Dec 21 2012

Bad porn in Preston Market

(some bad camera pics to follow)

A woman who looks older than she probably is, is trying to sell a wilting 50 Shades of Grey rip-off for 50p.

‘Its dead good-there’s like a dead good plot and that and yeah, the plot’s really good.’

I do not see whether the over-deliberating potential purchaser ever purchases the dog eared clit lit  but I would still quite like to know what the plot is.

Maybe the sharp suited enigmatic older man and his beautiful naive protegee go to Preston Market and buy some slightly peeling and ill-fitting PVC hotpants before having a baked potato with a toppling pile of chewy  grated cheese and coleslaw in a polystyrene container with a cup of parched peas from the baked potato man with the calloused hands before going for a quick bad shag in the bandstand in Avenham Park.

Recession Erotism Northern Style. And for under a fiver!

I am at the Flag Market in Preston. The Flag Market remains in these strange impoverished yet relentlessly upselling times resolutely itself.

There are no pastel frosted cupcakes and there is no artisan bread sold by a beaming yet vaguely harassed looking woman with slightly frizzy hair and a Home Counties accent.

There are instead cold defeated looking women in niquabs selling fuzzy Per Una skirts for four pounds. There is the occasional amazing gem (in my case of a brand new black furry mini-dress with grey fur sleeves for three quid  recovered from under a Tsunami of bobbly George at Asda)

There are sticky and garish kids toys in plastic with the peeling stickers from their previous small owners stuck firmly  and faithfully to the  cracking neon.
Split cardboard boxes show yellowing pictures of thatched cottages at Buckfastleigh. No-one could possibly expect to find the advertised 1000 pieces still remaining. It is a recipe for disappointment but only three pounds. Everything has a price.

I like the 50p stall where the bad porn resides and buy a flowery hair-clip, a not unattractive bowl and a china brooch featuring the Virgin Mary.  I realise the brooch fitting element  is broken when getting it home but I am still pleased with it. It is now a Project That Will Never Happen.

I will skip down the stairs in a good mood, the sad face of Mary with the sticky bit I can’t remove will look at me sadly from the sanctity of the fruit bowl containing no fruit and I will be depressed at my inability to Be Crafty or even find and do a Something with some Blu-Tack which are pretty much one and the same thing in my sluttish book (not the 50 Shades of Grey one)

Antiquities clutter for space with hookahs, racing bikes, sexy dresses, foul cardigans and goth boots. There is a genial chatter, occasionally with a hint of threat. No-one is selling a ‘Keep Calm and….’ piece of merchandise and for that alone, Preston Flag Market, I salute you.

I am glad you still exist.

Trans cultural mass produced Victorian street selling should never ever die.

Dec 9 2012

I have been nowhere and done nothing

I have not been anywhere so have nothing to write.

However this makes me feel a bit guilty for my twoish loyal followers and the hopeful hundreds who find my blog by googling ‘Dogging in Skipton’ or ‘Sexy Sychronised Swimming Scarecrows’ and are then left bereft and possibly annoyed by the paucity of such lurid content apart from a photo of a straw stuffed hag in a sagging elderly cossie as part of the  Wray Scarecrow Festival and a Word Document moan about dog poo in Skipton.

I like looking at my stats but it also makes me fear for humanity and the dark thoughts that dwell inside the average Google surfer who lands upon my blog.

If you are not thinking about sex, you are thinking about the undead. No wonder the Twilight franchise is so popular.

Chingle Hall, an allegedly splendidly  haunted house near Preston which used to be open to the public but now is not and something I wrote about many moons ago, crops up foremost with feverish viewers asking ‘Is Chingle House open to the public?’ , something I should have typed in myself before driving twenty miles to watch the owner slowly  gardening from a public footpath quite a way away.
Someone could benefit from registering ‘Car boot sale Dumfries’ to help those poor souls possibly writing on a Dell Keyboard with several letters missing (‘Aye,  you can get them letters cheap online’ who want to just instantly find the time and place of a cold Scottish car boot sale on the Borders (and possibly the seller of the cheap laptop) but then get about 1000 words of Southern waffle about Clairol Foot Spas instead.
Today someone  was desperate to find a phallus shaped stone in Liverpool and thus found my blog despite my haziness about writing about willy stones in the Wirral.

When you are not thinking about porn, car boot sales and ghosts, (a happy combination which should surely become a bestseller should I add a few connectives and adjectives) hippies in Totnes seduce you and there has either been one desperate individual or 13 sad unimaginative or perverted souls  (hiya!) who have found my blog by Googling ‘Inspector Gadget costumes’, strangely something I have never ever written about.

So anyway, I have been nowhere far because it is extremely cold and we lack money to go somewhere else-and we’re talking Ulverston here, not the Carribean.

Christmas is coming so Lancaster is heaving, I will probably kill someone or indeed anyone  if I hear the over exaggerated overdramatised over played shriek of ‘IIIIIiiit’s CHRISTMAS!!!!’ in the middle of Slade’s hideous seasonal (and only) hit.
There is a Chestnut seller who roars in a cheerily Victorian way but he is ignored due to the shove towards the Calendar Club shop.
Christmas has already been here for far too long-I started seeing the cards displayed in August and due to the weather got confused and panic bought some christmas cards of Highlander Terriers in the snow.
I saw the first flurry of Easter eggs, the small Creme Egg and Caramel Egg displays that hint at Easter the other day in a Premier shop. Somewhen soon, the relentless  advance of selling will start to chase its tail and it will be at least three years fast forwarded unless the Mayan Calendar has its delighful apocolyptical way.

In which case we are all dead.

I think?