Sale Away

After a day being pumped full of turkey and other stodge, overdoing it on the alcohol intake, and arguing with as many family members as possible, part two of the great holiday tradition is to dive headlong into the post-Christmas, pre-January January sales. Unless, of course, you’re out in the countryside watching a fox being torn to pieces, which is the other alternative.

Boxing Day, I couldn’t be bothered. It was only discovering I was short on essentials, and ketchup, and a trip to the supermarket was required, that I decided to head into town today.

Now it’s the time for people to buy for themselves and get what they didn’t get for Christmas. The thing is, I don’t want a new throw rug or a kettle or golf clubs or whatever goddamn else there was up for grabs. Even at half the RRP.

While it’s the only time of year that bookstores have a proper sale, the stock they’re trying to shift is pretty damn dire. DVDs are on sale all year round now. But even then it’s also stock they can’t pay people to take off the shelves.

The films I’m interested in aren’t mass appeal and mass produced so they tend not to be seriously discounted. I ended up with a copy of Hitchcock’s The Man Knew Too Much – the remake with Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day – for three quid. And the first season of the US version of The Office for a fiver.

At least it gave me a chance to see my fellow countrymen in action. Across the aisle from me on the tube home was a glum-faced, gum chewing, goth with long black hair with coloured extensions woven in, purple lipstick and crimson eyeshadow. She wore pink and black striped tights over leopard print tights, a zebra print miniskirt, black calf-high platform PVC boots, and a black overcoat with patched for The Exploited (presumably a band), and lapels covered with buttons like Eat Shit and Die and Bitches Rule! Shame it was only four stops on the Northern Line and not a long haul flight.

Almost home with the groceries, a small family saloon screeched up to the kerb ahead of me. Hazard lights blinking, the back door flew open and a wide-eyed young lad leapt out. He was followed immediately by his much younger brother who, bent double, coughed a mouthful of vomit onto the pavement.

Thankfully it was all very unspectacular. Passing the car, just as the dazed looking mother climbed out, I glanced inside to see I had missed the main event. Either the young lad had overdone it at an afternoon party or suffered from travel sickness. Either way, he had booted up in transit. The back seat of the car looked like someone had dropped a grenade in a trifle.

God, I’m going to miss these bright days of celebration.