13 April 2007

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Keen readers of previous columns will be aware the disdain I hold for organised “fun-days”, so it was with a touch of anguish I embarked with complaining family in tow to attend a local fun day over the Easter Bank Holiday. However this was no ordinary fun day. This was Fun Day Plus. It came with the added frisson of excitement that can get the dwellers of the 'surbs into a minor orgasmic sweat – A Genuine Farmers Market. What joy for the middle classes as they grab their wicker baskets and trot off in their sensible shoes to pay over the top prices for olives that normally they can get from any of the seventeen supermarkets within a two minute jaunt in the 4x4 of their homes. Though it seems that if you use enough flowery language people will buy anything. It’s almost to paraphrase the M and S ads a case of “these aren’t just barm cakes – these are Free Range Barm Cakes, allowed to roam the hills of Derbyshire nibbling on only Four Leaved Clover before being humanely dusted with God’s Own Flour and presented to you on this Faberge encrusted velvet cushion” That’ll be five quid a dozen then hey? The last thing I want to see on my day off is my neighbours extolling the virtues of organic soft Wensleydale amongst each other, whilst their mouths are full of conscience free cheese. Whilst we are it, let’s stop for a minute I’m not a total sourpuss; the idea of having a market that sells fresh produce on your doorstep is nice, it's just that it isn’t a real market to me. When I was a lad, I spent some time on markets earning pocket money; I used to help “Bob” on the coat stall on Hyde Market each Tuesday after school. I put “Bob” in speech marks because I don’t honestly believe that was his real name, I’m no expert but I’m sure there aren’t many men christened Robert in Syhlet – actually I’m pretty much sure there aren’t many people actually baptised into the Christian Faith in that part of Bangladesh. Whatever, I loved working on the market, sure I can’t romantically look back on my time as anything other than selling bargain products to people who appreciated the prices being a bit cheaper than “shop bought” For us it wasn’t a case of flouncing the descriptions up, our Lord Anthony parka coats weren’t knitted by Afghan maidens on an ancient loom, the closest we got to enriching the products was the briefest of hints that some of the coats may have come from a big store’s suppliers. Scribbled cards with slogan “No MARKS for guessing whose these coats are made by” As my retail career progressed, I tasted the glamour of the crockery stall, sold bath salts by the cheap carrier bag full and got to travel to such glamorous locations as Newton Heath, Ashton and once Sandbach. Heady days. Furthermore if you are selling wares to the public, adopt some of the basic practices of commerce. It must dawn on you at some point in the days beforehand,” now let me think I’m going to be selling my delicious range of quiches for vastly higher prices than I normally do to gullible people south of Manchester this coming Monday, what I will I need? Mmm bags? Nah, why should I bring bags, surely my egg based soft pastry savouries will pop just perfectly into their pockets. Change? Don’t be crazy! Why would I need change? Only a fool would expect that people will not turn up with enough coins of every denomination to cover every purchase they make.” It took me all my self-control the fourth time somebody asked me if I had the right money not to scream “For god’s sake, I’ve turned up, it’s drizzling, I’m buying your weaved Tibetan yoghurt from you, bring something to the party, you bring the change – I don’t get this in Tesco, why would I have loads of change on me? Do I look like I work on the Waltzers?” As he began to answer the question I decided it was time for me to leave – to be truthful there’s no fun in a market that doesn’t sell ten lighters for a pound anyway.