Peacock Meadow, Plymouth. The last car-boot sale of the year and the final resting place of my cassette collection.

Or so I thought.

I didn’t shift a single one. Not even at 50p. Unbeflippinlievable. They even tried to haggle - 3 for a pound. Stick it up your arse you burberry clad chav. I bet you don’t even know who Classix Nouveaux are anyway.

It was a pretty pathetic affair. I arrived early due to a miserable experience last year when I was too late for a space. I needn’t have bothered as after complaints by local residents, the sale is a shadow of its former self and only 20 cars made the trip. It was muddy as hell and after some old guy thoughtfully sat on my bonnett so I could reverse properly, I spent most of the 3 hours worrying about ever getting out again. I did manage it after some dayglow-jacketted marshall carefully pushed us all one by one through a very small gap in a very rusty and immovable iron fence.

These sales are a necessary evil and had it not been raining, I would have enjoyed it more. My jovial attitude usually comes to the fore and seems to make people want to come over and pick through my meagre possessions with only moderate distain. After an hour or so, my dislike for the hairy beast that is the british public is re-invigorated. After such a period, I have been confronted by at least one of all flavours of boot sale visitor.

1. The Dealer. Male or female spiv who initially appears pleasant, casually and friendly in beating you down 50p or so and then paying out of the biggest £20 note filled bum bag you have ever seen. Your chipped ornament soon re-appearing on their table or in the indoor market for at least 3 times what you sold it for. Thatcher’s bloody Britain….

2. The Antiques Expert. This one has watched Flog-it, Bargain Hunt and most similar shows and knows a thing or six about pottery. Unfortunately they don’t know enough to realise that the primitive brown glaze ash tray you are asking 50p for was in fact made by your sister about 15 years ago at college. They play it cool but their trembling fingers betray their misplaced excitement as they delve pursewards. The partner stands some distance away, praying that I don’t suddenly realise their expert status and snatch it back. The transaction is completed and they both leg it, confident in the knowledge that they got one over on me. Idiots.

3. The Rummager. This idiot (usually male and a bit of a quiet one) rummages through everything you have - on the table and under it. They usually leave a mess and nearly always leave without buying anything. They do however manage to prevent anyone else getting a good look for at least 20 minutes. I have killed 3 of these.

4. The Chatter. The chatter picks things up and chats with you in a friendly manner for 10 minutes or so. Then they f**k off without buying anything, bizzarely saying “thank you” as they wander away.

5. The Giggler. Usually with their partner. They lean over and spot something you have, point it out to their partner, identify it out loud and laugh quietly. eg “Look….Round The Horne… (giggle)” or “Look…a CD Rack (giggle)”…and so the long day wears on. They never buy anything either.

6. The Tight-Arse. “How much are these tapes if I buy 5″? comes the question, “50p each”, say I. “How much for 8?”, “50p each” say I. Silently they are put back and he wanders off. A variation of this is the veteran tight-arse. This person has been coming to car-boot sales for years and knows how much things SHOULD BE. “Tapes are 30p here”….”Videos are £2″. Not while I still draw breath numbnuts.

7. The Comeback Kid. Witness today my selling of a 1950’s antique radio. Not quite the sad tale it could be as it only picks up MW and is hence pretty useless these days. The Comeback Kid appears early and comes back every 10 minutes until you get so sick of him you drop the price until he buys it. I guess that makes me the idiot. It was either that or beat him to death with Barbie bedside lamp.

8. Horrible Common People. It has to be said. Smelly, unwashed people in dirty ski-pants and shell suits. If only you could dig a moat and throw their purchases at them. They swear at their children, eat cheeseburgers at 8am on Sunday morning, smoke rollies and come far to close to me. They greatest arguement for public ownership of flamerthrowers there has ever been.

9. The Undercover Policeman.Come on guys. Bomber jackets and sunglasses are a little obvious, as is your interest in everyone’s number plates. I was almost convinced by the Jethro Tull LP and Kerplunk Game under your arm.

10. The Burger Van. Actually I like this guy and he is only on the list to make a round 10. Worthy of my respect if only for his wonderful coffee. 50p it maybe but when the drizzle pours down your face and you sink deeper into the Somme, that little polystyrene cup (put your own sugar milk in) it is quite wonderful. I have never been brave enough to try a hotdog but it’s surely only a matter of time. I also dig the way his van looks like a cowboy wagon and I would love to think it played “Home on the Range” when he first arrives.

Oh god that feels better.

Thank You.

Categories: Anger, Car, Family, Movies, Weather
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