Class Replacement on The Winding Road

A quick train journey is nearly always turned sour by a bus replacement, at least for the average traveller. There’s more waiting around involved, you’ve probably been thrown off guard by the change, it’ll make your journey longer and then you have to sit closer to people you don’t know – and they’ll be thieves, con-men and suspected murderers. Its hell to most – I can see it in their expressions as they board the bus. Personally, I quite like the change. The different scenery on the trip between the same two towns keeps me interested enough. Getting in close proximity with a bunch of random people too. Nothing quite brings people together like suffering.

I’m used to bus replacement services now. After four years hard commute I take it as it comes, and get on the bus with no questions asked and no shit thrown. There is no-one to blame really. That’s part of the problem with a privatised rail service – there’s not one person in charge. There’s a whole network of people to answer to, and no-one can ever say for sure. The responsibility is on hundreds of shoulders and therefore minimal. “It’s not my department,” they’d say. And here we have another prime example of bureaucracy gone mad, an injured system.

As I climbed onto the bus a friendly station guy assured me that it’d be trains back last thing that night. I like to think he recognised me as a regular. That was good news as it meant I wouldn’t be back at one or half-one in the morning on a Monday. Onboard, the bus was full. Outside, the air was thick and the heat was terrific. Somehow I wasn’t bothered by the heat which I usually dislike so much.

I climbed off the bus at the other end. I trundled around town for the afternoon, and then had practise in the evening, staying on late. When routine goes smoothly I leave at 11.15 and kick it down Oxford St on my bike, getting down low over the handlebars for maximum speed. It’s all about ergonomics man. Often I ride straight into the station and straight onto the platform, seeing nobody. Tonight though I looked up at the departures screen and noted ‘BUS’ next to Northampton. Outside I found the Station attendant.

“What’s going on with the bus to Northampton” I asked him.

“Well, it’s this,” he said, pointing at a small people carrier. An overweight old driver sat half in and half out of the driver’s seat and did not look amused at the sight of me and my bike.

“How am I going to get this in there?” I asked them, ever systematic and open to both problems and solutions. We had a problem on our hands.

“You’re not,” the Station attendant told me. There was no solution.

“I think I’ve got my spanners. I could take the wheel off.”

I judged the situation – neither of these two were going to help me get home. There was no last train, only the little people carrier. How was I going to get in that people carrier? that was the question.

The attendant shuffled around at the front of the station for a minute, while I negotiated with him. He looked uninterested in helping. I had paid my £3.05 return fare and I was damn well going to make use of every penny – I was going to get home, one way or another.

He started walking off. “Wait! Where are you going?” I called after him.

“Let me make some radio calls,” he answered.

His tone didn’t sound genuine or caring, and I was a customer! I remember once getting down to the station and going up to the booth to get my ticket. As the lady typed my request into the computer I drummed on the counter with my fingers. She looked at me with a blank, bare gaze. “Do you mind?” she said, nodding at my fingers. I stopped, thought about it.

“Hang on,” I said, “I’m the customer!” And with that I continued drumming while I waited for her to lazily print off my tickets. Some people.

As the attendant went off, hopefully to solve the problem, I slipped into the station and picked up a copy of the Passenger’s Charter, a 36-page document detailing what the train company aim to do for me, a customer. I flicked to the section on bicycles: “We welcome cycles on our services and convey them free of charge.” I read the rest of the page – nothing. Here was my defence, my sword. I waited for a few minutes, rolled a smoke and attempted a brief conversation with the ‘bus’ driver. Then the Station attendant returned. “I’ve spoken to them (the higher-ups, he meant) and they say no.”

“No!” I said, “What do you mean no? They can’t say no.”

“Well, their publications state that they don’t allow bicycles on alternative transport.”

“Ha!” I laughed. I had the Charter in my hand, with my thumb on the right page, so I read from it. He looked shocked and annoyed by me. This was the law as far as I was concerned – they were my written rights as a passenger. Just to ease his conscience I told him I knew it wasn’t him who made the rules but still, I was going to get home tonight and it was their job to get me home.

“I can’t do anything I’m afraid,” he was saying. The inflection in his voice told me he didn’t care. “I can’t do anything.”

I thought quickly. It was getting towards midnight now, and chances would look slimmer the later it got. “Right. I’m going to ring them. Give me your boss’s number,” I demanded. A small dose of anger and adrenalin worked its way through me.

“I can’t give you that number.”

I looked at the Charter and gazed over three phone numbers on the back page. “Which number do I ring?” I demanded of him. By now, I was mad. I could feel anger welling in me and carrying me along on a wave. I took out my phone and started to type in the number for customer relations. As I was typing his walkie-talkie started crackling, an unclear and fuzzy noise. He pressed a button.

Crackle. Hiss. “Bicycle?” said the voice, crackle, “Platform 2.”

In a split second of hard work he pointed the short aerial of his walkie-talkie at me and said sternly, but full of excitement: “Platform 2. Now. Go. Ride!” It was likely to be the most fun he’d had at work that day.

I knew what to do and didn’t waste a second. I pushed my bike a step or two, jumped on and rode into the station with a cigarette still in my mouth. I rode full pelt up the incline, without even shifting down a gear, and right up to the train doors, where a familiar Station attendant was saying: “How lucky are you! Hey. How lucky.”

“I was going to get home somehow,” I mumbled as I lifted my bike onto the train.

“This train isn’t even meant to be here,” she said just as the doors started closing.

I crashed down on a seat. The ticket guy came by, surprisingly. Once he was out of view I got up, pressed the button for the doors and slid into the first class section. ‘For those who have first class tickets or wish to upgrade.’ I was neither of those but I felt I was owed at least one trip in first class, after the injustice (almost) inflicted upon me. It was deserved, I thought.

There was no-one else in first class at this hour so I flopped down into a chair and made the best use of the extra space. It would have made Joe Strummer proud. It felt as if I may have even been breaking some sort of boundary, but there were no other passengers to smirk with.

Through the window there was darkness only. I noted the extra lights inside and played with them for a minute. Before long the armrest got my attention and I lifted that up and down. I was uninterested. This was boring anyway – more lifeless, soulless and plain than the rest of the train. Return me back to my people. Actually, let’s get them all in here! But I didn’t move, wanting to savour the novelty.

Why shouldn’t I sit here, in the seat which was stiffer than those on the rest of the train? If we all sat in first class we could just take it over – make the whole train one class. Of course, I must stress, this is the 21^st century we’re living in. Should we let class dictate society like it used to? No, we shouldn’t. I encourage you all to go and sit in first class. On one trip since I kept the ticket guy so confused by my rambling that I got to my destination without even leaving my rigid seat. Although, I didn’t use my “independent train inspector” line I’m sure it’s a goer. Let that be an example – keep them baffled right up to your own stop.

Plant Life

Two of my close friends both developed an obsession with their gardens and allotments at around the same time. An obsession with plant life. At either of their allotments I listen carefully. The best thing is that you can really learn a thing or two when all they talk about are plants. Why else would I be here drinking ginkyo and lemon balm tea? The ginkyo to improve both mental capacity and circulation, and the lemon balm for its relaxing and calming agents.

Mike took to allotmenting in an obsessive, possessed way. He read book after book and planted seed upon seed until, by late summer, he was inundated with plants. His two greenhouses (both acquired by kind donation) were full and so was his whole plot. He could hardly give it away fast enough.

But that was exactly what it was all about; trying things out. After the first year he figured out that the wild strawberries didn’t produce quite so much yield in that spot so he’d move them to a better spot for the following year. There was no reason to plant the herbs around at random so he put them all together in one tidy bed. Growing your own bamboo produced dozens of sticks for the beans to grow on.

Jay and I had endless talks about the sheer idiocy and un-sustainability of supermarkets and corporate culture. He read up and memorised what seemed like more than anyone could memorise. The textures of certain leaves, the places things liked to grow, the time of year for this that or the other. It seemed like he had an impeccable memory. Any time we ended up outside I’d be waiting for him to finish looking for Ramsons or Wild Rocket or Hogweed.

The difference between the two approaches was immeasurable. Mike was a gardener, or an allotmenteer, putting in endless hours digging over and weeding his neat plot. Jay was more of a forager; scouring rural Northamptonshire for free, edible food and then memorising what and where. And there is free food everywhere. It’s only a matter of educating yourself and spending some time hunting it out. Between the two of them I’d heard enough talk of plants to drive anyone crazy. But I was patient, and listened, and eventually picked things up. “Ah, Sorrel, that’s a perennial right?” I’d throw in at random and they’d confirm. Inadvertently, I was learning.

As I’d suspected Mike and Jay hit it off when they finally did meet. They were deep in conversation about plants right away. It wasn’t the first time I’d introduced people to each other and felt like the third wheel. To them both it was as much a political stance as it was simply a good idea to save a little cash. But more than either of these it was their interest; their fascination in plant life seemed to keep them upright and stable. As if through watching all this marvellous life and death and rebirth in their plants they gained both contentment and an inner warmth.

Being self-sufficient seems like quite an appealing, sensible idea to try and live your life. Only a tiny bit of thought gives you the knowledge that the shortest route from the soil to your mouth is the best. I started a vegetable patch not to bring food bills down, but to eat a wider variety of good, hearty, home-grown veg. It makes sense to eat the widest range of things possible and take in goodness in all shapes and forms. Research ailments and try remedies – don’t pay for a prescription for fucks sake! People have been ill for as long as humans have lived and I don’t believe they’ve been treating themselves with Paracetamol since the dawn of mankind. Sickness is a part of life. With the aid of a good range of food and exercise the body can run more efficiently and effectively.

It need not be a dying hobby, growing your own, and to some people it is very much alive. But, for people my age, rushing and hustling around, making use of an allotment is not a common occurrence. People would much rather go to the supermarket and save both time and effort. The one common agreement was that yes, by being frugal and dedicating time to maintaining an allotment, and also knowing where you could forage for edible plants you could feed yourself, even in these modern times. As recent as a couple of hundred years ago that is how the majority of people lived; by growing-their-own. Self-sufficiency is possible but you have to have space first, and patience. No-one I know has really managed to truly drop out of the system just yet, however much people have tried. Everyone I know is forced into paying council tax, unless of course they are studying. That same old chestnut - the only way out, but for only three years.

Individualism is connected to all of this. The idea that one person can make their own worth, their own world, and their own life aside from everything around them. These two friends constantly pinned up their ideal; owning and working on a self-sustained farm somewhere in the English Countryside, living out the rest of their days smoking homegrown dope, playing music and reading books. Keeping themselves to themselves mostly, just tending to their land forevermore, away from the bullshit and hype of the 21^st century.

Individualism is an artistic and creative ideal held by oneself only, but socialism could be construed as equality gone mad. Individualism leads essentially to capitalism because everyone is fighting to get things better for themselves. With socialism, you’d be devoting your time to help the ‘group’ and not yourself. Individualists would say society should be made up of people with their own free will and identity, whereas true socialists would say everyone should be under one banner, one heading, working for a mass. The two, although closely aligned, are vastly different. You cannot be both, it doesn’t work. But, at the same time, you can live partly both because they are fundamentally different; Individualism is a moral stance and ideology, Socialism is a political and economic theory.

Here in the UK, we’re individualists, capitalists. We’re not poor enough to be a socialist country through and through like Cuba, Vietnam or China – although those three are actually becoming increasingly wealthy. It is said that once a capitalist system is adopted by a country there is no turning back. Although most young white liberals would probably consider themselves socialists, when it comes down to it they’ll look out for themselves and no-one else. They’re capitalists in disguise – guilty and middle-class. Often, the faults lie with the people who don’t think they are part of the problem.

On the first page I skimmed of the John Seymour book Mike leant me I noticed a heavy truth: “our traditional milk delivery service, employing re-usable bottles and electric vehicles is a highly efficient system.” It resounded. It seems you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. Gone are the milkmen of yesteryear, replaced by a system which is neither viable nor sustainable. We had a perfect system before – one where milk hardly travelled a dozen miles to get to your doorstep, but we lost it. We gave up on it, and gave it up, like we have many perfect systems.

Jay suggested starting a campaign. ‘Make Northampton Edible,’ he dubbed it. “I want everyone to plant stuff and eat it,” he said with gusto and zest, and you could tell he meant it. He (rightfully so) wanted to convert everyone round to his way of thinking. Under the cover of darkness we walked over to the park. We’d noticed an empty flower bed, which had been dug over but had not had anything planted. We took a huge bag of Berlotti Beans with us. I ran in lines digging small tranches with a trowel. Then we sprinkled in the beans, I covered them over and we through on a bit of water. We’d finished planting three 20ft beds in less than three minutes. No-one saw us or approached us. We felt, afterwards, as if we had won, like we had ‘showed them,’ that we had taken a step in the right direction. It was a liberating experience, even if the flower bed was re-dug two days later and filled up with pretty flowers.

With Mike the revelations were equally random and unexpected. After a couple of years he’d argue against Gardener’s Question Time on his little radio at the allotment. I thought it was hilarious. Caught by the rain one afternoon we sat in the greenhouse watching water flow down the panes and into the water-butt. It was an unmistakeable sound – a tapping and rhythmic pulse, not the usual sound of running water. Two muddy dudes sharing a joint. “There’s so much work to do,” he’d repeat like a skewed gardening mantra, showing that all his work was not just about this year. It was forward-thinking to the extreme; planning and pruning every year, working out the creases in the lay of his plot of land, thinking of the future.

The Amish seem to be getting a lot of press recently. They’ve got it right; avoiding the need for speed and making a point of living in a traditional way. Their communities are totally self-sufficient, which I envy but am not sure whether I could live that way. Where do they have the bands play? Do they grow their own dope? Are they allowed to travel further than a couple of miles? Some things I would be willing to give up, but not others. Now, the Hutterites I feel more closely aligned to (they live more communally and can actually make use of technology) but they’ve still got to get rid of the religious elephant in the room before I’m anywhere near converted.

I think The Garden City Movement makes most sense to me when the matter of town planning comes into discussion. ‘Garden cities were intended to be planned, self-contained, communities surrounded by "greenbelts" (parks), containing proportionate areas of residences, industry, and agriculture. The concept of garden cities is to produce relatively economically independent cities with short commute times and the preservation of the countryside.’ There you have it, shamelessly lifted straight from everyone’s favourite online encyclopaedia, but I couldn’t find a better way to put it. Unfortunately Ebenezer Howard, who came up with the idea in 1898, basically sold his vision short by having to deal with wealthy benefactors who turned their back on the cooperative values Howard intended to instil in his cities.

They didn’t adhere to his strict plans whilst building and the owners later hiked up the rent. The fact is Garden Cities devolve into suburbs and green plots are quickly sold off and filled in with housing. The workers living there travel further and further to work, to shop, to socialise. If only they could have run according to the original plan and rode it out to test the theory, then we’d know if they were able to become successful over the course of a decade or two. By now they would have really stood the test of time. All the fruit trees would be producing, the compost bins overflowing, all the allotment space used to its full potential and, most importantly, plenty of water butts.

The Garden City seems to me to be the logical conclusion to the idea of buying a piece of land, keeping it to oneself then living happily and working hard forevermore. It’s for the greater good, and seems socialist to the max. But why farm? The reasons are just endless. To exercise, to feel like you’re giving something back to the world, to keep up traditions, to relax and to improve life itself. There are other reasons, dozens of others, but I just can’t list them all here. Let me say that this will come back round – getting our hands dirty – and it will come back round soon. Community gardens and allotments seem to be getting constant press at the moment. Children are constantly pictured even in the local rag holding pots containing plants they’d grown. It’s just starting to be in vogue as a lifestyle choice more than out of financial necessity.

       As far as I’m concerned these two friends are people who are saving the world, one seedling and one leaf at a time. By letting their views become your views.

On Backpacks

It’s a long time ago now but I’m in the back of Hannah’s car and we’re parked up. Hannah, Jenny and I are talking, revelling in a brief friendship, at an impasse between college and the next stage of our lives. “H, I wanna know - what’s in that bag of yours?” she asked, leaning backwards over the front seat to see me.

“The usual stuff you know, essentials,” I told her. “You wanna know exactly?”

“Yes please,” she replied, easily over-eager.

I took out the contents one by one and listed them off. “Right, first, here’s my notebook and pen, a spare pen too. Then a jumper cuz it’s gonna get cold later.” She nodded. “A few zines of mine, my bike pump, last year’s diary, my tobacco tin and rolling gear, my wallet...” I placed it down on the seat with the other things. She snatched it up and flicked through my cards. “Also, two train timetables, three bus timetables, a broken compass, two loose scratched CD’s, half a ruler and a small mound of sweet wrappers and bottles.” I held open the bag and let her look at the junk piled at the bottom. She threw the wallet in.

“I’ve always wondered,” she confessed, settling back into the front seat, “because it seems that only the girls carry around half their lives at college. Right, Jen?”

Jenny nodded, pursing her lips, picking her nail and looking out far beyond the window screen, enjoying a pensive moment. I slowly put everything back in the bag, from where and which divided section they’d come. A distant whirl of music spilt from the radio. “I better not ask what’s in your bag,” I decided aloud, smiling forward at Hannah, at the back of her voluminous blonde hair.

“No, better not,” she confirmed, leaning back again briefly. I could guess some of the things she’d be carrying; her cigarettes, car keys, her favourite pen, a psychology textbook and mascara, obviously. The rest of the stuff I couldn’t place. It was lost on me. The distance between our lives was considerable – how was I to know what she needed on a daily basis? By comparison I was a tramp, living gig to gig. She took much more care in her appearance.

I could show the things I carried but she couldn’t, and it would be rude to ask. Like asking a woman her age, it was unsaid and off-bounds. I thought it strange she asked though I didn’t find it at all rude or intrusive. That small and pointless question reared its head occasionally in my mind and always set off a certain spark; the opposite sex could be interested in me, and my backpack, however broken and covered in grime.

So, with that thought in mind, this one is for all the women.

A backpack is the most essential item. On a day to day basis I believe backpacks are one of mans greatest inventions. You’ve got everything you need right there on your back, or can put it there for safekeeping. Like lunch. All you need to do is chuck in some stuff before you leave the house. An apple, a bottle of water, and the cheese and pickle sandwich you’d made last night, stashing it in the fridge for the next day. It’s forward planning – my speciality.

Forward planning gives you some indication as to how my brain works. When I see people going around totally empty-handed I wonder where their spare jumper is, where their packed lunch is, where their belongings are. I just can’t understand having nothing, having no stuff. Call me a materialist if you want, but at least I’m on the move.

A day trip. A long weekend. A walk to the shop. A bike or bus ride. The only reason not to take your bag is when you go to the pub. You better be ready for the weirdest looks if you do. Why so? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m paranoid? Maybe it’s a constant cause for suspicion, and for good reason. “What’s in the bag?” I’ve heard that phrase a hundred times, usually dished out by big burly bouncers. I’d say I’m asked weekly now.

Backpacks are plagued by suspicion...just what is in there? But people don’t often ask, like Hannah did. Except for the bouncers, of course. I’ve got a spiel ready for them: “a notebook, a jumper, half a kit kat and a gun.” A couple of times they haven’t even batted an eyelid at the odd word out. Strange. People, mostly, want to tell. And I’m no exception. Walk into a busy pub with a bag stuffed full of junk and watch the suspicious glares you get in return. At least that’s how I always feel. Whether or not it is the backpack is another question altogether, but I can presume.

I will always run my bags them into the ground; I use them until they wear through massive holes, and past the broken zip, until it’s covered in a layer of grime – of life, man – an inch thick all over. The other day a cyclist passed me wearing the first backpack I remember owning. The exact same design. The second thought that came to mind was how on earth had the bag made it this long? Had someone kept it in the attic for twenty years? I was still at first school when I owned the same bag, and even high school seems a lifetime ago now.

It was essential to use a bag at school. Funny that at University no-one carried a bag, it was the ultimate faux pas to turn up to class and fish out all your textbooks from a bag. Everyone carried them under their arms, except me. Last thing every night I’d pack up my bag for the next day it a ritualistic way, ticking off the gubbins I needed as I went. And I’d walk proudly through the library, double-strapping.

I recall at school how, for a while anyway, we had the single-strap versus double-strap argument going on. I’m not sure which was worse but didn’t want to wear your bag in that way for fear of verbal attack. It really put the worry into some of the kids. It wasn’t one against the other – it was one or the other, and the other you didn’t want to be. Stupid shit really, but we were all young once and terrified of the things that would come out of people’s mouths at school.

A certain Dutch punk band wrote a scathing attack on backpacks on their second LP. It was a brutal song which pointed the finger straight at a large percentage of late 90’s and early 00’s punks who took their bag with them to every gig. “Too many backpacks at the show / I’m telling you they gotta go”. I didn’t feel like they were attacking me personally, even though I took my bag to every show. I had zines to carry, among other things. It showed scenarios which would make past rockers upset, but that didn’t put us off because we kept our bags safely on our back even when then played the song in town.

      It was only later, when I considered writing an ode to backpacks that I realised just how important an everyday item they have become for me. I wouldn’t go anywhere without it now. The temptation to buy new bags is incredible. They catch my eye, and catch my imagination too. Just like some women go mad for the handbags, I go crazy for the backpacks. It’s a nightmare – but a nice one.

Car Boot Fever

During the spring and summer I wake every Saturday and Sunday morning and imagine a rainbow outside. Knowing there is gold at the end luring me towards it I set out on my bike to catch hold of the prize. Usually, people with some degree of sanity left intact after their teenage years wouldn’t dream of waking before 8am at the weekend, choosing instead to sleep until midday or later, but my sanity has long since vanished. And that’s why I join all the other reprobates in a field to look through other peoples unwanted shit. Car boots - one of the greatest British institutions ever. They are like poison, I’ve found. Once you get the bug, you’ll soon get the fever.

My first observation at car boots is the crowd. The people who tend to show up are a real varied bunch, a right ragtag, weird and unique crew of characters with the slight hint of a psychotic look in their eyes. There’s always young kids annoying their parents; then the shouting and screaming parents running after them and cursing; pensioner couples, wearing visors, looking for plates; dodgy geezers selling bikes; farmers selling eggs and veg; old rockers selling off their vinyl in small increments and myself; sunglasses on, scouring for books and records, but going home with a pewter tankard and an umbrella. As a buyer you cannot plan for car boots. You cannot expect anything. Do not try to find something, it won’t be there. The very nature of the event is the best exercise of spontaneity I know.

It’s all in the chase. Never knowing what you’re going to come across. Friend’s tales of finding various gems throughout the nineties only encouraged me to get out to more sales. Who would have bought the SCUM Manifesto anyway? And what was it doing at a car boot in the little Midlands village of Crick? And who on earth sold that copy of the Sweet Baby LP Sal picked up? 

The stories left untold by the sellers only provide more mystery and intrigue, drawing more lines in our lives which cross in ever-different and untraceable ways. Sometimes I’ll try to inquire as to where an item came from, or whether they’ve read this book they’re selling for 10p, but they tend to be highly evasive when challenged early in the morning, as we all are.

I’ll often pick things up for 25p knowing they are worth much more than that. Then, after getting them home I keep hold of them, adding them to the weight on my brain and then the right collection in the right place. Soon enough I’ll be surrounded. Stuff everywhere – having already lived its past life I’m breathing new blood into it now. It’s rebirth. And recycling. My Mother always encouraged us to be thrifty; to re-use, re-format, re-contextualise and re-animate ‘unusable’ items. I actually made the Thunderbirds Tracey Island following the instructions on Blue Peter word for word. We couldn’t afford the shiny plastic version. Plus, where is the interest in simply buying it off the shelf? There isn’t any! It’s no wonder we are drowning in plastic waste when people are throwing it off at such a rate. And there I am; a stack of plastic CD cases in hand, taking them home for prosperity and archival purposes. Saving them from scrap.

You think that punk is underground? Well think again! Car boot sales are the most underground thing ever. Any fucker can find out about a gig now; type a bands name into the computer and see where they’re playing, or go to the club and look at the flyers. Car boot sales rely almost solely on word-of-mouth and crappy hand-painted signs at the roadside half-obscured by an overgrown hedgerow. And once you’ve heard there’s a sale on you still have to locate the damn thing! I don’t know why it is. Perhaps, with too-much publicity, a car boot would be over attended and crowded? I like to think that car boots consciously keep themselves underground and quiet to keep all the mystery and myth surrounding them safe. Like punk. Like many Great British traditions; scrabble nights on Tuesdays, band practise on Wednesday evening, football on Saturday afternoons or a roast on Sunday afternoon. These things are left unsaid, but are common knowledge anyway.

You cannot pigeon hole car boots like you can punk rock. At gigs people may jump from the rafters and it may look spontaneous but it’s planned, it’s predictable. The mornings I’m talking about are made up of something much, much creepier and fucked than even punk: real, day-to-day people who live next door to you. Some of them, believe me, could benefit from the teachings of punk rock. These people, I’ve found, are just as unique as anyone in their own ways. Human beings really are strange creatures.

Listening to what other people are looking for, or funnier still, what they think the bargains are is always fun. “There’s a job lot of gardening gloves over there for a quid...I’ll get them on ebay,” I overheard one morning. No-one would buy a job lot of gardening gloves on ebay, surely. What was that guy thinking? Where on earth is the profit in that sale? Now, I’m not trying to liken ebay to car boots, the two have their own place. I’ve picked up (what I consider) bargains from both places, but car boots have a genuine face-to-face aspect to them you’ll never find on the internet. You have to talk to someone, for starters. An intrinsic human connection must take place to secure the deal. Ebay has the fault of being, quite literally, faceless.

Taking friends to car boots can be a chore sometimes. I have to be set free, like a bargain-thirsty madman, without anyone even being able to keep up. It’s selfish, I know, but you can cover so much more when you’re not waiting for someone who is waiting on you. Other times friends arrange to meet back at a certain spot, which I prefer. You can all be set loose at once and approach things your own way. It’s a shame it doesn’t happen this way in some aspects of life.

Car boots, like anything, are all about your approach. It’s the way you see it in your mind’s eye. It’s in what you deem perfection to be. Your method to your madness. The thrill of the chase has not worn off on me yet. Everytime it comes on feels just like the first time. I feel it like an urgent, buzzing, immediate feeling that steers you along with eyes for what you are, were, or never have been searching for. Give me anything! In that zone I’d probably even buy a Kanye West or a Metallica shirt if I were to come across one cheap enough, God forbid!

      The warm mornings at Holcot Showground have to be the best car boots I’ve ever been to. They were the biggest, most stocked car boots in Northamptonshire. I would fill up with glee when I arrived on Sunday mornings. Walking slowly with my sunglasses on I’d approach each table, each aisle methodically and carefully, searching for the gold dust. And that gold dust seemed to be lined in neat rows – it clung to the edges of wobbly foldaway tables, or sat unorganised in worn cardboard boxes on the grass, just waiting to be found. I suggest you do the same. Go hunting!