest and making a complicated situation even more complicated.  No, I would still marry a woman, I couldn’t be the only woman in the world who had same feelings as me, could I? Maybe it was only boring stuffy old England that had this stupid law, I bet women could marry other women in America, if I had to, I would move to America, well away from the Woman’s Realm

I always hated keeping my sexuality a secret until the age of twenty-three, but my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was just twelve years old and again, I knew this was not a truth that she would want to hear.  The way I dealt with the deceit was by viewing it as delayed honesty.

So have I always over-compensated because it took me until the age of twenty-three to be honest about my sexuality, quite possibly!   I take great delight in correcting people if they call my partner “your friend”, or “your sister” “ OH YOU MEAN MY WIFE” I boom out across the counter!  People usually look mortified and apologise, being honest about your sexuality in the Britain of 2012 often puts people on the back foot, they are actually worried about causing any offence, which is actually rather sweet.

My real problems with honesty have never really been about sexuality, that was just the catalyst that has brought me to where I find myself today, imprisoned by the truth!

A friend, who was looking for a new partner once asked me, no pleaded with me how I thought she could improve her looks.  She seemed desperate, so wanting to help, I told her she should dye her hair, get a more modern hairstyle, wear branded jeans not the Walmart variety and try, if she could to give up smoking.  We are not friends anymore!  I would never have volunteered that advice, if she hadn’t asked and I was only trying to help.

Having secured a good deal from a gentlemen to buy his record collection, the ‘said gentleman’,  (who had no idea I owned a music store) made the joking aside “ I bet you will now sell those records you have just bought from me for a huge profit”.  “Yes I will, I replied, as soon as I can”!   He wasn’t remotely amused, but I was only telling the truth!

The world caught up with me, I was true to my word and I did marry a lovely lady who my father adored and nobody was remotely mortified.  I would like to bet even the person who replied to that long forgotten problem in the Woman’s Realm wouldn’t even bat an eyelid.

My wife blames my honesty on being the product of northern parents and being a total freak!  But she knows only too well if she asks me how her bum looks in her new jeans, I will tell her………….well she asked, did she want me to lie?


3 Sep

As soon as I had finished writing the ‘RECORD WANKERS’ blog, I knew I was going to have to write the sister blog about the various types of unsavoury folks that buy and sell at the British phenomenon known as the car boot sale.  But trust me ladies and gentlemen, this is not the loving sister that always remembers your birthday and provides you with a constant shoulder in your hour of need, oh no, this is one twisted sister she will get you out of your bed at 5.00 a.m. and propel you onto a muddy field ripe with cow dung,  leaving you with nothing but a jigsaw of the Flying Scotsman with a missing piece, a Barbie with a badly scrawled Hitler ‘tache’  and  the only sustenance she will provide is a cup of non-branded tea, served in a styrofoam container retrieved from fingers with three years of dirt under their ragged nails.  No ladies and gentlemen, CAR BOOT SALE BASTARDS make record wankers seem almost lovable.

So before I continue, let me just explain a little bit about car boot sales for anybody who has never attended one, or for any reader who lives in a country that does not have these events.  The American reader will know these as trunk sales, or flea markets,  but trust me, they are far more ruthless than any trunk sale I have ever attended.

There are thousands upon thousands of car boot sales held up and down the United Kingdom on a daily basis. Saturday and Sunday  are the major booting days,  but so popular is the car boot sale, that should you so desire, you can find one within easy reach on pretty much any day of the week, morning, afternoon or evening.

The English Winter doesn’t prevent the car boot sale, the even just moves indoors and the competition for bargains becomes even more intense.

The car boot sale is a haven for a multitude of bastards, both buyers and sellers, when money is involved and the chance of finding treasure awaits, it awakens the slumbering ‘pirate’ that has been lying dormant in the hearts of all British men and women, and this ‘pirate’ is of the, yes you have guessed it; utter bastard variety!  So ladies and gentlemen, I give you car boot sale bastards, coming to a litter strewn field near you:

WAREHOUSE BASTARD, this is a character who is really just a market trader, everything  they sell, the batteries, the out of date Ibuprofen, the A4 paper you could get cheaper yourself from the local Costco.  WAREHOUSE BASTARD is saving himself a tidy sum of money, by pitching up at the car boot sale he or she  saves having to pay the extortionate market fees they are normally liable for and can have a bigger stall, with more passing trade for a third of the price.

The problem being, more WAREHOUSE BASTARDS start to roll up at the car boot sale, turning the car boot sale into a boring market and all the genuine booters become lost amongst the warehouse stalls.  WAREHOUSE BASTARD needs to be banned and dispatched back to the market he or she escaped from. Before they kill the boot sale and the genuine traders and keen buyers move onto another venue.

ASKING BASTARD, this is one of the most annoying bastards that attends the boot sale, just as you park your car and get ready to get your goods out, they will tap on the window and  start giving you a great long list of items, asking if you are selling them, the usual list includes “excuse me love, have you got any mobile phones, video games, jewellery, dvds, records, computers”.

Yes that’s right, all the stuff they can resell quickly at a profit, which is okay, but the real problems begin if you reply “oh yes I do, just give me a minute to get it out”,  this is the worst thing you can do ASKING BASTARD, will then become belligerent and start rifling through your stuff, which then leads to other people doing the same.  The last thing you should ever do to ASKING BASTARD is tell them yes you have something on their list, at all costs just say NO to everything.  If ASKING BASTARD wants the item,  that is a sure fire indicator that it will sell anyway, to somebody with a lot more patience.

ASKING BASTARD  spawns our next bastard, who can be equally annoying,  LET ME GET IT OUT FIRST BASTARD.  This person usually has nothing of any great interest or value to sell but they shout in a slightly demented tone, “LET ME GET IT OUT FIRST”, more often than not at people who just happened to be wandering by and flashed them a disinterested glance.  They will slam their boot down and start complaining to the person standing next to them about how everybody is trying to steal their items and instilling fear in the other stall holders.

LET ME GET IT OUT FIRST BASTARD, usually spends the day with a sour, disgruntled expression on their face and if they have a particularly good day, they will just take enough money to pay the stall fee.

ORGANISER BASTARD, yes the person or persons that actually  operate the car boot sale.  They are a particularly horrid breed.  If the car boot sale is immense they will have a team of henchmen,  who follow them round in hi-viz jackets.  ORGANISER BASTARD develops delusions of grandeur, in their mind’s eye,  they are not just some creepy middle aged tosser,  organising a downscale flea market.  No, they are Tony Soprano this field is their manner and the guys who they pay to pick up the litter and guide the cars into the spaces are their crew.  The amount of (no doubt unrecorded cash) that lands in their pocket at the end of a successful boot sale gives them that ‘bootlegger high’. Boardwalk Empire here we come!

The indoor boot sale ORGANISER BASTARD, is actually a totally different animal, oh yes they still have delusions of grandeur, but they are not in the organising game for power or even the money they can make on the event itself, oh no, they are running the boot sale so they can sweep it  clean of any item that is valuable, interesting or profit worthy.  They set their own stall up on the best pitch, usually involving  the stage of the hall behind them for that added display, and they ensure they  advertise  the boot sale in the local newspapers as ‘sellers at 12 p.m., buyers at 1 p.m’. which gives them plenty of time to do a clean-up.  The thing that really rattles ORGANISER BASTARD is when other dealers pay the money to stand at the boot sale and then do exactly the same thing as them, this is when ORGANISER BASTARD shows their true colours and finds a reason to ban the other dealers.  This though of course can ultimately backfire on ORGANISER BASTARD, as it can result in less people standing and the reputation amongst buyers spreads leading to less people attending the event.  To summarise, unless the car boot sale is being organised by a charity you can bet your bottom dollar the organiser is an utter bastard.

SNIDE BASTARD, yes no car boot sale would be complete without SNIDE BASTARD.  They are the lovely lads and lasses selling you all the movies currently at the cinema for “six for a fiver”.  SNIDE BASTARD, usually wears branded sports attire and could find a profitable extra stream of revenue by filming B.B.C. Crimewatch reconstructions.  They always have a paste table and tablecloth, which should the police or trading standards arrive at the boo,t can be cleared in seconds.  SNIDE BASTARDS don’t park their car in the selling area, it remains in the car park which they can then run to if raided.  ORGANISER BASTARD will deny any knowledge of knowing or even allowing  SNIDE BASTARD to stand the boot sale.  There will be signs posted at the entrance of the boot sale stating “no copy goods sold here”.  Meanwhile, ORGANISER BASTARD is charging SNIDE BASTARD an extortionate fee to stand at their boot sale, and on his walkie talkie informs SNIDE BASTARD, the minute any Police or trading standards arrive.  SNIDE BASTARD is particulary entertaining to stand opposite especially if there is a raid.  Problem being, SNIDE BASTARD is the most always the popular stall on the boot sale and if you are near SNIDE BASTARD, you are guaranteed a shite days takings.

EYEGLASS BASTARD, could also be called antique dealer bastard, but the eye glass is becoming an increasingly more prevalent sight at the boot sales.  EYE GLASS BASTARDS are nearly always members of the middle aged to senior age bracket so they need that eye glass it is essential for them to look for hallmarks, maker’s marks etc.  This is the bastard that alerts the seller to the fact that they are selling something far too cheaply, which then results in them removing the said items for sale and becoming increasingly paranoid and hiking the price up on everything else they are selling so EYEGLASS BASTARD then and spoils it for every other buyer in the vicinity.  As soon as EYEGLASS BASTARD starts squinting at a choker chain or a paste brooch you know the whole car is then fucked.

FOOD BASTARD,  this is the bastard I despise the most.  They materialise in many forms, they could be actually standing behind a paste table selling congealed and sun damaged sweets in plastic trays.  These sweets have usually been sitting rotting in their garage the entire Winter, waiting to come out again for another season of fingering.

FOOD BASTARD could also be selling the mountains of out of date crisps, cakes, tea bags, baked beans, packet soup, etc. They usually manage to conceal the sell by date with the odd pen mark, here and there.  Nobody is going to argue with them either they always look like they would happily bury you beneath the off Wagon Wheels.

The Emperor of the FOOD BASTARDS, is the registered food vendor, the burger stall, the donut wagon, the jacket potato tent.  These bastards pay the organiser a high price to stand the event and sign a contract, so they are always there, come rain or shine.  They always look dirty, unwashed, insanitary, unkempt and one step away from the streets.  Frying their bacon and burgers in last weeks fat, as they pick their nose and pull their over stretched leggings out of their arse crack.  Their tea tastes of bacon and the cup they leave the spoons to stir the sugar with is overflowing with brown coloured filthy water that just looking at makes you want to retch.

FOOD BASTARDS, could give a flying fuckity fuck about your health.  Monday morning when you have had to call into work sick and are still shitting through the eye of a needle FOOD BASTARDS are back home, scratching their bollocks and counting the cash and watching Jeremy Kyle.  In my opinion anybody who eats anything at a car boot sale must have a suicide wish.

BANANA BOX BASTARD, yes here they are again, you recognise the stall from the same Fyffes banana boxes you saw last week and the week before, and the week before, and the week before that!  BANANA BOX BASTARD thinks that they just have to turn up at the boot sale to sell out, they make no effort to bring any different items to sell from the week before, or even make the stall look remotely presentable, no, they just stand on the same grubby spot week after week, bum bug at the ready and overpriced grubby teddy bears just waiting to be ignored.

KNOCK-OFF BASTARD, they will turn up in a white van, usually with no name on the side, but you can see the name glinting in the sun that used to be on the side of the van, “Clive’s Flowers” or “Dave’s Pet Supplies”, sometimes the van is a hire van.  KNOCK-OFF BASTARD is on a ‘one shot deal’.  The items they sell will be of extremely high quality, entire DVD, blu –ray and video game collections, the contents of a living room, a whole garage clearance, lawn mowers, Strimmers, tool boxes entirely complete.  KNOCK- OFF BASTARD will quickly become surrounded with eager buyers.  You will be alerted to KNOCK OFF BASTARD,  by the complete lack of knowledge they possess about the items they are selling, they haven’t a clue what they have or even how much to sell it for, they just want it all gone, and gone fast.  You may find some of the DVD’s have the wrong films in the cases or some of the clothes have money in the pockets and there may even be a lot of private correspondence mixed in with the office furniture.   Because when KNOCK-OFF BASTARD tells you they have done a house clearance, that is exactly what they mean, but trust me no money has changed hands!  KNOCK-OFF BASTARD, usually leaves the boot sale early and has the same attire and shifty mannerisms as SNIDE BASTARD. You will never see KNOCK-OFF BASTARD, at that boot sale again, but KNOCK OFF BASTARD IS a seasoned  car booter, it is just that the stock and their choice of venue changes every week, for obvious reasons.

FANTASY LAND BASTARD, can be of the selling or buying variety, but is usually encountered as a buying bastard.  Yes they have struck gold again this week, just like they did last week.  “You won’t believe what I have bought this morning, a Clarice Cliff tea set, five gold Victorian sovereigns and a Beatles acetate, all from the same stall, I only paid £5 for the lot, they wanted £6 but I knocked them down.” FANTASY LAND BASTARD, will bore on for as long as they possibly can on a weekly basis about the amount of treasures they have unearthed for a pittance, but strangely, you never get to see any of these treasures, even when you are parked next to them in the car park.  FANTASY LAND BASTARD is a total pain in the arse and while you are listening to their shite, you are both missing the real bargains.

BAD BUY BASTARD yes they could appear at any time anywhere, they are the dealer from out of your area who masquerades as a genuine car booter, but is really just selling all the bad buys they have accumulated during the year.  The battery operated Star Wars toy that doesn’t work, the Doulton Lambeth jug with the cleverly glued handle, the vintage Sindy dolls with chewed fingers.  Initially BAD BUY BASTARD will attract a crowd, at first glance their car looks packed with antiques and collector’s items, and they will sell a fair few items in those first frenzied minutes.  But upon closer inspection it is all too good to be true and the flaws begin to show, the crowds start to move away and BAD BUY BASTARD is left to try and offload their crap on the late risers. A good way of spotting BAD BUY BASTARD is their stall is immaculately laid out with red velvet cloths and display cases, yep they are so used to attending the antique fairs they usually sell at they just can’t take that step down.  They are often quite posh and aloof, this is all beneath them but they have to clear their four bedroomed detached of all their unsuccessful purchases. BAD BUY BASTARDS will never be seen again for fear of the irate buyers returning next week for a refund.  They will leave the boot sale early and drive the 100 miles back to where they emerged from.  BAD BUY BASTARDS are a menace to dealer and punter alike.

This blog has really just scratched the surface of the car boot sale bastards, and as it seems that every week a new bastard emerges.

Car boot sales, can be fun, lucrative and no two boots are ever the same, fortune could be lurking just around that muddy corner, but more than likely it will just be another complete and utter bastard. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!