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.

12 Responses to “Bad porn in Preston Market”

  • Powerisastateofmind Says:

    It surprises me how the markets are generally surviving by the skin of their teeth for 11 months of the year, then the country goes market-mad in December when the mulled wine and Baileys is on offer. Why don’t the stall-owners sell food and booze 12 months a year, instead of warranty-free electrical goods that nobody wants?!

  • cyberfairy Says:

    Basildon and Brick Lane Markets used to sell huge amounts of slightly out of date junk food for brilliantly cheap prices. There is now a shop in Morecambe that does the same-some of the things are posh food that never withstood the punter test. Mos t of it is lime flavoured.

  • nunmoreblack Says:

    The ‘Experience Preston’ website lists two attractions. One is the bus station (for now) and the other is the market that you’ve nicely captured.

    You’re right about the vaguest of threats in the place. I seem to remember being ‘followed’ on my last visit. Possibly by stall holders.

    I’ve heard there is a poor imitation in the southern reaches called Borough market. Here, you can get a bannaton prooved, corn fed, lapsang souchong sourdough, and kopi luwak cupcake combo for under forty quid. Bargain.

    Hey look, it’s christmas eve tomorrow. You made it! (Shouts hurrah and throws flat cap skywards).

    Happy christmas.

    Dammit. Enigmatic pvc hotpants (peeling). This again.

  • narf7 Says:

    My long deceased Nan came from Preston so the title of your post leaves me both excited and somewhat chastened…I guess she has been LONG deceased so her influence on my guilt buds has waned somewhat and I can continue on reading this post…I haven’t sunk to literary porn quite yet but I won’t rule it out (along with those romance novels that nana’s read ;) ). You could dump this market all over the U.K. We stumbled on one back when we visited the U.K. in 2005 right in Londan central…all crappy imported trash with shifty eyed generic ex carnies one eye on your wallet and the other on the street corner in case Mr Plog happened to navigate the turn…
    They survive because we frequent them…we frequent them for reasons completely unknown to ourselves but probably something to do with that stiff Basil Fawlty upper lip that has a “house of lords” need to self flagelate and hide it in the closet. We like to be ripped off because then, we can say “I KNEW it was going to happen”…the U.K. is a country of eeyores!
    Have a great Christmas and keep the posts coming…I love it when I see a new one in my rss feed reader and savour it from beginning to end. I can feel my nan saying “That’s enough of THAT young lady!”…lucky I am not Catholic eh? ;)

  • Redbookish Says:

    I love Preston Market — on Saturdays it has two ace fabric stalls, where most of my winter fabric (hence wardrobe) is bought. One stall holder knows me as ‘the lady who likes pure wool.’

  • cyberfairy Says:

    what pleasing posts to read over a gin and the evil hum of Cbeebies. I hope you all had a good christmas. I am currently eating cold cauliflower cheese with slabs of more cheese. Possibly not good. The telly was lacking a good victorian ghost story this year but I will cope.
    Borough Market is a place I have not actually been to but can imagine as a cross between Crouch End, Booths and some chilly windswept bunting.
    I really want to go there now. It sells pieminister pies, my favourite pie and I want to be outraged by the price of something like champagne and elderflower sourdough bread but buy ity anyway and feel a but sick afterwards at the price. Will write more in a bit after wiping up milk.

  • Auntiemeena Says:

    My dear girl,
    I’ve just got back from a lovely stay at our Tina’s to find you once again running away with all your smutty sex talk! Are you on heat dear? If so I’ve still got some of our Malcom’s bromide – you know the stuff we used to calm him down before he went all funny. Anyway if you carry on like this dear, I’m definitely going to have to pass it round the Silver Surfer Club in January. You’ve seen how the old fellas react to your blog! It’s just lucky I ordered that mobile defibrillator in June, I’ll have to make sure it’s fully charged. Now you behave, I don’t want to have to wipe off the dribble from old Toms keyboard again.

  • nunmoreblack Says:

    I’m at the Silver Surfers Christmas party. There’s been some unpleasantness and no-one knows where to look. It’s another ‘keyboard’ incident and Old Tom can no longer ‘P’.

    Believe me, he’s not control-alt-deleting his way out of this one.

    If you see auntie Meena, ask her to bring the bromide – the triple action one, it’s going to be a long night.

  • Auntiemeena Says:

    Well my dear I’m just back from the Silver Surfer festive do, well A&E actually, after poor old Tom took a turn for the worst. That Mr Black turned up on his PVC hot pants and all hell broke loose. It was like the last days of Sodom & Gommorah! Delilah and Edna walked out and I don’t think old Toms keyboard can be salvaged. Never mind they finally got him calmed down on ward 10. If you could pop up with some fresh underware tomorrow morning that would be a help. You see I warned you what would happen if you kept up your smutty talk !

  • nunmoreblack Says:

    Cyberfairy, I think auntie Meena is losing what few marbles she has left. I departed the silver surfers Christmas do at 11.30 and all was in order.

    Old Tom had calmed down and was happily playing strip tetris with Delilah and Edna. (I put the keyboard out in the yard to see if I could get rid of the odour). There was much merriment when I turned up dressed as Santa.

    I was not wearing PVC hot pants, peeling or otherwise. Not on the outside, anyway.

  • looby Says:

    “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.”

    You know Lancaster Market then? :)

  • nunmoreblack Says:

    “A witty saying proves nothing.” – Voltaire (1694 – 1778).

    I witnessed the whole thing from my vantage point on the first floor of the Railton Hotel. I have been living there now for several months; ever since the unpleasantness at my last lodgings. The room is somewhat shabby but the breakfast is always a moving experience.

    It was about 10.30am when I spotted a farmiliar looking gentleman striding purposefully over the railway bridge – as he does every day. However, on this occasion, he seemed pre-occupied by something, or someone, ahead.

    I glanced to the right to see a lady walking in the opposite direction. She was pushing a child in a buggy. The gentleman seemed to be trying to catch her eye, but his attempts were, frankly, shambolic. Eventually, he just stood still, blocking the other’s path; succeeding only in startling the unfortunate girl, and causing the front off-side front wheel to get stuck in a pothole.

    She quickly recovered her composure, and at that point I knew exactly who she was.

    I know her only by her nom de plume, but it was none other than the prize-winning author and self-styled ‘Enlightenment Guru’, Verity Voltaire. I had seen her several times on daytime chat shows, where she offered expert advise. Also, I believe she is frequently a Loose Woman.

    Her writing career took off some years ago with the publication of the best selling self-help book, ‘Cheesy Wotsits – a Users Guide.’ (‘A self-help tour de force’ – S.Fry).

    The follow-up was equally successful; a series of cautionary food-based anecdotes entitled ‘Tales From the Chipped’.

    The volumes came thick and fast,each more successful than the last; including, ‘Verity – the Pot Noodle Years’, ‘A Tale of Two Chippies’, and ‘The Postman Always Brings Pies’.

    Successful, that is, until a couple of years back when she ran into trouble with the release of a highly risque account of bedroom related food fantasies, called ‘Chippy Tease.’ The follow up, ‘Cheesy Chippy Tease,’ was even ruder. (Both volume are now out of print and banned in forty seven countries). There was talk of a third edition – ‘Sleazy Cheesy Chippy Teazey’, but no publisher would touch it.

    Around this time I had the pleasure of interviewing her on behalf of prestigious in-flight magazine, The Turbulent Times. She was not a very ‘giving’ interviewee, but I do recall one exchange which I think quite telling.

    Me: It seems food plays an important role in your life, is there any room for romance?

    Verity: I like my men the way I like my cheese.

    Me: Melted?

    Verity: Orange.

    I digress, for as I watched from my window, their exchange drew to a close. She was her usual assured self. He, however, though smiling, seemed ill at ease and not a little awkward. Perhaps he needed the loo.

    They bid farewell to each other and continued their respective journeys. Perhaps she was heading off to a publicity shoot – I’ve heard a new ‘tome’ is on the horizon; a guide for new mums entitled ‘The Parental Lollipop.’

    He crossed the street to his car and drove away to who knows where? But not before tripping up the kerb. As usual.

    Still just an old hack at heart, I couldn’t help feeling that there was something amiss. I crossed the room to my laptop and began to search.

    As far as I could recall, Verity ran an online blog which she used to communicate with her many millions of fans. For the life of me I could not remember the name of it so I bagan searching all the possible tags.

    It was getting late, and just as I was about to give up, I hit the jackpot. Of course, Porn in Preston. So obvious. I clicked the link and found exactly what I suspected. Not updated since last year.

    Just what was Verity playing at? Why was she no longer updating her blog? And why was she trying to get around unnoticed? Who was the swarthy gentleman? And where did he go to at the same time every day?

    I needed answers but I wasn’t going to get them in a musty room at the Railton. I left by the side door and wandered over to the station. The place was lit up its usual puce.

    Sometimes a hunch is all a hack has. So, with the last few suitcase wheels clicking their way towards town, I went up to the ticket office window….

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